Sycamore Hill Read Online Free PDF Page B

and red decorative
shutters at each of the ten front windows. The raised wooden sidewalk was
shaded by an overhang supported by six solid-looking pillars. Just below the
walkway were three horse troughs and tying rails. Several saddle horses stood
in the sun, chewing distractedly at their bits while their owners lingered
somewhere within the establishment.
    As I passed the building, I heard noise. Bursts of laughter
blended with the sound of a woman singing while someone with a heavy touch
accompanied her on an ill-tuned piano.
    As I walked into Sycamore Hill, I admired the modest homes that
snuggled tightly against businesses along the main street. Each boasted a neat
rose garden and white picket fence. Several had vegetable gardens to one side,
with squash, pumpkins, tomatoes, bush beans, berries, carrots, peppers, and com
interspersed with brilliant-gold, pungent, bug-repellent marigolds. At one
house, there stood an absurd scarecrow on which sat an arrogant magpie almost
smirking with disdain.
    Black- and English-walnut, maple and pine trees gave shade to the
streets that were unpaved and shot out to the left and right. Each bore a name
that seemed Catholic or hinted of some founding immigrant—St. Joseph, St. Mary,
McPherson, Janssen, St. Paul, Silverton.
    On the comer of Silverton stood a fine, sturdy two-story
boardinghouse with a small, neatly printed vacancy sign in the front
lacy-curtained window. I hesitated and noted with interest the brilliantly
overflowing window boxes in front, the porch swing and front wooden steps, the
neat garden with sweet peas ranging from deep purple to bright red and pale
pink lining the front gate. Two climbing rose bushes alive with honeybees grew
lavishly over a latticed arch at the front gate. A large English-walnut tree
and two smaller fig trees shaded the yard. To the back I saw another
characteristic vegetable garden, and I heard the clucking of hens followed
closely by one cocky rooster.
    A weary sigh escaped me. Perhaps this pleasant house would be my
new home. There was a vast difference between it and the spacious brownstone
mansion in Boston. This one bespoke of warmth and hospitality. Here, perhaps, I
could develop friendships and make a place for myself. The opportunity had
never before been available under the jealous, self-centered guardianship of
the Haversalls.
    However, there was no time to linger and dream. I noted the sun was
well into its descent toward dusk, and I had yet to find the Olmsteads’ general
store. Arrangements would have been made for my arrival, I was sure. Excitement
overrode the pain of my ten-mile walk, and I moved more quickly down the quiet
street.
    Sycamore Hill had other conveniences. I spotted a tidy tack room
with several saddles and bridles displayed in the window, a butcher’s shop,
another white house indicating a doctor in residence, a tall dark-green
building with white trim named Apperson’s Feed and Hardware. I wondered briefly
if this Apperson was any relation to one after which a street I had seen had
been named. Probably. This was the kind of town one would not wish to leave.
    I passed a millinery with a window full of charming hats and two
stylish dresses on mannequins. Stopping to admire the items on sale, I noted
the prices with dismay: I walked on briskly. There was a shoe-repair shop
smelling pleasantly of leather and polish on the right, and on the left, a big
white-stone bank building. Just beyond that was another less inviting
boardinghouse, two saloons and a quaint Italian restaurant with
red-and-white-checkered curtains.
    I finally spotted a sign announcing Olmstead’s General Store. It
was only two blocks from the church and the end of town. Parked neatly in front
of the store was a loaded buckboard, and I hesitated. Surely that odious man
was not there waiting to laugh at me again, I thought furiously. Glancing
around, I saw other buckboards. One sat in front of the feed store; another was
heavily loaded and standing