Page 44 of If the Boot Fits

“Bless my buttons! Is that Samantha Dearing come to call?” A grin spread across her face like an unfurling welcome flag. She reached behind her back to untie her apron, then draped it over the railing as she hurried down the steps. “Heavens to Betsy, girl. I haven’t seen you for ages. What a fine Boston lady you’ve turned into.”

Samantha chuckled as she reined in the team and set the brake. “Don’t let the dress fool you. I’m the same headstrong scamp I’ve always been.” She winked at her friend’s mother. “No Boston polish can change that.”

“No, I don’t suppose it could.”

Samantha climbed down from the wagon and clasped the woman’s hands. “It’s good to see you again, Mrs. Forrester.”

Matilda’s smile slowly faded. “Ida Mae mentioned that she saw you in town yesterday. It’s good of you to come by the house. Friends have been in short supply the last couple years.”

“I hope I can change that.” Samantha pivoted and gestured to the back of the wagon with a sweep of her arm. “I have a box of some of Clint’s old baby clothes. I thought Jimmy might be able to use them.”

“Well, that sure is kind of you.” Mrs. Forrester followed Samantha to the back of the wagon. “Take ’em on up to the house. Ida Mae’s hangin’ the wash out back. I’ll go spell her and give the two of you a chance to talk.”

Samantha lifted the large bandbox over the side of the wagon and carried it through the front door. Recalling the location of the parlor from when she’d visited years ago, she found her way into the cozy little den at the front of the house and set the box on the side table next to the settee. The room looked much as she remembered it. Seating for four near the hearth, a floral-patterned rug, a pair of mismatched lamps, a knitting basket next to the chair on the left. Mrs. Forrester always had some kind of project in the works. Afghan, scarf, sweater. The woman never sat idle in the evenings. One of her knitted throws was draped over the back of the settee, its colorful rows of alternating blues, greens, and browns bringing a cheerful richness to a room that had started to fade with age.

The sound of a door closing somewhere at the back of the house tightened the knots in Samantha’s stomach as she pivoted to face the doorway. Every footstep that echoed against a floorboard caused her heart to pound a little harder in her chest.

Ida Mae swept into the parlor, her mouth turned down in irritation. “What are you doing here, Samantha? I don’t have time for social calls.”

Jimmy sat on her hip, his eyes wide, his middle two fingers stuck in his mouth. Ida Mae brushed the hair out of his eyes, then used the edge of her apron to wipe his nose when she noticed it running. She took care to ensure her son looked presentable but made no effort to remove her smudged, damp apron or tuck away the strands of dark chestnut hair the afternoon wind had tugged free of her braid. Her defiant gaze dared Samantha to comment on her appearance.

She wouldn’t, of course. Ida Mae had dealt with enough criticism from townsfolk and even her own father. Besides, her appearance showed her to be exactly who she was—a hardworking mother doing everything she could to provide for her son. There was an honor to be found there that no fashion plate could replicate.

Samantha dug out a smile from her emergency supply of pleasant-expressions-for-any-social-occasion and slapped it on her face. “I went through some of Clint’s old baby clothes last night and set aside some things I thought Jimmy might be able to use.” She gestured to the bandbox on the side table. “There are some larger sizes in there as well.” Samantha took a chance by stepping closer to Ida Ma and rubbing Jimmy’s back. “I remember how fast little boys grow out of everything.

“Isn’t that right, little man?” Samantha diverted her attention to the friendly face not glaring at her. “All you do is grow . . . grow . . . grow.” The pitch of her voice rose as she walked her fingers up his arm, and she bopped the tip of his nose with her fingertip. He grinned, and drool stretched from his fingers as he pulled them out of his mouth.

He twisted to face her. “’Gin!”

Happy to oblige, Samantha walked her fingers down his arm, this time veering toward his chubby belly. “I know how to slow your growing. Tummy tickles!” Her fingers wiggled against his belly, and baby giggles filled the room with sweet music.

Samantha glanced up at her friend to find the defiance had disappeared from her gaze, replaced by motherly indulgence.

“May I hold him?”

Ida Mae nibbled her lip. “He might fuss. Jimmy’s not used to being held by anyone other than me or his granny.”

“I’m not afraid of a little temper. Besides”—she turned her attention back to the toddler waving a slobbery hand through the air—“Jimmy and I are going to be great friends, aren’t we?” Samantha held her hands out, and Jimmy leaned toward her, his trust absolute.

Ida Mae loosened her hold, and Samantha fit her hands to Jimmy’s stocky torso. Memories washed over her in a powerful wave. Memories of Mother showing Samantha how to hold her baby brother. Of climbing into Clint’s bed after Mother passed, trying to comfort them both and feeling the weight of responsibility slide onto her ten-year-old shoulders. He was hers now, to protect and nurture, to love, and to guide. Sure, there’d been moments when she’d resented having such responsibility thrust upon her, but she never resented him. He held too much of her heart.

How much stronger must the bond be between actual mother and son?

Samantha played with Jimmy for several minutes, tickling, swinging, and bouncing until he squirmed and demanded to be let down. She lowered him to the rug, and he immediately scampered over to Ida Mae and hid behind her skirt. Once there, he consented to a few rounds of peekaboo before abandoning Samantha altogether.

All in all, a favorable first encounter. One of many to come, she hoped.

Ida Mae lifted out a tiny suit of short pants and matching jacket from the floral-patterned bandbox and turned to Samantha. “These clothes are too fine for the likes of us.”

“Nonsense. They’re just clothes. Meant to get dirty like any other.”

“I don’t think I can accept them. Jimmy’s bound to tear them up or stain them beyond repair.”

Samantha stepped closer and placed a hand on her friend’s arm. “I don’t care what happens to the clothes, Ida Mae. I care about what happens to your son. These garments have plenty of wear left in them. Take them. Please.”

Ida Mae’s eyes glistened, but she nodded as she folded the suit back up and returned it to the box. “Thank you.” Her voice wavered slightly.

“I have something else to offer you. Something that wouldn’t fit into the bandbox.”