Chapter Six
Joy stepped through the wrought-iron gate of the foundling home, her hands eagerly slipping into a pair of well-worn gloves. The apple trees were ready to give up their fruit, and Joy was excited to help them do it.
She had seven helpers ranging in size from waist-high to taller than she was. “All right, children,” Joy announced with a grin, “today we’re going to pick every apple we can find. I’ll be up in a tree and so will William, Steven, and Peter. The rest of you pick what you can from the lowest branches.” She winked at a freckle-faced boy who was already reaching for the lowest-hanging fruit.
“Miss Joy, look!” squealed a pigtailed girl, triumphantly holding up a bright red apple larger than her tiny hands. “It’s as big as a baby’s head!”
“Yes, it is, Sarah.” Joy laughed. “But let’s see if we can find one even bigger, shall we?”
The sun climbed higher as the baskets filled, the children’s laughter mixing with the rustling leaves. They worked in a rhythm that made the chore feel more like a dance, passing apples hand to hand, twirling around trees, and occasionally engaging in an impromptu juggling contest that more often ended with giggles than caught apples.
“Miss Joy,” huffed a small boy, his basket brimming, “do you reckon we could make the apples fly into the baskets if we had wings?”
“Perhaps,” Joy mused, tossing another apple into the basket with a soft thud. “But I think we’d miss out on all the fun of climbing and picking. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Guess so,” he shrugged.
*****
The following day found Joy back at the orphanage. She had her shoes off, her sleeves rolled up, and her apron was splattered with what seemed to be more applesauce than what was in the pot. The kitchen was alive with the sweet aroma of cooking apples and cinnamon.
“Miss Joy, it smells like heaven in here!” a little girl exclaimed, her eyes wide as saucers.
“Oh, I don’t know. If it’s heaven, then that would mean we’re angels, and I have a feeling Mrs. Graves would argue with that,” Joy said, stirring the large pot of applesauce with a wooden spoon that could have doubled as an oar. “Who wants to help me jar these up?”
Tiny hands shot into the air, and Joy couldn’t help but chuckle at their eagerness. The process of canning was meticulous, but the children approached it with gusto, carefully ladling the warm sauce into jars, their tongues poking out in concentration.
“Make sure those lids are on tight,” Joy instructed. “We wouldn’t want the applesauce goblins to sneak a taste before winter.”
“Are there really goblins, Miss Joy?” asked a round-eyed boy, securing his lid with extra vigor.
“Only if you don’t eat your vegetables,” she replied, earning a chorus of playful groans.
As the last jar was sealed, Joy stood back and admired their handiwork, rows of gleaming jars ready for the shelves in the cellar. She shared sticky hugs with her little helpers, their faces glowing with pride.
“Thanks to you all, we’ll be tasting summer long after the snow falls,” Joy said.
*****
The following day, Joy returned to the orphanage with a basket of threads and needles. The chatter of children filled the air as she entered the common room, now transformed into an impromptu tailor’s workshop. She and Mrs. Graves needed to teach the children how to mend their own clothes, so they could get them ready for school to start in a few days.
“Miss Joy, does this look straight?” asked Tammy, holding up her not-quite-evenly hemmed shirt with a hopeful grin.
“Almost as straight as a ruler,” Joy teased before helping to adjust the stitches. Laughter bubbled amongst the children, their small fingers diligently working to keep pace with her.
“Miss Joy, you sew faster than a squirrel gathers nuts!” proclaimed little Annie, her eyes alight with admiration.
“It comes from lots of practice. I never had a new dress until I came to Boston. I always had to take in the seams on my sisters’ old dresses so they’d fit me,” Joy explained, threading her needle with another swift motion.
When she got home that afternoon, Thomas was waiting for her, and he didn’t look happy.
“Joy, my dear,” Thomas began, “we need to talk.”
“All right. What’s wrong?”
“You’ve spent every day this week at the orphanage,” Thomas said, crossing his arms. “And while I admire your dedication, I must remind you that we have responsibilities of our own.”
“But these children are also my responsibility,” Joy responded, meeting his gaze. “Besides, who else will help them mend their clothes for school? It’s hard enough to be an orphan. They don’t need to also wear clothing that looks like it belongs in a pile of rags.”
