Chapter 11 - The Community Rallies
The newspaper coverage brought unexpected visitors to the quiet bakery. People drove from Saratoga Springs, Cooperstown, and Albany—not to gawk at a fallen heir, but to buy Clara’s artwork and taste Martha’s bread.
Within three weeks, Clara sold every single drawing in the front window of Varga’s shop. The checks were small—one hundred dollars here, two hundred and fifty there—but combined with the gallery sales, they deposited four thousand six hundred dollars into a newly opened, independent credit union account under the names Henry and Clara Sterling.
Old man Varga refused to take a gallery commission. Instead, he pulled Clara into his back workroom, smelling of varnish and pine shavings.
"My wife always wanted this front room to be full of life again," Varga said, wiping his thick spectacles with a handkerchief. "For twenty years, nobody stopped to look at these windows. You brought the light back. If you want to take over the lease on the framing shop next year, it’s yours. I want to retire to my daughter's house in San Diego."
Clara stood in the dusty, sun-drenched shop, her eyes welling with tears—tears entirely different from the ones she had shed on the marble counter in Westchester. "Mr. Varga, I don't know anything about running a retail business."
"You know how to look at people," the old man said simply. "That’s all business is, if you do it right."
That evening, Henry came home carrying a wooden highchair that one of the mill machinists had built for Leo from reclaimed cherry wood. The wood was polished smooth with beeswax, glowing warm and amber under the apartment’s hanging bulb.
Leo, now six months old, sat in the chair, banging a wooden spoon against the tray, laughing with loud, unrestrained delight.
May you like
Henry sat across from him, resting his elbows on the table, watching his son’s bright blue eyes. "He doesn't know who Eleanor Sterling is," Henry murmured.
"And he never will have to," Clara replied, setting down a bowl of stewed apples.
