God Bless Mr. Dimmesdale
The first thing Leigh Trenholm noticed when she entered the small Massachusetts town on a chilly, late-September morning was the banner stretched above the road proudly proclaiming "Twenty-five Years and Counting" and the pennants hanging down from the street lights advertising the silver jubilee. As she drove down Main Street, headed toward the Holly Inn, she thought it ironic that a town named Winterberry would build its tourism trade around an annual fall festival rather than a Christmas or winter themed event.
When she arrived at the inn, after passing through the center of town, she took her suitcase out of the back of her Subaru and went inside to the front desk.
"Hi. I'm Leigh Trenholm," she announced.
Mrs. Putney, the woman who owned and operated the inn, recognized the name at once.
"You're the intern from the culinary institute. Welcome to Winterberry. Just follow me," the proprietor said, leading the student through the kitchen to the rear of the inn. "Your room is back here."
"I expected the inn to be more crowded, what with the festival and all."
"This is the calm before the storm. Soon we'll be knee deep in tourists. In fact, we're booked up for the entire month of October."
"I take it then that the festival has a positive effect on the economy here."
"Oh, yes! God bless Mr. Dimmesdale for that!"
"Who is he?"
"No one's told you about Mr. Dimmesdale yet?"
"No. I just got into town."
"Mr. Dimmesdale—God bless him—was our savior! The early Nineties were dark days for Winterberry. Nearly every business in town was on the verge of collapsing. People didn't want to buy things from our mom and pop shops. They wanted the convenience of one-stop shopping at Walmart and Target. They preferred having a large selection of goods at Home Depot and Lowe's to the friendly service of a small hardware store and national chain drug stores like CVS to our independent, family-run pharmacy. Also, with the price of personal computers going down, more people were shopping online.
"And how did this Mr. Dimmesdale change any of that?"
"Why, Mr. Dimmesdale was the inspiration for the festival, of course! God bless him!"
The call bell suddenly rang, demanding Mrs. Putney's presence back at the desk.
"I'd better go see who that is," she said, handing Leigh an old-fashioned metal room key. "Make yourself comfortable, my dear. This will be your home for the next six weeks."
"Thank you, but I was planning on taking a walk around town—unless you need me in the kitchen."
"Not yet. You can start work once the festival gets underway."
* * *
The most remarkable thing about Winterberry, Leigh realized as she leisurely strolled along Main Street, was how unremarkable a town it was.
Massachusetts was home to many popular tourist destinations, offering entertainment, natural beauty or historic significance. Plymouth had its rock, Salem had its witches and Cape Cod had its shoreline. Winterberry had no stunning views of the Atlantic or the Berkshires, nor was there a single lighthouse or covered bridge. It had no beaches, major league sports teams or casinos. Whereas Concord could lay claim to Louisa May Alcott, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nathanial Hawthorne and Henry David Thoreau as one-time residents, no famous literary genius ever called Winterberry home. Furthermore, there were no skirmishes with the British within its borders, nor did Paul Revere pass through the town on his famous ride.
Leigh had often heard people say, "It's a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there." Winterberry, however, could no doubt claim the opposite: it was ordinarily a boring place to visit but a great place in which to live. It was a residential town that had no smoke-belching or abandoned factories. The streets were clean, and the homes were well-maintained. Given its low crime rate, it was a place where people could walk the streets at night or let their children play outside without fearing for their safety.
It is rather pretty here, Leigh thought, gazing appreciatively at the tree-lined streets. I can imagine how lovely it must be when the leaves reach their peak.
Like many towns in New England, Winterberry had a common. Although it lacked the grandeur of Boston’s common—there were no swan boats or public gardens—it was large enough to accommodate busloads of tourists. According to an old proverb, all roads lead to Rome. In Winterberry, all walkways in the common lead to the statue in its center
As Leigh approached the sculpture, she was surprised to see that it was of a scarecrow, not a man.
"That's the one that started it all," a voice from behind explained as she stared up at the stone face.
"You startled me!" she exclaimed, turning to see a man who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.
"I'm sorry," he apologized.
Leigh sensed that the six-foot two-inch stranger presented no danger to her.
"You must be the intern who's going to help feed the visitors at the festival. My name is Adam Chasen. I'm the high school history teacher. I'm also the unofficial town historian here in Winterberry."
"'Unofficial' meaning you don't get paid for your services?"
"I do what I do out of love, not for money."
"I can understand that. I'm an intern, here for the experience. I don't get paid either."
Although she was in Winterberry for the sole reason of furthering her culinary education, she could not deny that she was attracted to the muscular, fair-haired, blue-eyed history teacher.
* * *
Leigh woke before seven the following morning. The sky was still dark, but there was a pink glow on the eastern horizon. By the time she showered, dressed and entered the kitchen, the sun was up. Daylight brought the clamor of raised voices and hammering, as though several construction crews were busy at work.
"What's all the racket?" she asked the young girl who was preparing breakfast for the inn's guests.
"Today's the day we begin preparations for the festival. Volunteers are building booths on the common. I hope the racket isn't too much for you. I'm afraid they'll be at it all day and well into the night."
"If you don't mind my asking, shouldn't you be in school this time of day?"
"Schools are closed for now."
"Why?"
"So that the students can help prepare for the festival."
"I'm surprised the Commonwealth's board of education allows that."
"They don't object as long as we attend the mandatory one hundred eighty days."
If school is closed, that means Adam Chasen has the day off, she thought, eagerly anticipating another meeting with the handsome teacher.
After mopping up the egg yolk from her plate with a piece of toast, Leigh finished her cranberry juice and left the kitchen. She passed the front desk on her way to the exit, but Mrs. Putney was not manning her post. A sign that read RING BELL FOR SERVICE was placed on the desk to greet guests.
What did you expect? A concierge? the intern thought. This isn't the Four Seasons.
When she stepped outside the door, Leigh was stunned by the transformation that had occurred in the town. In addition to the structures being built on the common, hundreds of wooden crosses lined Main Street, resembling crucifixes awaiting the condemned.
"Good morning," said Mrs. Putney, who came out of the inn, carrying a large shopping bag.
"What's all this about?" the intern asked, waving her hand toward the crosses.
"That's the highlight of our fall festival: the Scarecrows on Parade."
"I heard Winterberry had a scarecrow contest, but I never imagined there would be so many!"
"This one is mine," the innkeeper announced, stopping in front of the wooden frame nearest the Holly Inn. "This year I'm going to dress it up in a maid's costume. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a lot to do. You go enjoy yourself today. Tomorrow you can start baking pies for the festival."
Buttoning her jacket against the chill in the air, Leigh made her way along Main Street, glancing at faces of the people erecting scarecrows on the crosses. Three blocks from the Holly Inn, she found the one she was looking for.
"Hello, there," she called.
"We meet again," Adam said with a dimpled smile.
"Can I buy you a cup of coffee? Maybe you can give me a history lesson on Winterberry."
"Sorry, but I was just about to start work on my scarecrow. You're welcome to come along, if you'd like."
As Leigh fell into step beside the teacher, she plied him with questions about the town and its festival, the Scarecrows on Parade, in particular.
"Most people think of The Wizard of Oz when you mention scarecrows. They imagine Ray Bolger dancing and singing 'If I Only Had a Brain.' But in Winterberry we hold the scarecrow in higher regard. We see him as the Zuni Indians' Watcher of the Corn Sprouts."
"That's creepy. It reminds me of that Stephen King movie, The Children of the Corn."
"I'll go you one better. The French referred to the scarecrow as the Terrifier. He has also been called a garden ghost, scarebird and jack-of-straw."
"You seem to know your stuff," she laughed. "Did you take a course in scarecrows when you went to college?"
"No. I just read a lot."
"People seem to put a great deal of work and imagination into building their scarecrows. Mrs. Putney is making one dressed like a hotel maid."
"Every business in town puts one up, as do nearly all the residents."
"Judging by the number of frames I see, I would have thought everyone in town participated."
"Not quite. Some people are excused because of their age or poor health."
"What do you mean by 'excused'? Are people in Winterberry required to put up scarecrows?"
"Did I say excused? Sorry, slip of the tongue."
"What happens to all these scarecrows after the festival is over?"
"Once the tourists have left, they're incinerated in a giant bonfire on the common."
"Why destroy them? It seems like such a waste."
"It's tradition. In ancient Japan, farmers burned their scarecrows after the harvest was taken in as an offering to the god of the fields."
"Look over there," Leigh said. "That man is building a witch scarecrow for Halloween."
"Not exactly," Adam corrected her. "In Germany, long ago, some scarecrows were made to look like witches because farmers believed sorcerers could capture the evil spirits of winter inside the fake bodies, thus ensuring an early spring."
The intern shook her head and laughed.
"I suppose that's no more ridiculous than a bunch of men in my home state of Pennsylvania dressing up in coattails and top hats to see if Punxsutawney Phil spots his shadow on Groundhog Day."
"Speaking of Pennsylvania, German farmers there made lifelike scarecrows that they called bootzamon, or bogeymen. Sometimes they built female counterparts called bootzafrau, or bogey wife."
"That's funny! An Adam and Eve in a Garden of Eden cornfield."
"I imagine in a world of iPhones, smart cars and Apple watches, scarecrows are considered comical and archaic," the teacher observed with a pensive look on his handsome face. "But they existed in ancient Egypt, Greece and Rome; and they were on the North American continent, in some form or another, long before the first Europeans arrived. And for twenty-five years, they've been here to protect Winterberry."
Protect Winterberry? Leigh wondered. From what? Crows?
"Here we are," Adam announced, coming to a stop in front of a two-hundred-year-old Georgian house.
The sign on the lawn identified the building as the Winterberry Historical Society. The teacher took his keyring out of his pocket and opened the front door.
"I need a few things for my scarecrow. Want to come inside?"
As Leigh examined a number of the items that were on display—many of which were related to the annual festival—Adam opened a closet and removed a large plastic bin containing old clothing.
"I've got everything," he announced and then locked the door behind him.
Leigh had assumed the unadorned wooden cross in front of the Historical Society would be the frame for his scarecrow, but the teacher carried his container across the street to the common where a single cross-like structure was erected near the statue.
While the scarecrows along Main Street were stuffed with quilter's batting, crumpled newspaper or discarded plastic bags, Adam insisted on his being an authentic man of straw.
"Step one in building a scarecrow," he declared, cutting the binding on a bale of hay. "Stuff the body with straw."
When he popped open the lid of the plastic bin and removed a pair of faded overalls, Leigh leaned forward and reached for an old flannel shirt.
"What are you doing?" Adam cried, taking her by surprise.
"I want to help."
"You can't. It's against the rules. I'll be disqualified if you do."
"Sorry," she apologized.
As the teacher began stuffing the denim overalls with straw, Leigh could not help noticing the numerous patches that seemed to hold the pants together. The garment had obviously had its share of wear and tear.
"I think it's time your scarecrow got a new outfit. Don't you? Those overalls look like they're about to fall apart."
"It's no wonder. These clothes once belonged to Mr. Dimmesdale himself. But with a few more patches, they'll probably last another twenty-five years."
"You mean these pants have been used in every festival?"
"That's right."
"But you told me you burned all the scarecrows afterward."
"All but this one. Every October, for twenty-four years, a scarecrow wearing these clothes has stood in this place of honor. Through rain, high winds and even an occasional snowstorm."
Once the overalls were stuffed with straw, Adam began filling the flannel shirt. It, too, had seen better days. As the scarecrow neared completion, people, having finished their own scarecrows, gathered around to watch the history teacher at work. Once he put the flannel shirt inside the overalls, he secured the body to the wooden frame with several lengths of jute twine.
"What are you going to do for a head?" Leigh asked.
"I've got one right here," he answered, taking a plastic bag out of the container.
He then removed a burlap head from the bag and secured it to the top of the vertical post.
"I just need to make a few final adjustments," Adam announced as he tied the scarecrow's arms to the horizontal board of the cross. "And last but not least, the hat."
Once the straw masterpiece was completed, the handsome teacher gave Leigh a guided tour of the town. At noon they stopped for lunch at the Strawman Café—known in the pre-festival days as the Winterberry Diner. The more time she spent with Adam Chasen, the more attracted she became to him.
You've got to stop this right now, she thought as she forced herself to look away from his magnetic blue eyes. In a little over a month from now, I'll be going back to Pennsylvania. I can't fall in love with someone from Massachusetts.
However, the brain and the heart don't always agree on a proper course of action.
After spending the afternoon together, Adam and Leigh walked along Main Street toward the Holly Inn. The intern took her cell phone out of her handbag and snapped photographs of several of the finished scarecrows. Unlike the traditional one Adam built on the common, the ones along the "parade route" were more imaginative. There was a cook in a chef's hat placed outside the café, one made to resemble Edgar Allan Poe in front of the bookstore, a housewife in curlers near the beauty shop and, Leigh's favorite, one in a Beatles mop-top and wearing a Sgt. Pepper uniform by the music store.
"Who selects the winner?" she asked, as they passed a football-themed scarecrow in a Tom Brady Patriots jersey standing next to a baseball player wearing a Red Sox uniform.
"The winner? Oh, you mean the contest. We have a committee for that. But it's the town that's the real winner. The fall festival is the lifeblood of our community. Without it ...."
He did not finish his sentence because he could not imagine what Winterberry would be like without its annual money-maker.
"Without it," he continued after several minutes of silence, "most of our small businesses would close or be forced to sell out to large retail chains. Developers would buy up our land, knock down the existing homes and put up housing complexes and strip malls. Soon there would be a McDonalds and a dollar store on what was once the town common. And the beautiful maples, oaks and redbud trees would be replaced with cell phone towers."
"You make it sound like some dystopian nightmare."
"You could call it that. Most people would call it progress, though."
"Well, hopefully, that will never happen here," she said with a sigh when they arrived at the Holly Inn. "Would you like to come inside for a while? Have a cup of coffee?"
"Not tonight. I want to turn in early. Tomorrow is the big day: the tourists will start arriving."
"Good night, then," she said, secretly hoping for a kiss; none was forthcoming, however.
"See you tomorrow," the already retreating figure called over his shoulder.
* * *
Leigh was up at four the following morning and went to the kitchen to begin baking the pies that the Holly Inn would sell from a stall on the common. She started with apple and pumpkin, the perennial fall favorites. When she had three dozen of each, she began making pecan and sweet potato. Although she was used to baking only one pie at a time, she quickly adapted to an assembly line approach.
Once Mrs. Putney's station wagon was filled with baked pies, Leigh drove it over to the common and helped unload the baked goods. What should have been a short trip took a good deal longer due to the number of tourists already in town. As she inched along Main Street in bumper-to-bumper traffic, she looked for Adam Chasen. She eventually spotted him on the common near the statue at its center. He was giving a group of young children a lesson on—what else?—scarecrows.
"In Britain many, many years ago, young boys and girls, much like you, had the job of shooing the birds away from the crops. They were called bird scarers. Sounds like fun, doesn't it? This custom was brought to America by the early settlers. In fact, the man who founded Winterberry back in the late seventeenth century was once a bird scarer."
Leigh smiled as she watched the faces of the children as they listened with rapt attention.
Adam must be a good teacher, she thought. He seems to have a way with children.
Reluctantly, she turned away and got back to work. After unloading the pies, she returned to the inn to make more. By four in the afternoon, she had been at her task for twelve hours. Every muscle in her body ached, but she enjoyed the sense of accomplishment that came with putting in a good day's work.
"That's enough for now," Mrs. Putney told her. "You don't want to wear yourself out on your first day here."
Leigh took off her apron, and as she passed by her employer on the way out of the kitchen, Mrs. Putney handed her an envelope containing twenty-dollar bills.
"What's this for?" she asked.
"Did you really think I expected you to work for free?"
"But I'm here for the experience, as part of my education."
"And I'm sure you'll get plenty of it, but you also deserve to be paid for your hard work. Now, go get some rest. Or, better yet, go enjoy the festival. If you're hungry, you can help yourself to whatever's on the menu here."
"Thank you, but I think I'll see what's for sale on the common."
There was an amused smile on Mrs. Putney's face as though she knew perfectly well that Leigh was more interested in seeing if Adam was out and about than in finding something to eat.
"You have fun," the older woman said and then hurried off to the front desk to attend to the guests who were still arriving.
Less than a block from the Holly Inn, Leigh heard a familiar voice call to her.
"Are you hungry?" Adam asked.
"Famished!"
"How about a slice of pie?" he teased.
"Very funny!"
Rather than sit down to a traditional dinner, they grabbed food from several different stalls they passed. Leigh started with a bowl of vegetable soup and followed it with a dish of potato salad, both homemade and delicious. As they made their way through the crowds, the girl from Pennsylvania got a glimpse of what small-town New England life represented.
"This festival really is a community-wide effort, isn't it?" she asked, noticing that young and old, and all ages in between, were chipping in to help make the festival a success.
"Yes, it is. We all know how important the festival is to Winterberry. With any luck, we'll make enough money this one month to see us through the lean times of the next eleven."
"I'm glad I could help in some small way."
Adam took her hand in his and said, "You're more of a help than you know."
Leigh felt her knees go weak at his touch, and she chided herself for reacting like an adolescent schoolgirl on her first date.
But I can't help it. There's just something about him.
* * *
The festival passed quickly. Seven days a week, for roughly ten to twelve hours each day, Leigh baked her pies in the kitchen of the Holly Inn. Afterward, she would frequently join Adam for a stroll around the common. By the middle of the third week of October, she knew beyond all doubt that she was hopelessly in love with the history teacher, and she had a good idea that he felt the same way about her.
I suppose sometime during the next couple of weeks we'll have to talk about where this relationship is headed, she thought as she drove another station wagon full of pies to the common.
When she pulled up to the Holly Inn's stall, she glanced toward the scarecrow statue, hoping to see Adam there amidst a crowd of children. To her disappointment, there was no sign of him anywhere.
With the schools open again, he must be back at work, she reasoned.
The next week and a half went by without any further contact with the history teacher—not even in the evenings, when school was out. Leigh wondered if he was deliberately avoiding her.
Could I have been wrong about him? I thought he was falling in love with me. Maybe that was only wishful thinking on my part.
The final day of the festival was a grand celebration, culminating in a fireworks display that would mark the official ending of the twenty-fifth fall festival. Surely, Adam would make an appearance at such an occasion. On the night in question, however, she failed to find him. As she walked through the crowd of tourists and residents searching for his face, she came upon the teenager who occasionally helped out at the Holly Inn.
"Are you looking for someone?" the girl asked.
"Yes. Have you seen Mr. Chasen?"
"I don't know who he is."
"The history teacher at your school."
"I've never heard of any Mr. Chasen. Our history teacher is a woman named Mrs. Gosling."
"I just assumed when he told me he was a teacher that he taught in the local school. I guess he teaches somewhere else. But perhaps you've seen him going into or coming out of the Winterberry Historical Society since he runs it."
"I can't imagine who told you that. Old Mr. Zuckerman runs the place."
Has everything Adam told me been a lie? she wondered.
As she headed back to the Holly Inn, without waiting to see the pyrotechnic display, she tried to recall details from the past several weeks that might exonerate him of deliberate deception. She finally recalled the day he built his scarecrow. He had the keys to the Historical Society. He unlocked the door, went inside and brought out Mr. Dimmesdale's clothing.
Maybe the girl is wrong, she thought hopefully. Adam might be just who he says he is.
* * *
The following morning there were no pies to be made, so there was no reason for Leigh to be up at four. When she eventually woke at eight, there was already a line at the front desk of people eager to check out and be on their way home.
"Can I help you in any way?" she asked Mrs. Putney.
"I would really appreciate it if you went over to the common and collected any leftover paper plates or plastic forks from the stall. Volunteers will be taking everything down soon."
"I'll head over there as soon as I have a cup of coffee."
Less than an hour later, as she was filling a cardboard box with what remained of the unused supplies, Adam showed up at the stall.
"Hello, stranger," she said. "I haven't seen you for a while."
"I've been busy."
It was all the explanation he gave.
"Things ought to slow down now that the festival is over," she assumed.
"You have no more pies to bake. I bet you'll be glad to be going home to Pennsylvania soon."
"Yes and no. I've grown quite fond of Winterberry. I'm going to miss it when I leave."
"Well, you're not going home yet. You'll still be around another day or so."
"Maybe we'll run into each other again before I leave."
"There's no maybe about it. I'll see you later tonight."
"Oh? What's tonight?"
"The bonfire. Everyone in town attends."
"I don't know if I will. I don't think I want to see all those delightful scarecrows burned to a crisp."
"You'll be there," he announced with certainty. "I'll see you then."
The fact that he seemed so sure of himself and of her feelings for him ought to have made her angry, but it didn't. She was too happy about the prospect of seeing him again to mind.
Throughout the late morning and afternoon, the sounds of hammering again rang out through Winterberry as volunteers took down the booths on the common. By four o'clock, the last of the tourists left, and a peaceful calm descended upon the small town. Leigh took a walk down Main Street to view the Scarecrows on Parade one last time.
Some of them are so clever, she thought. What a shame to destroy them.
As she headed back to the Holly Inn, she debated whether or not to attend the bonfire. Although she wanted to see Adam—most likely for the last time—she was reluctant to go.
No sooner did the sun set than people emerged from their homes and shopkeepers from their businesses. Carrying lanterns to light their way in the dark, they gathered their scarecrows and headed toward the common.
"Come with me," Mrs. Putney told her intern. "You don't want to miss the bonfire."
"I don't think I want to go."
"Don't be silly. I'm your employer, and I insist."
I guess I have no choice, she thought, willing to let Mrs. Putney make the decision for her.
"Here, let me carry that," Leigh offered as the older woman hoisted the scarecrow over her shoulder.
"No, thank you. I've got it."
Like some bizarre sacrificial offering, the scarecrows were laid at the foot of the statue and within a few feet of Adam Chasen's scarecrow.
"Won't that catch on fire?" she asked.
"Have no fear of that!" the innkeeper laughed.
When the last of the scarecrows was added to the immense pile, someone gave the signal to light the fire. The flames slowly spread from one straw man to the next. Meanwhile, cups of apple cider were passed through the crowd. Mrs. Putney handed one to Leigh.
"No, thank you. I'm not thirsty."
"Take it. We're about to make a toast."
Once everyone had a cup, a voice cried out, "God bless Mr. Dimmesdale."
There was a chorus echoing the blessing.
"God bless Mr. Dimmesdale," Leigh repeated and drained her cup.
As she watched the flames grow and consume the scarecrows and their wooden frames, she began to feel faint.
"This heat ...," she muttered, taking a few steps back from the fire.
"God bless Mr. Dimmesdale," the people around the bonfire said again and again as though it were a holy chant.
Leigh noticed they were all looking not at the pyre or the statue but at the scarecrow Adam had made. With difficulty, the intern raised her head and followed their gaze. The burlap head and the straw body were gone. In their place was the smiling history teacher.
* * *
When she woke in her bed at the Holly Inn the next morning, Leigh had difficulty remembering the events of the previous night. She had a clear recollection of what happened up to the point the crowd toasted Mr. Dimmesdale, but everything after that was a blur.
"I imagine you're not used to hard cider," Mrs. Putney told her when she stopped in to check on her. "I should have warned you how potent it can be."
"I had the strangest dream."
"I'm not surprised. After your third cup of cider, we had to carry you back here."
"I had more than one cup?" she asked with disbelief.
"You really don't remember much, do you?"
Leigh tried to concentrate, but only brief images made their way through the haze.
"I dreamt the scarecrow came to life, but it wasn't a scarecrow. It was Adam Chasen, and people were calling him Mr. Dimmesdale."
"Dreams are like that. They often make no sense."
"Mrs. Putney, just who was Mr. Dimmesdale?"
"I already told you. He's the one who saved our town. And to this day, he watches over it."
"I know, but who was he? A farmer? A shop owner? The former mayor?"
"He was none of those. He was a scarecrow. Mr. Zuckerman put him up in front of the Historical Society twenty-five years ago as an homage to the founder of Winterberry who was a bird scarer in Plymouth when he was a child. Mr. Dimmesdale drew so much attention that we decided to hold a festival and line Main Street with scarecrows. You can see how successful it turned out to be."
"And Adam Chasen. Who is he?"
"Why, he and Mr. Dimmesdale are one and the same," the innkeeper admitted.
"That's not possible! Mr. Dimmesdale is a man of straw, and Adam is human."
"As they used to refer to him in your own state of Pennsylvania, he is a bootzamon. Just as you are now a bootzafrau, his wife."
"No. I'm not."
"Yes, you are. The two of you were joined together at the bonfire last night."
This is insane! Leigh thought, rising from the bed to get dressed.
"Where are you going?" Mrs. Putney asked.
"Back to Pennsylvania."
"You can't leave. You're one of us now. Besides, your husband is waiting for you in the dining room. We've prepared a little wedding breakfast for the two of you."
Still in her pajamas, she grabbed her purse and car keys and ran out the room; but before she could make it to the front door of the inn, a number of townspeople blocked her path.
"Good morning, Mrs. Dimmesdale."
"Congratulations, Mrs. Dimmesdale."
"Glad to have you with us, Mrs. Dimmesdale."
Then a familiar voice was heard above the others.
"There you are, sweetheart."
He was dressed in normal clothes again, not the patched and tattered overalls and flannel shirt of the night before.
"Are you hungry?" he asked. "You really ought to have something to eat. We've got a lot to do today."
"Like what?"
"We've got to move your stuff into my—our—house."
She wanted to scream that none of what was happening was real. That it was all a surreal nightmare. But when Adam took her hand, her feelings overwhelmed her. Whatever he was, whatever she would become, she would never leave his side.
Thus, Leigh Trenholm remained in Winterberry, becoming half human and half scarecrow. Even after giving birth to a human/straw baby nine months later, she stayed by Adam Chasen's side, content being his bootzafrau.
As she lay in his arms every night—whether they were straw or flesh and blood at the time—she thought to herself, God bless Mr. Dimmesdale.
One October Salem built his own bootzafrau. Unfortunately, she left him for a cardboard cut-out of Morris the Cat.
