Songbird Season Read online

  Songbird Season

  a novel

  by Melanie Lageschulte

  Songbird Season: a novel

  © 2019

  by Melanie Lageschulte

  Fremont Creek Press

  All rights reserved.

  Kindle: 978-0-9997752-4-0

  Paperback: 978-0-9997752-5-7

  Hardcover: 978-0-9997752-6-4

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover photo: lvenks/iStock.com

  Cover design by Melanie Lageschulte

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  Web: fremontcreekpress.com

  Also by Melanie Lageschulte

  Novels

  Growing Season

  Harvest Season

  The Peaceful Season

  Waiting Season

  The Bright Season (coming late 2019)

  Short fiction

  A Tin Train Christmas

  CHAPTER 1

  Loose gravel popped and rumbled under her vehicle the moment Melinda turned off the highway, spraying the hatchback’s underbelly with muck and mud.

  “Why did I even bother to wash the car?” She cringed as the tires splashed through dirty puddles of melted snow. “All the freezing and thawing have made these gravel roads a mess.”

  Maybe the faint tracks marching down the center of the road were compact enough to provide some traction on this late-March day. She gently tacked the wheel, then took her eyes off the mushy road just long enough to check the ceramic flower pot on the passenger-side floor. It was a relief to find the oversized, teal-glazed pot hadn’t shifted at the turn, and that the rich, black soil was still safe inside its rim.

  “The last thing I need is for that thing to fall over. Then the inside of this car would be as dirty as the outside.”

  Melinda Foster’s purchase at the greenhouse on the edge of Swanton had been an impulsive one, spurred on by the planter’s lovely robins-egg hue and a friendly staffer’s promise that the daffodil bulbs tucked inside would bloom any day now. Maybe she shouldn’t have been so quick to reach for her wallet. Maybe the flowers wouldn’t be hardy enough to survive northern Iowa’s fickle switch from winter to spring.

  Tiny leaf buds peeked out from the still-bare branches of the volunteer willows that bordered the fields. Sparrows flitted from one fence post to the next. Only a scattering of muddy snow piles remained in the ditch bottoms, and a few brave patches of greening weeds waved from the edge of the road. And while today was overcast and brisk, yesterday’s abundant sunshine and soft skies had Melinda yearning to kick away her heavy snow boots until next fall. She was anxious to change out the chore gear hanging inside her back porch and pack away everything that reminded her of the rough winter that was now, at long last, in her rearview mirror.

  It had been a hard season, one of the worst she had faced in her almost-forty years. Three months of backbreaking work and heartbreaking loss that she only managed to muck through due to the support of her family, neighbors and friends. She was stronger and wiser for it, but still waiting for some of the emotional scars to fade.

  No wonder Horace insisted she face winter at the farm before signing those purchase papers. And now, in just a few weeks, the transaction would go through. She had so many plans, so many projects she was itching to start around her acreage. As the temperatures rose, so did her impatience.

  Someday, these gravel roads would have to dry out. Someday, she’d be able to till the garden and get all those seedlings out of her basement and into the ground. Someday …

  The modest white church appeared on her left, the stalwart evergreens behind it swaying in the strong wind. Melinda was only two miles from home, and knew which fake rock under the flagpole concealed the entrance’s spare key, but was still relieved to see no cars on the gravel patch that was church’s parking lot. This was an errand she wanted to complete on her own.

  She angled into a spot that wasn’t neighbor to an ice-cold mud puddle, then pulled up her jacket hood. Her tennis shoes squished in the soft gravel as she rounded the front bumper and fought the wind to wrestle open the passenger-side door. With a grunt of effort, she lifted the planter out of the car and staggered back to her feet.

  She made it only as far as the cemetery before her arms started to ache. Even so, she’d been right to park her car along the main road, as the graveyard’s drive was merely two gravel tracks in the grass, the perfect place to bog down in the mud. She’d rather deal with sore limbs than have to call one of her real-farmer neighbors to come over with a tractor and drag her car back to the road with a set of log chains.

  Even so, she gasped when she reached the cemetery gate, which was never locked. “Oh, I’m only partway there. You’d think I’d be stronger these days, after dragging all those straw and hay bales around.”

  Adjusting her grip on the smooth ceramic that chilled her bare hands, Melinda used her hip to bump the steel panel open. She shifted her burden to the left, then reached up with her right hand to shove aside the brown waves that had escaped their low ponytail. Being able to see would go a long way toward finding what she was looking for.

  She passed through the first rows of stones, a few with surnames familiar to her and several that were not. Soon she came to a granite monument that stood out both for its shiny newness and its taller, modern profile. The name inscribed on its speckled surface was one she certainly recognized: George Bradford.

  “Oh, George, am I glad to see you.” With a grunt of relief, she carefully set the ceramic pot on the stone’s concrete pad. “Well, you know what I mean. I should be getting closer, if you’re here.”

  Horace’s nephew passed away last month in Chicago. Melinda had never met George, but the Schermann-family strife sparked by his death almost derailed her plans to buy the farm.

  “I don’t blame you, just so you know.” She gave the mirror-smooth granite a gentle pat. “It was a good reminder that the past is never far away, and nostalgia isn’t always as sweet as it’s supposed to be.”

  Maybe she should feel ridiculous talking to George in this way, but she didn’t. She knelt by the monument and brushed away the dead leaves beached against its back. Since she was taking over the farm, she might as well look after things here, too. George’s wife and sons had hurried back to Chicago right after services. And with Horace and his older brother, Wilbur, both at the nursing home in Elm Springs, there were no more Schermanns around to keep an eye on the family’s graves.

  “I’m glad that you ended up where you wanted to be.” She collected several stray twigs torn from their trees by winter’s brutal winds, and stacked them in a neat pile. “Not that I think your wife would’ve ignored your wishes, but … oh, never mind that now. What I need to know now is, where are your grandparents?”

  Melinda stood up and scanned the cemetery, which was larger than it seemed from the road. There were several rows just in this section, and more across the way. Not all of the stones had surnames on both sides. Her arms still smarting, she left the flower pot by George’s stone and continued her search.

  Why hadn’t she asked Horace where his parents were buried? Today’s purchase has been an impulsive one, for sure, but he and Wilbur were usually in their room at this hour of the afternoon. Horace was ninety, but his memory was still razor-sharp. Melinda had relied on his expertise countless times over the past nine months, and it was a comfort to know he’d still give her advice when the farm officially changed hands.

  She could still call. But then, these older marke
rs were so interesting, and she’d never been through this section before. A little wandering wasn’t so bad. You never knew what you might find, or where you might end up.

  Melinda had done plenty of that in the past year, traveling between this part of northern Iowa and her former home in Minneapolis. Downsized from her copywriting career at one of the Twin Cities’ best ad agencies, she was in limbo when Aunt Miriam begged her to come home for the summer to work at Prosper Hardware. Uncle Frank’s heart attack had sidelined him from the family’s business, maybe for good. Then Horace needed her help, too. He’d agreed to a trial run at the nursing home, and was searching for someone to rent his acreage and care for his animals.

  Weeks turned into months, each season gave way to the next, and now, Melinda’s new life bore almost no resemblance to her old one. She was co-manager of her family’s longtime business, in practice if not in title; soon-to-be owner of a two-acre farm; sole caregiver for an expanding flock of sheep and eight chickens; and the honored companion of four cats as well as Hobo, Horace’s dog that was now all her own.

  Melinda was hopeful about her future, but also felt the weight of her little farm’s history on her shoulders. It just felt like the right time to pay her respects and honor the efforts of those who came before.

  Henry and Anna Schermann took over his family’s farm after their marriage in 1922, assuming responsibility for the steep-gabled farmhouse, strong-shouldered barn and the various outbuildings built at the turn of the century. Horace and Wilbur, both lifelong bachelors, reached for the farm’s reins as their parents declined. And soon, it would be Melinda’s turn.

  She slowed her steps when she spotted two stones etched with the family’s surname, then three more. So many Schermann relatives; it was overwhelming. “Henry and Anna … Henry and Anna, where are …”

  And there they were, at last. Two lots down from the side driveway, which was little more than a narrow path snaking to the back of the cemetery. The stone was merely a rectangle, its stark shape shadowed by relatives’ markers with more flash and presence.

  “Economical and simple, just as I would have suspected. I have something for you.” She started back to George’s grave.

  It was a relief to ease the planter into the thawing earth next to Henry and Anna’s stone. “Whew, that thing’s heavy.” She rocked back on her heels and rubbed her chilled hands together. The calendar said winter was over, but she should have brought gloves.

  Melinda took a moment to brush some mud blobs off the concrete pad and study the stone’s dates. Henry had died in the 1970s, just weeks before his eightieth birthday, but Anna lived to be ninety-eight.

  “So you haven’t been gone so long, then.” She placed a gentle hand on the stone, right above Anna’s inscription. “Only about twenty years. No wonder the house held up as well as it did, with you there to make sure Horace and Wilbur kept things up. I also see where your two oldest boys got their longevity.”

  She wiped some loose earth off the flower pot and patted the bare dirt inside. If only her garden’s soil was like this, soft and loose and ready for planting.

  “Well, I brought you both something. I know it’s early in the season, and we could get more snow yet, but I couldn’t help it when I saw this at the greenhouse today.”

  She dipped her head toward Henry’s side of the stone. “I made an impulsive purchase, something I bet you never did. I won’t tell you how much it was. But sometime soon, there’ll be daffodils poking out of this pot. They’re the simple kind, just how I think you’d both like them. I told the florist, none of those fancy ruffled varieties would do.”

  Melinda set her palm on the stone’s crown to keep her balance as she crouched in the rough, dead grass.

  “I just wanted to do something special for you.” The stiff breeze nearly carried her words away, but she pressed on. “You’ve done so much for me. I know, we never met and all that. But I love the place, you have no idea how much. Well, maybe you do. I don’t have much money and my farmer skills are … let’s just say I’m still learning.”

  A string of bird chirps drifted toward her on the wind. She searched the gray sky and the bare-limbed trees for the source of the song. Just there, in the maple tree that sheltered the edge of the gravel path, her eyes found a flash of bright scarlet. And then the soothing tan-and-blush feathers of a female cardinal, joining her mate in a duet.

  Tears formed in Melinda’s eyes, and a deep peace filled her heart. Everyone said cardinals were visitors from Heaven, angels bringing greetings and comfort. Loved ones who had passed on, winging their way back to connect with those still on Earth.

  But then, Henry and Anna weren’t family.

  “Or maybe, in some way, you are.” And then she remembered something, so simple but suddenly so profound.

  The vintage Christmas ornaments she found in the farmhouse’s storage room were beautiful and delicate, but it hadn’t seemed right to hang them on her tree. So she spent a special hour with Horace and Wilbur, their youngest sister, Ada, and her son, Kevin, decorating the brothers’ apartment for the holidays. There had been a surprise in the bottom of the wooden ornament box: a pair of red-glass cardinals, a gift from Henry to Anna during their first Christmas as a couple.

  Henry had saved his pennies to give his bride something memorable. The family’s Christmas trees had changed over the years, from evergreens cut along the creek and strung with paper chains to synthetic varieties draped with glittery ornaments and electric lights. But always, hung at the very last and centered under the star, were the glass birds that glowed with love.

  The lilting tune continued as the cardinals flitted from one branch to the next, their bright feathers ruffled by the brisk wind but their song as strong as ever.

  “I promise to continue all that you started,” she told the birds, then looked down again at the monument. “I won’t let you down.”

  Well, maybe there was one thing …

  “Anna, just to be clear, I’m making no promises about that … um, elaborate bluebird wallpaper in the dining room.” Then she laughed. “Listen to me, and my big ideas. I hear it’s practically cemented on. Maybe I’ll start with an easier project, like planning the garden, or painting the trim on the house.”

  She had to go. The afternoon was slipping away. And she was expecting company at home.

  “I’ll come back.” She rose to her feet, and brushed the damp earth from her hands. “And I’ll take care of things, both here and there. I promise.”

  Turning her back to the rough March wind, Melinda hurried back to the car.

  CHAPTER 2

  A white SUV was already parked by the house when Melinda turned up her gravel lane. She drove slowly, trying to avoid the dips in the drive that appeared once most of the snow melted. A load of road rock would fill in the rough patches. But where could she get some? And could she haul it in the back of her little car? Probably not. She’d discovered all sorts of unique services since moving to the country, including propane and firewood delivery, and a company that picked up and disposed of deceased livestock, but a gravel supplier? Hmm …

  “So many things to think about.” She smiled and waved to her first visitor, who was waiting by the pasture gate. “And I’m sure my to-do list will be much longer after today.”

  Ron Schermann leaned as far over the fence as his middle-aged back would let him, handing out nose rubs to the sheep. He was wearing a windbreaker and no-nonsense old shoes, but had unfortunately paired them with pressed khaki pants far too light and clean for a muddy March farmyard.

  A Realtor in Mason City, Ron was Horace’s nephew and Melinda’s right-hand guy. His unflappable demeanor and gentle way of speaking came in handy when things got rocky. Better yet, he’d offered a steep discount on his usual fees to push this family transaction through.

  While the ewes and young lambs were thrilled with Ron’s arrival, two other residents were less impressed. Stormy and Sunny, Melinda’s sometimes-aloof barn cats, were stretche
d out on the faded picnic table under the oak tree between the garage and the house. Sunny continued to groom his fluffy orange-tabby coat as if Ron was of no importance. But Stormy was wary and watchful. He studied Ron through narrowed green eyes, his gray-striped tail flicking in irritation.

  “Hey, Ron.” Melinda started across the drive, her shoes threatening to sink into the soft gravel. “Sorry I’m late. Too many stops to make in town, I guess.”

  “No worries.” Ron offered his hand for a hearty shake. “The inspector texted to say he’s running behind, anyway. I’m just enjoying the fresh air out here. And I can’t believe how your lambs have grown since I was here last.”

  The seven lambs frolicked behind their mothers, chasing each other and kicking up their heels. They were all about a month old now, and full of energy. Clover, the little triplet lamb who had needed a bottle during her first weeks, rushed to the fence when she heard her caretaker’s voice.

  “Hi, baby.” Melinda reached through the wire panel to touch Clover’s nose. The lamb made a cute bleat and jumped away, her black ears wriggling, then came back for another pet. “Did you say hi to Ron? He’s here on a very exciting errand.”

  Ron sighed sharply and Melinda looked up, alarmed.

  “Uh-oh. Do you know something I don’t? This inspection is just a formality, right? Something to check off the list …”

  He stuffed his hands in his pockets, then reached up to nervously adjust his glasses. “I hope so, I really do. I’d never steer you wrong,” he added, seeing the alarm on her face, “but as much as you and I both love this house, we also know it’s over a hundred years old. And, since the farm has been in this family for even longer than that, the property’s never been through a housing inspection. Ever.”

  Ron’s caution made Melinda pause, but for only a second. “I’m sure it’s going to be OK. It has to, right? I’ve lived here for nine months, so I’ve had plenty of time to get acquainted with all the house’s quirks.”