Excerpt from Harry & Grace: A Dakota Love Story

Chapter One

New London, North Dakota

June 12, 1909

Rays of early morning sunshine filled my bedroom and warmed my face, waking me before the alarm clock. I stretched my arms to the heavens, greeting the dawn. Ah, if only I might stay in bed, curled up under my sheets and blanket. But no. I groaned. Another day’s work stretched before me. When my feet touched the bare wooden floor, I shivered a little before standing and looking around my tiny room. Will this be my life? Have I no hope of something less ordinary? Will I always live in the upstairs room at my sister’s home?

Going through the motions, I splashed water on my face from the porcelain basin resting on the washstand and patted my skin dry with a towel. Though it was worn around the cuffs, I’d wear my white blouse with my navy gored skirt. It really didn’t matter anyway, since a long apron would soon cover both. Finally, I brushed and pinned up my hair. As usual, I heard faint sounds coming from downstairs.
My sister Martha stood at the stove stirring the hot cereal that would feed her family. She turned to smile at me as I walked into the kitchen. “Don’t you love the peacefulness of this early hour?”

“I do.” Nodding in agreement, I retrieved my wrap hanging on the peg by the front door.

“Would you have a bowl of oatmeal, dear, before you leave?”

“No, Martha. I’ll eat at work. Thank you, though.” The owner allowed us toast and coffee before we opened the café. My sister knew this but enjoyed fussing over me anyway. I loved her for that, knowing someone cared about me.

I kissed her cheek before turning to leave. “Bye, see you later!”

A few minutes later, as I emerged from the privy, a sea of daisies caught my eye. My favorite flower, they grew in wild abandon beside the house. Certain Martha wouldn’t mind, I picked a bouquet to take to work. The thought of daisies in a vase on the counter lifted my spirits. I knew the customers would also enjoy the happy, white-petaled flowers all day long.

Two blocks down the dirt lane, I turned off the side street onto New London’s five-block Main Street. I took my time strolling along the wooden sidewalk of my adopted little town, daydreaming about someday raising a family like Martha’s. Then, as always, I silenced such a notion, as I planned never to marry.
In front of the window at Olson’s Mercantile, I stopped to study my reflection. A slim nineteen-year-old woman with dark blue eyes and black upswept hair stared back. I studied her half-smile. She didn’t look quite happy, though perhaps one might call her content. Sighing, I carried on past the First National Bank and the Gardner Hotel before arriving at the Crystal Café.

I’d barely poked my head through the kitchen door when my employ-er, Mr. Berg, called to me over his shoulder, “Grace! Good morning. Glad you’re here. I need you to make the porridge.” He rushed around the kitchen, banging pans, as I fastened on my apron. I mixed the water and oatmeal into the largest pot, setting it atop the huge cookstove.

Minutes later, our cook, Mildred, arrived. “Sorry I’m late!” Bustling about, she removed her wrap and hung it on a hook before putting on her apron.

“It’s all right, Mildred,” I said. “The porridge is already simmering.”

While she minded the porridge, I walked into the empty dining room, found a vase for the daisies, added water, and set the bouquet on the counter. I pictured it as the centerpiece of a painting, framed by the tur-quoise walls and red-and-white-striped curtains at the café windows.

A few new faces, along with our usual breakfast crowd, stood waiting near the door when Mabel turned the sign from “Closed” to “Open.” I watched from the kitchen door, noting several unfamiliar men. I presumed these early birds came from either the hotel or the carnival, which had arrived late yesterday afternoon. Perhaps Martha and I would take the children to explore the midway and ride the carousel.
My arms and back tingled as I sensed the watchful eye of a new customer following my every move. He waited patiently on a stool at one end of the counter. A handsome man, with dark brown hair and of average height, he didn’t look much older than I was. His well-worn clothing led me to believe he might work for the carnival, even though he appeared cleaner than most carnival workers I’d met.

“What can I get for you, sir?” I stared at my pad, but he said nothing. A glance found him staring at me with big brown eyes, his mouth hanging open. Our eyes locked and I caught my breath. For a moment, my world stood still. Unsettled, I turned away. What had just happened?

When I looked again, his lips moved, but I heard no sound. I waited politely. Had he lost the ability to speak? Was he mute? I remained silent for a long minute until he gasped, stuttered, and at last gave me his order.

Paying no heed to our strange encounter, I instead focused on coffee and eggs over easy. After I turned in his order, I took care of my other customers before returning to pour his coffee. He offered his name before touching my arm to ask for mine.

Thanks to this man called Harry, my day had already been less than ordinary, and it was only seven a.m.

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