THE GIFT
(originally posted March 26, 2011)

She was crying.

 

Jim quickened his pace through Sleepyside Junior-Senior High School, his footsteps echoing in the empty hallways. 

 

He hated it when Trixie cried.

 

To be fair, he hated it when Honey or Diana cried, too.

 

Actually, if he wanted to be totally honest with himself, he didn’t like to see any girl crying, even though he was often unsure how to handle the situation.

 

This was probably rooted in his childhood when he would hear his mother crying in the next room after she thought he had gone to sleep.  She always put on a brave front after his father died, never letting her son see her cry.

 

So Jim would lie there in his bed listening to her heartbroken tears and not knowing if he should go comfort her or not.

 

Trixie almost never cried.  It was one of the things he liked best about the sandy-haired tomboy.  She didn’t make him feel uncomfortable by being all fragile and … girly.  But although Trixie was strong and independent, he knew his “knight in shining armor” persona would always win out in the end when it came to her.

 

He shook his head irritably, unconsciously slowing his steps as he approached the dramatics classroom.  How had he gotten this image?  It was Trixie who had rescued him after he fled Sleepyside.  It was Regan who had saved her skin when Dick was threatening her at Manor House.  It was Spider Webster who had saved both her and Mart when Di’s fake Uncle Monty had kidnapped them.  And since he and Brian had been away at school, it was Mart and Dan who constantly came to the girls’ rescue.  Jim probably wouldn’t admit it out loud but he was already worrying about who would watch out for Trixie and Honey when Mart and Dan went away to college in the fall.  And even though he could think of several times he had come to Trixie’s rescue, he wasn’t the only one by any stretch of the imagination.  In fact, he was usually accompanied by one or more of the other Bob-Whites and—because he apparently had more common sense than Trixie did—by the police.

 

He stopped just outside the doorway and reminded himself that he had acquired this rescuer image because he wanted it, more so after the two of them had started dating.  Whether he was alone or with a posse, when Trixie needed him, he always came running.

 

So he was surprised when he turned into the drama room and found, instead, Jane Morgan.

 

She was kneeling on the floor between two piles of books, a third pile on the scuffed linoleum in front of her.  A three-ring binder was laid open on her lap and her face was in her hands as she tried to silence her tears.

 

His quick visual sweep of the room revealed that Trixie was nowhere in sight.  There were several more boxes stacked near the doorway, the top ones open to reveal various props, costumes and scripts.  A smaller stack of boxes sat on the teacher’s desk in front of the blackboard.

 

He had been all ready to come to Trixie’s rescue, to take her into his arms and comfort her, knowing what was making her so sad this sunny Saturday morning in April.  Now he just stood in the doorway, wondering what he could do for a former classmate he hadn’t known very well.

 

After the trouble during Romeo and Juliet had been resolved, Jane had been much friendlier to Diana, Trixie and the other Bob-Whites.  But after Jim had graduated that spring and gone away to college at Penn State, he hadn’t had much opportunity to cross paths with Jane.

 

He cleared his throat gently.  Jane started and hurriedly wiped her sleeve across her eyes.  She turned just slightly to see who it was, then said in a voice that was not quite steady, “Trixie’s not here, if that’s who you’re looking for.”

 

She obviously didn’t want to let on that she had been crying and Jim was swept back to his childhood, uncertain if he should speak up and comfort Jane or leave her alone with her sorrow.

 

While he silently wrestled with himself, Jane reluctantly turned to him.  “She went back home to get the Bob-White station wagon.  She’ll be back soon.”

 

Jim stepped forward into the room.  “Can I help you with anything while I wait for her?”

 

Jane shook her head, stifling a sniffle with another swipe of her sleeve across her face.  “I’m just going through Miss Darcy’s things, separating out her personal items from school property.”

 

Jim came around in front of Jane and squatted down by the stacks of books.  “I was so sorry to hear about Miss Darcy,” he murmured.  “I didn’t know her very well but Diana, Honey and Trixie all told me what a great teacher she was.”

 

Eileen Darcy, still relatively new to Sleepyside, still relatively new to life itself, had died unexpectedly earlier in the week.  According to Honey, who had called him Wednesday evening with the sad news, she had been ill for some time but hadn’t let on to anyone other than Principal Stratton and her good friend, Miss Trask.

 

Penn State’s spring break began on Friday and Jim had planned to stay in University Park until midweek, working on two major papers that were due by the end of term and spending only a long weekend in Sleepyside.  He had changed his mind after Honey’s tearful call and had come home late last night.  The service would be on Monday to allow Miss Darcy’s father time to travel from London and make arrangements for her body to be flown back there after the funeral.

 

Jim’s gaze drifted down to where Jane was absently thumbing the pages at her fingertips.  The pale green plastic binder stood out among the hardcover textbooks and paperback play scripts piled on the floor on either side of Jane.

 

Though she wasn’t looking at him and he hadn’t said anything about the binder, she must have sensed where his attention lay.

 

“She wrote poetry,” she murmured.  “I didn’t know she wrote poetry.”

 

Jim focused on Miss Darcy’s elegant penmanship that covered the page in flowing patterns of blue ink.  Her handwriting was precise but small and not easy to read upside down.

 

Once again reading his thoughts, Jane turned the binder around and held it out to him.  Jim took it into his hands, not really reading but flipping through the pages.  A typewritten page of every poem followed each handwritten page.  There seemed to be several dozen poems in the binder.

 

His eye caught on one entitled “Mother’s Garden”.  As he read through the stanzas, he was transported back to his childhood, when his mother lovingly cultivated both flowers and vegetables in the expansive backyard of their home outside Rochester.  He could almost smell the heavy perfume of the summer roses and hear the bees buzzing around the brightly colored blooms.

 

Jane’s hand on his started him out of his trip to the past.  He looked up into her brown eyes, now shining brightly.

 

“Isn’t it wonderful?” she whispered.

 

Jim nodded wordlessly.  The binder still in his hands, Jane flipped backward to the front of the book and pulled out a piece of paper from the plastic pocket in the front.  She unfolded the one-page letter and handed it to Jim.

 

It was from a New York publishing company.  Not one of the large, well-known ones but one Jim recognized because their offices were not far from the building that housed Wheeler International.

 

The letter praised Miss Darcy’s poetry as having “a depth of talent not often seen in an unpublished writer”.  It went on to say they would strongly consider publishing a book of her poetry if she could provide them with enough poems to justify the cost of printing a book by an unknown writer.  A minimum of fifty poems was the requirement laid out by the publisher.

 

Jim looked up again, locking his gaze with Jane’s. 

 

“There are 49 in there,” she said, answering his unspoken question.

 

“Surely that’s enough,” he said, “considering the circumstances.”

 

Jane shrugged and took both binder and letter from Jim’s hands.  “Maybe.  I guess I’ll have to talk to her father about it.  Maybe she even has a few more that aren’t in here, from when she was a child or something.  I just hate the idea of it being rejected because there aren’t enough poems.  They might want more than 50 so they can choose which ones they think are the best.  Or they might not even consider it because of her death, because they’d know there wouldn’t be any more.  Then where would we be?”

 

Before he could answer, a poorly muffled ruckus started making its way down the hallway.  Jim grinned at Jane, hoping to lift her spirits a little.  “Trixie’s back.”

 

A few seconds later, she appeared in the doorway.  Empty boxes seemed to sprout from the ends of her fingers as she struggled to hold them all.  Spotting Jim, she dropped them noisily to the floor and hurried to him, flinging her arms around his neck and kissing him soundly on the lips.

 

“Moms told me you had come to find me,” she exclaimed.  “I biked here this morning to help Jane and then I rode back through the preserve, so that’s why you missed me.  I should’ve known we’d need the station wagon.  Jane’s little VW bug isn’t big enough to hold all these boxes.”

 

She chattered on about Jane’s car being messier than Mart’s and the need to take the boxes to the Glen Road Inn, where Lloyd Darcy would be staying when he arrived in Sleepyside later that afternoon, and how happy she was that he had come home early for his spring break and how she promised not to bother him when he needed to work on his papers.  Jim tried to take it all in while keeping one eye on Jane, who remained seated on the floor, staring forlornly at the binder of poetry.

 

Trixie’s hand found his and he turned his attention to her.  Despite her birdlike chatter, he could see the tears brimming in her eyes and knew she was putting on a front for Jane’s benefit.

 

“Can you help me carry some of these boxes to the car?” she asked.

 

He nodded and Trixie pointed to the larger stack of boxes by the doorway.

 

“Those are hers?”  He was surprised that it was the smaller stack that belonged to the school.

 

Trixie nodded.  “Miss Darcy and her father contributed a lot of the theatre supplies.  Because of all the budget cutbacks, you know.  The school’s going to miss all this stuff.”

 

“Her father might donate it back to the school,” Jane said.

 

“That would mean so much to the theatre department,” Trixie replied.  “And it would be a lovely way to remember her, too.”

 

Jim nodded his agreement and gave her hand a quick squeeze before picking up two of the boxes.  Trixie took a slightly lighter one filled with costumes and the two of them made their way down the hallway to the parking lot.

 

Trixie said nothing until they reached the Bob-White station wagon.  She set her box on the ground and opened the rear door, then stepped aside to allow Jim to slide his two boxes in the back. 

 

When he turned around to get the other box, she fell into his arms and laid her head on his chest with a strangled sob.

 

“I’ve never known anyone who died,” she mumbled.  “I mean, not anybody young like Miss Darcy.  She was only 38.  It’s more than sad.  It’s just ... wrong.”

 

Jim put his arms around her, dipping his head down to breathe in the smell of sunshine and flowery meadows that he missed so much when he was away at school.  He tried hard not to think of his mother and father.  It was definitely wrong.

 

“Jane’s really upset, too,” he said.

 

When she nodded in agreement, her curls tickled under his nose.  He grinned and gently pushed her back a little before he could sneeze all over her.

 

“She hardly uttered three sentences all morning while we worked,” Trixie remarked.

 

“She was crying pretty hard when I got here.”

 

Her blue eyes widened with surprise.  “She was?  I don’t think I’ve seen her cry since we found out.”  She hesitated then cautiously ventured, “Do you think she might talk to you?  It sounds like she needs somebody to talk to.”

 

“Me?” Jim asked, mildly astonished by the request.  “I don’t know her as well as you do.”

 

“But she obviously doesn’t want to talk to me,” Trixie insisted.  “You’re such a good listener, Jim.  And you’re better with this kind of thing than I am.  I’ll just blurt something insensitive without meaning to or stick my foot in my mouth or something.  You actually think before you speak.”

 

Jim chuckled and pulled her close for another hug.  She tilted her head up and asked for a kiss and he willingly obliged her.

 

“I’ll go get us some sodas and chips or something from the convenience store,” she said, a sloppy smile now plastered across her freckled face.  “That’ll give you time to see if she’ll talk to you.”  Without giving him any time to respond, she hopped into the car and with a wave out the window, drove away from the school.

 

With a shake of his head and a weary smile, he waved back before returning to the drama room.

 

Jane had gotten up from the floor and was tackling another stack of books from the shelf in the corner behind the teacher’s desk.

 

Jim cleared his throat to let her know he was back.  “Trixie went to get us something to eat.  She sent me back in to...”  He trailed off, wondering if Jane was buying it.

 

When she turned back toward him with an armful of books, her forehead was crinkled thoughtfully.  She made her way to the desk and deposited the books before looking Jim in the eye.

 

“Would you help me write a poem?” she asked.

 

“What?”

 

“One more poem to put in her book and send to the publisher.  Even if it’s not as good as hers, it would be 50 of them and then they’d have to publish it like they promised, right?”

 

Jim didn’t point out to her that there were no promises implied in the publisher’s letter.  He was too dumbfounded by her request.

 

“I can’t write poetry,” he said hastily.

 

Putting her hands on her hips, she said, “Since you and Trixie started dating last year, she’s done nothing but go on and on about how wonderful you are and how you can do anything.  It’s like you’re Superman, Cary Grant, and the Pope all rolled into one perfect man.”

 

Jim flushed and protested, “Trixie exaggerates and if you didn’t know that already—”

 

“She says there’s nothing you can’t do and do well,” Jane interrupted.

 

“That’s not true!  There are any number of things I can’t do.”

 

“Such as?”  She sat down with a teacher’s authority and there was a glint in her eye challenging him to refute his girlfriend’s lavish praise.

 

“For starters, I can’t roll my R’s,” he said.  “That’s why I took French instead of Spanish.”

 

He was mollified to see Jane smile slightly and continued with his personal defamation.  “I can’t bake.  Grill, yes.  Cook, yes.  But I tried to make a cake for Trixie’s birthday last year and it tasted like glue.  What’s more, when I threw it out, it sounded like I had thrown a millstone into the garbage can.

 

“I’ve never once completed a crossword puzzle.  I just have no patience for them.  I can’t change the oil in my car.  I could probably change a flat tire, but I’m not sure I could do that well.  In fact, when it comes to cars, driving them is about the only thing I do well.”

 

“Are you done?”

 

“No.  I also can’t work a yo-yo worth a darn.  And I’m sure I can think of plenty of other things I can’t do well, or at all, if you need more evidence,” he concluded with a grin.

 

“Such as writing one lousy poem?”

 

“Yes.”  Sobering a bit, he added earnestly, “I’m sure Honey or Di would be happy to help you with that.  They’re both good writers.  Or even Mart.  Everybody knows how romantic he is.”

 

Jane shook her head, a slight shimmer of tears returning to her eyes.  “These aren’t romantic poems,” she insisted.  “They’re poems of yearning and sadness, remembering things that used to be or things that never will be.”

 

Jim recalled the poem about the garden and the ache it had produced in his chest as he remembered his mother tending to her garden.

 

“Miss Darcy’s mother died when she was a little girl,” Jane went on.  “You lost your mother, too.  I know you understand what she was talking about in that poem.”

 

Jim swallowed hard and lowered his eyes, nodding in acknowledgment.

 

“My father died when I was a baby.”

 

Jim raised his head in astonishment.

 

“My mother remarried when I was four,” Jane added.

 

“I didn’t know that.”

 

She lifted one shoulder slightly in dismissal.  “Not many people do.  He’s my dad, always has been, but he’s not my biological father.”

 

Suddenly, he seemed to have a connection with a girl he didn’t know very well, an unspoken understanding of loss and the simple emotion of still missing someone who had been gone a long time.

 

She was the one who broke the silence.  “So ... will you help me?”

 

Jim frowned.  “I wish I could.  But I really think I’d be more of a hindrance.  I’m sorry, Jane.”

 

Before she could respond, Trixie suddenly appeared again, her arms full of soda cans and snack-size bags of chips.  “I call dibs on the strawberry pop!” she exclaimed with false cheer.

 

Jane smiled weakly and Jim flashed a quick grin of his own, calling back to Trixie, “As if anybody would fight you for it.”

 

“I brought Cheetos, Fritos, and Doritos,” she went on.  “Which do you want, Jane?”

 

Jane stood and grabbed the three-ring binder with Miss Darcy’s poems in them.  “Thanks, Trixie, but I have to get going.  You and Jim can finish up here, right?”

 

Trixie nodded, a befuddled expression on her face.

 

“I guess I’ll see you Monday, then,” Jane said as she lowered her head, her hair falling into her face and masking a fresh onslaught of tears as she hurried out of the room.

Jim wasn’t getting a lot done on his term paper, much to his regret.  His mind continually wandered from his bedroom at Manor House to the little farmhouse nestled in the hollow and back to the school and his conversation with Jane Morgan.

 

Mrs. Belden had asked Trixie to leave a note for Lloyd Darcy in his room at the Glen Road Inn, inviting him to Crabapple Farm for supper after he arrived in Sleepyside.  Trixie had included Jim and Honey in the invite, but Jim politely declined for them both.  Mr. Darcy was bound to be tired from his trip and he didn’t think it was a good idea to overwhelm him with too many new faces at once during an already stressful time.

 

He had pacified Trixie’s disappointment in not getting to see him that evening by promising her to work extra hard on his term papers so that there would be less to do, and thus more time to spend with her, during the rest of spring break.  The rain that had begun to fall that evening seemed to be incentive to stay indoors and study.

 

But a chapter in his textbook on introducing poetry to elementary age children had derailed his attempts at schoolwork and made him think again of Jane’s unusual request.

 

Jim Frayne?  Poet?  Ginger brows arched dubiously, he shook his head and tried to dismiss the idea.

 

But he couldn’t stop thinking about the poem that had brought back memories of his mother’s flower garden.  The way Miss Darcy’s simple words had touched all his senses and swept him back to an innocent, joyful time in his life, before his father had died, before his mother had married Jonesy.

 

Pulling out a fresh sheet of notebook paper, he closed his eyes and tried to bring back a memory of his father.  The first thing that came to mind was when his father taught him to ride.  He pictured Blackie’s shining ebony coat and the way his silky mane blew back in his face as he sat in front of his father on the saddle.  He tried to think of words that would allow him to smell the leather, feel his father’s strong arms around him, and hear the steady clop-clop of the horse’s hooves.

 

When he stopped writing and looked down at his first ever attempt at poetry, he frowned.  It wasn’t completely awful but it wasn’t a poem, either.  It was a short story. 

 

He crumpled up the paper and made a sharp three-pointer into the wastebasket across the room.  At least he was good at sports.

 

He pulled out another sheet of paper and tried again.  This time he set himself outside the scene, picturing a little redheaded boy taking his first horseback ride, and tried to concentrate on rhymes and rhythms.  When he read over his second attempt, his scowl turned into a full-fledged grimace that would rival any Bobby Belden made when forced to eat carrots.  It truly was awful.  Add poetry to the list with yo-yoing, baking and solving crossword puzzles of things he couldn’t do well.

 

Another crumple, another toss, another score for the failed poet turned wastepaper basketball player.

 

Picking up his laptop and settling back in his desk chair, he went to his sister’s favorite site on the web (other than the Lucy Radcliffe fan site), Google.  He facetiously typed in, “How do I write a poem?” and clicked the search button.

 

Over 50,000 results popped up.  Jim clicked on the first link and found an answer as smart as his question.  “Start with an idea and a pencil.”

 

“Yeah, what about paper, smart guy?” Jim muttered.

 

He was still perusing links when a knock came at his door.   “Yeah?” he called over his shoulder, expecting it was his sister.

 

“Jim?”

 

He scrambled up from his seat, embarrassed.  “I’m sorry, Miss Trask.  I thought it was Honey.”

 

Honey’s former governess and the Manor House estate manager gave him a lenient smile.  “I was just on my way down to Crabapple Farm to have coffee with Eileen’s father.  Honey’s going to spend the night with Trixie, so she’s coming as well.  I wondered if you would like to join us?”

 

Jim frowned and stared at the floor.  The offer was tempting.  He could spend some time with Trixie.  Heck, he hadn’t seen any of the Beldens in a while, not even his best friend.  It was always nice spending time at the little farmhouse in the hollow.  Sitting around the fireplace, talking and having coffee and—if he knew Mrs. Belden—freshly baked cookies or pie, while a chill spring rain fell outside sounded like home.

 

But his schoolwork was weighing heavily on his mind.  Weighing even more heavily were Miss Darcy’s poems and Jane Morgan’s plea for help.

 

Raising his head, he forced a smile to his face and said, “Thank you, Miss Trask, but I have a lot of work to do tonight.”

 

Miss Trask nodded briskly in understanding and turned to go.  “We’ll be leaving in about fifteen minutes if you change your mind.”

 

“Thank you,” Jim said again.

 

She almost had the door closed behind her when Jim spoke again.

 

“Miss Trask?”

 

She stopped, pushed the door open and poked her gray head back in.

 

“Did you...?”  He paused, somehow feeling self-conscious, as if he were revealing an intimate secret.  “Did you know that Miss Darcy ... wrote poetry?”

 

Miss Trask stepped back into the room and smiled.  “Why, yes, I did.  She didn’t share that with very many people.  How did you know?”

 

“Jane Morgan found a binder in her classroom.  It looked like ... well, it looked like she was going to try and get them published.”

 

A small spark of surprise showed in the older woman’s clear blue eyes.  “That I didn’t know,” she murmured.   She pondered the revelation for a moment and said, “What a shame.”

 

“People get their work published posthumously, don’t they?”

 

“Of course.  That would be up to Lloyd, I would think, as executor of her estate.  Would you like me to bring it up to him tonight?”

 

“No, thank you.  I think maybe Jane would like to do that.  She found the poems, after all.  And she seems really upset about Miss Darcy’s death.  I think she’d feel better if she could offer this to Miss Darcy’s father.”

 

“Very well.”  Miss Trask turned to go but, once again, Jim stopped her.

 

“Miss Trask?”

 

She turned again, a patient smile on her face.  “Yes, Jim?"

 

“This letter from the publisher that Jane found ... it said they’d consider publishing her book if she submitted a certain number of poems.  She’s one shy.  Do you think Mr. Darcy might have some poems of hers?”

 

“I’d say that’s very likely.  I’m not sure now is a good time to bring up the subject, though.”

 

“Of course not,” Jim agreed.

 

“In fact...” Miss Trask mused, silent for a few moments while her brow furrowed in thought.  “It’s likely that I may have a poem or two of Eileen’s.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Before she moved to Sleepyside, we wrote each other regularly.  Sometimes she sent me a poem she had written.  Usually it was something just for me, in a birthday card or what not, but sometimes she’d ask my opinion of her poetry.  I didn’t keep all of her letters but I do have some of them.  One of them might have a poem in it.”

 

“And you wouldn’t mind checking?”

 

“Of course not.  I’d be happy to.”

 

Jim took an eager step forward then stopped short, remembering that Miss Trask was on her way down to Crabapple Farm.  With a sheepish grin he said, “I’m sorry.  I forgot you had plans tonight.”

 

“If I’m not too late, I’ll look when I get home.  But it may not be until tomorrow morning.  Will that be all right?”

 

Jim nodded, trying not to look as disappointed as he felt.  He grinned again at the older woman.  “Sorry to be so impatient.  I guess I’ve been hanging around Trixie too long.”

Miss Trask chuckled, her blue eyes twinkling.  “I’m sure some of her finer qualities have rubbed off on you, as well.  I know many of your good qualities have managed to ingrain themselves in her.  You’re sure you don’t want to come tonight?”

 

Jim nodded ruefully.  “I’d better apply myself to my term papers while the weather’s bad.  Sunshine, good friends, and a stable of horses that need exercising might be too tempting to resist next week.  Thank you, though.”

 

But after Miss Trask had left, Jim decided he wouldn’t be able concentrate on his term papers.  He couldn’t contain his excitement at the possibility of finding some of Miss Darcy’s lost poetry.  He went across the hall to Honey’s bedroom, where he saw her sprawled across her bed reading a Lucy Radcliffe book.  He knocked on the half-open door.

 

“Come in.”

 

“I thought you were going to Trixie’s tonight?” he questioned.

 

“I am.  Miss Trask said it would be about ten minutes and I’m trying to finish this chapter before we go.”

 

“Don’t you need to pack if you’re staying the night?”

 

Honey giggled.  “Have you been away at college so long you’ve forgotten that Trixie and I practically have complete wardrobes at each other’s house?  We never need to bring a thing for sleepovers.”

 

Jim chuckled.  “I guess I did forget.  I’ve got a lot on my mind this week.  Hey, do you have Jane Morgan’s phone number?”

 

“Jane Morgan?” Honey echoed curiously.  “Probably.  Why?”

 

She got off the bed and went to her desk, where she dug around in the top drawer while she waited for Jim’s answer.

 

“Well,” he hedged, “I saw her at the school today when I went to get Trixie and I need to follow up on something with her.”

 

There wasn’t time to tell Honey the whole story and besides, he felt like he should share the promising news with Jane first.

 

Honey had her address book in her hand when she turned back to Jim.  His vague response had her lowering her chin slightly and staring hard at him, a no-nonsense expression she had picked up from Regan, no doubt.  

 

“Follow up on what?”

 

Jim grinned.  “I’m not asking her out on a date or anything, Honey.  You don’t have to worry about your best friend’s boyfriend cheating on her.”

 

Honey’s mouth shifted to one side in a disgruntled smirk.  “But you won’t tell me why you’re calling Jane?”

 

“I will,” he promised.  “But not right now.  You don’t have the time.”

 

“I always have time for you, big brother,” Honey insisted, writing down Jane’s number on a piece of paper and handing it to him.

 

“Not right now you don’t.”  He nodded toward the window and a second later Tom Delanoy honked the horn, urging Honey to get a move on if she didn’t want to walk through the rain down to Crabapple Farm.

 

Honey couldn’t help giggling.  “How did you do that?”

 

Jim crossed his arms across his chest and feigned a smug expression.  “It’s a gift.”

 

“And you’re really not going to tell me why you’re calling Jane tonight?”

 

“It’s a special project,” he answered.

 

Honey tapped her foot and blew out a sharp breath of frustration that made her bangs flutter on her forehead.

 

Jim chuckled.  It seemed like he wasn’t the only one affected by Trixie’s impatience. 

 

Tom honked the car horn again, a double honk this time, and Honey moved quickly to her bedroom door.  Suddenly she stopped and turned around, coming back to Jim and throwing her arms around his neck.

“I’m glad you’re home, big brother. I miss you when you’re away at school.”

 

Jim returned her hug warmly.  “I’m glad to be home, and I miss you, too.”

 

“Riding with the rest of the Bob-Whites tomorrow afternoon?  It’s supposed to be beautiful out.”

 

“You can count on it.”

 

Honey’s eyes were bright as she said, “It’ll be so nice having us all out together again.  Maybe we can even have a picnic down by the lake after—”

 

“Madeleine Wheeler!”

 

Miss Trask’s voice was brisk and adamant without being unkind.  Honey grimaced, then turned and fled the room, calling a hurried good-bye over her shoulder.

 

Jim chuckled as he listened to her feet pounding down the stairs.  The front door closed and he was left alone with his thoughts and Jane Morgan’s phone number.

 

 

Jane’s mood was much better the next morning when Jim opened the front door of Manor House to greet her.

 

“Good morning.  Come on in.”

 

He gestured her inside and took her coat, hanging it up in the closet behind the front door.

 

“Have you been to Manor House before?” he asked.

 

“No, why?  Is there a tour or something?”

 

She kept a very straight face and Jim didn’t know her well enough to know if she was teasing or being sarcastic.  But after a few seconds of studying her face, she broke into a smile that Jim noticed was very pretty.

 

“Yes,” he said plainly, holding out his hand.  “One nickel, please.”

 

Jane laughed and he pointed her down the hall in front of him.  “Miss Trask is having breakfast in the sunroom.  Would you like some?”

 

“I already ate, thanks.  Did she find any of Miss Darcy’s poems?”

 

“I don’t know,” Jim admitted.  “I haven’t asked her yet.  She’s doing the New York Times crossword puzzle.”  Keeping his own face as straight as possible, he said solemnly, “We never interrupt her when she’s doing the Times crossword.”

 

Jane simply rolled her eyes and smiled.  Obviously, he wasn’t as convincing an actor as she was.

 

The breakfast room was off of the kitchen and had large windows on three sides.  This morning it was bathed in sunshine, the rain of the previous night having petered off before dawn.  Miss Trask was diligently working on the crossword puzzle, occasionally sipping at her cup of coffee.  The plate next to her was empty, her fork neatly laid across the center of it.

 

“Good morning, Miss Trask,” Jim greeted.

 

“Good morning, Jim.  Why, hello, Jane.  How are you this morning?”

 

“Fine, thank you,” Jane replied.

 

She looked and sounded calm and collected, but Jim wondered if her stomach was turning like his was.  The thought of not finding another suitable poem by Miss Darcy and returning to his own pitiable attempts at poetry made him inwardly cringe.

 

“Would you like some coffee or juice?” he offered Jane, motioning her to a seat across from the Manor House estate manager.

 

“Orange juice would be nice, thank you.”

 

Jim poured two glasses and brought them over, his eye catching on the platter in the middle of the table.  “Cinnamon rolls!” he exclaimed.  “Did Cook just bake those?”

 

“Yes, indeed,” Miss Trask answered.  “And they’re delicious.”

 

“You see?” Jim said to Jane. “This is what happens when you wake up too early.  I had cold cereal and coffee this morning.  Do you want a cinnamon roll?  I guarantee you they’re way better than the canned ones I make at school sometimes.”

 

Jane nodded and Jim retrieved two small plates from the buffet against the wall and handed one to her.  He served her before taking one of the gooey rolls for himself, then sat down next to Jane and took a bite, moaning in bliss as he got his first taste.

 

“I may marry Cook,” he proclaimed.

 

“Trixie won’t be too happy to hear that,” Jane teased.

 

“Yeah, but she’d totally understand.  She probably wants to marry Cook, too.”

 

“And both of you may have to fight Mart for that honor,” Miss Trask said with a low chuckle as she filled in another answer on her crossword puzzle.  “So what brings you to Manor House this morning, Jane?” she asked.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Jim noticed the puzzled look that came over Jane’s face.  But he also noticed the twinkle in Miss Trask’s blue eyes as she asked her question.

 

“I’m sorry?” Jane questioned in confusion.  “I thought...”

 

Miss Trask smiled.  She laid down her pen on the newspaper and folded her hands in front of her on the table.  “I got home pretty late last night and didn’t have a chance to look through Eileen’s letters.”

 

Jim’s shoulders sagged and he could tell Jane felt as disappointed as he did.

 

“However,” Miss Trask continued, “like Jim, I’m an early riser, and I found the box of letters that I keep and went through it before I came downstairs for breakfast.”

 

Jim and Jane both leaned over the table, eager to hear what Miss Trask had discovered.

 

The gray-haired woman pulled three envelopes out from underneath the newspaper.  Holding them up, she said, “I found three letters from Eileen that had poems in them.  Would you like to see them?”

 

The question was unnecessary, for Jim had already reached his hand for them.

 

With Jane leaning over his arm, he held his breath, pulled out the first letter and unfolded it, sighing in disappointment to see, of all things, “Mother’s Garden”, the poem he had already read, the one that had touched him so deeply and started him down this path with Jane.

 

Refolding the pages and putting them back in the envelope, he picked up the second one.  He took a steadying breath before opening it.  The poem inside wasn’t one in Miss Darcy’s binder.  He could tell by the way Jane reached out to grasp the paper and tilt it toward her so she could read it, too.  But it wasn’t like the poems in the binder.  It was light-hearted and silly, not a bad poem but one that would stand out sorely in comparison to the gentle, melancholy ones she had collected for publishing.

 

Jane shrugged and offered Jim a faltering smile. “It’ll be better than nothing, I guess, if it comes to that,” she said.

 

Jim smiled back.  “It’s better than any of my efforts last night, I promise you that.”

 

“I didn’t know you wrote poetry, Jim,” Miss Trask said in surprise.

 

“I don’t,” he assured her with a self-deprecating grin.

 

Jane tapped the remaining envelope to urge Jim along and he once again thought about Trixie and wondered how his girlfriend had gotten such a reputation for impatience when it seemed to be so rampant a trait in Sleepyside.  Of course, Jane was at least showing some restraint.  Trixie would’ve already taken the envelope from his hand and yanked the contents out.  He wondered what she was doing this morning and found he couldn’t wait to tell her about this mini-adventure, to watch her blue eyes brighten with excitement and her sunshiny smile light up her face.

 

“Jim,” Jane prodded.

 

Jim tore himself from his thoughts and removed the pages from the last envelope.  He took a deep breath before unfolding them, shooting Jane a hopeful look.

 

Together, they read the poem on the back page of the letter.  For a moment, his mind wandered again, thinking about Trixie and her brothers, Dan, Diana, and his own full-blooded adopted sister and the way the seven of them always banded together to help one another out in tough times.  He turned his head slightly to see tears coursing down Jane’s cheeks.

 

He wasn’t sure what to say but after a lengthy silence she finally turned his way and gave him a watery smile.

“It’s perfect,” she murmured.

Jim smiled back.  “Perfectly perfect.”

 

 

Jim spent most of Sunday dreading Eileen Darcy’s memorial service or trying to distract himself from thinking about it.  The last funeral he had been to was his mother’s.  She, too, had died far too young and he wasn’t sure how he was going to handle another funeral of another wasted life.

 

But Trixie held his hand as they sat next to each other in the chapel Monday afternoon and her strength managed to get him through.  And it was her grief that gave him strength, for putting his arm around her shoulders and comforting her helped him feel better.  Having someone to lean on, who could also lean on him, was a sharp contrast to sitting next to his cold stepfather during his mother’s funeral.

 

The church was full, for Eileen Darcy had been well loved.  The rest of the Bob-Whites were strung out on the pew next to Trixie.  On Jim’s other side sat Jane Morgan.  Teachers and students, friends and family, acquaintances from Eileen’s days in the theater, even some friends from England had all come to Sleepyside to say their goodbyes to the pretty young woman who smiled at them from the photo sitting on top of the casket.

 

The service was simple and touching.  The choir sang the traditional funeral hymn “On Eagle’s Wings” and a woman from the Westchester Community Theatre who had been a friend of Eileen’s sang “Bring Him Home” from Les Miserables, rewording the song to offer a heartfelt plea to God to bring her home.

 

The song brought Jane to tears and Jim reached for the handkerchief in his pocket, hesitating as he noted that Trixie, too, was weeping.  As he paused in his indecision, Trixie reached out her hand toward his, pushing it, and the handkerchief, toward Jane before tugging at the sleeve of her black dress and dabbing at her moist eyes.  Jim couldn’t help but smile at his resourceful, if not exactly refined, tomboy girlfriend as he handed his handkerchief to Jane.

 

After the minister had offered a simple homily, he invited people to come up to the pulpit and share their memories of Eileen.  Miss Trask, in her efficient, take charge way broke the awkwardness by going first.  She was plain spoken, her voice gentle, a manner she had used many times with all the Bob-Whites, particularly Honey and Jim, in the past.  Her words soothed Jim and made him feel everything was going to be all right.  He hoped it had the same effect on Miss Darcy’s father and those closest to her.

 

One by one, and sometimes in pairs, people came up to share a few words about Eileen—a memory that made them smile poignantly, a funny story that sent a quiet ripple of laughter through the chapel, a teary-eyed thank you for something she had done to help them along as a student or a budding actor.  Diana and Mart shared their memories of Romeo and Juliet and how Miss Darcy’s passion for the tragic love story had given them a true appreciation of Shakespeare and had, after years of silent yearning, brought them together as a couple.  “An ending of far less woe than that of Juliet and her Romeo,” Mart intoned, his voice solemn but an impish grin on his freckled face.

 

When Jim had first come into the church with Trixie and they had taken a seat next to Jane and her parents, he had noticed the pale green binder tucked into the slot behind the hymnal.  During the period of remembrances he kept expecting Jane to rise and take the binder to the front of the church and share one of Miss Darcy’s poems with the congregation.  But she never moved from her seat, staring down at the handkerchief that she worried in her hands.  Jim wasn’t sure she was even listening to the stories being shared.  At one point, he laid his hand on her arm, thinking to catch her attention and offer to go up with her, but she never even looked at him and the moment passed by as the minister returned to the pulpit to offer a few prayers before concluding the service.

 

He looked down into the front pew after he had offered his final prayer and nodded to Lloyd Darcy, who rose and came to the front of the church.  His eyes were dry, his face impassive, but the quaver in his voice betrayed the British stiff upper lip he had tried to project.

 

“Thank you all so much for coming,” he said.  “It’s very comforting to know how much my daughter was loved, particularly since I was so far away from her.  She’s spoken of so many of you that I feel I almost know you myself.  I hope you will all come and introduce yourselves at the reception afterward in the parish hall.”

 

He paused and reached into his suit pocket, withdrawing a pair of glasses and a folded piece of paper.

 

“One of Eileen’s students discovered a secret about my daughter that I’ve known since she was a small child.  She didn’t share it with many people as she was rather self-conscious about it.  She always said she got into acting and the theater because it allowed her to be somebody else and to pretend that she was bold and outgoing when, in fact, she was quite shy.  However, her gift for poetry revealed her innermost heart and she had a hard time sharing that with others, even her close friends.”

 

Jim turned his head slightly to look at Jane.  She had lifted her head and was watching Mr. Darcy intently.  The anxious wringing of her hands had ceased and her tears had dried.

 

“Although I knew about Eileen’s gift for writing, the fact that she was being considered for publication was a surprise to me.”  Lloyd Darcy hesitated as his voice choked.  He took a moment to compose himself before continuing.  “She was, apparently, saving the news as a surprise for my birthday, which is next week.  I found a card and a gift she was preparing to mail amongst her things.  And now, thanks to this student, I have Eileen’s poetry as well.”

 

He put his glasses on, unfolded the sheet of paper and stared at it a moment, then raised his head and offered one final comment.  “I believe she would’ve dedicated this poem to all of you.”

 

He began to read and Jim was once again transported to another place and time … meeting Honey and Trixie for the first time in the dilapidated mansion at Ten Acres, remembering how they brought him food, helped him search for the missing inheritance, and even managed a way for him to go horseback riding with them … seeing their smiling faces outside Mrs. Smith’s house … being adopted by the Wheelers … meeting Brian and Mart for the first time and forming the Bob-Whites of the Glen … bringing first Diana and then Dan into their club … organizing the ice carnival, the antique show, the bike-a-thon, the rummage sale, and so many other fundraising events … joining Trixie in her quest to solve mysteries.  Whether we wanted to or not, he thought with a wry grin as he unconsciously squeezed Trixie’s hand.  Orchids, dances, bracelets, first dates, and first kisses.  Picnics by the lake.  Meetings in the clubhouse.  Belden Thanksgiving Open Houses.  Trips with the Bob-Whites to Iowa, Virginia, Missouri, Idaho, England.  Christmas in Arizona.  New Year’s in Vermont.  And always, always the coming home again to Sleepyside.

 

Trixie squeezed his hand in return and he turned his head.  She smiled softly at him, her blue eyes tearful.  It wasn’t one of her brilliant, dimpled smiles but one that made his heart trip rapidly nonetheless.

 

He smiled back and returned his attention to Mr. Darcy, who had finished reading.  He took the moment of silence to remove his glasses and return them to his breast pocket.  Finally, he looked up, his eyes bright with tears but his smile full of peace.  There wasn’t a dry eye in the church.

 

“I’m thankful I could share Eileen’s gift with all of you,” he finally murmured.  “You were certainly a gift to her.”

 

Jim glanced to his left where the rest of the Bob-Whites were strung out along the pew.  They all had their gifts.  Trixie with her enthusiasm and determination for any project she undertook.  Honey’s tender heart that always reached out to those in need.  Brian’s gift for healing, perhaps the mind as well as the body—he was currently studying psychology.  Mart’s gift of laughter that made every Bob-White gathering entertaining.  Diana’s peacekeeping abilities and her flair for the artistic.  Dan’s quiet understanding of each Bob-White’s individuality rather than simply being a sister, brother, girlfriend or boyfriend. 

 

Jim wasn’t sure what his gift was.  He was a leader, he supposed, though Trixie often took the lead on most of their adventures.  He cared about others, but all the Bob-Whites did, particularly Brian and Honey. 

 

He looked again at his fellow Bob-Whites.  Maybe he hadn’t yet discovered his particular gift, but he knew what gift he had received.

 

They were his gift.  The gift of friendship.

 

THE END

 

Author's Notes

The Gift (7,912 words)

 

Thanks, as always, to my stalwart editors Heather, Ruth, and Annette.  And special thanks go also to Wendy and Trish for not only sparking the inspiration for this story but for helping me out when I got unbearably stuck on it.

 

This story was supposed to be posted last year but after a strong opening, it just never went anywhere at all.  I shelved it until just before JixeWriMo 2011.  I looked at it again, realized it really didn't suck, and attempted to get it moving again.  Still frustrated, I sent it off to the people responsible for starting it in the first place (grin) and Trish's ideas and thoughts were able to get it back on track.  I'm so thankful to you, my not-so-evil twin!

 

So this non-uni story was inspired the same way I Hope You Don't Mind was inspired.  WendyM was my line chooser (by picking random numbers which I used to refer to page numbers and line numbers in my complete Robert Frost collection).  Her choices ended up being a line from "A Fountain, A Bottle, A Donkey's Ears and Some Books".  (Seriously?  When am I ever going to use this poem title for my main uni? *g*).  The line was "Here were all those the poetess's life/Had been too short to sell or give away."  Ruth chose a canon female character (Jane Morgan) and Trish chose a canon character male (Jim Frayne).  And thus, this story was born.

 

Cheetos, Fritos, Doritos, and Google...none of them are mine and I'm not making any profit by their mention in this story.

 

A friend of mine sang "Bring Him Home" as "Bring Her Home" for his aunt's funeral several years ago.  I always remembered it and think it's a lovely song to play at a funeral.

 

This story is dedicated, in part, to the memory of my high school drama teacher Carol Kwiatkowski.  She was a wonderful teacher and a wonderful woman who had a big influence on my life.

 

Background is from Absolute Background Textures and section divider is from Microsoft Clip Art.