James strode down the boardwalk, slapping his black medical bag against his thigh. He paid little attention to the gray sky, the chill in the air, or the local merchants decorating their doors with wreaths and bows. Instead, his mind was on his last house call. Young Elijah Mason burned with fever. The toddler alternated between lethargy and thrashing in his bed.
His mother, Josie, had done everything she could to care for the boy, but she’d waited until the fever jumped before sending for the doctor. The fever finally dropped, thanks to his alcohol rubs and the headache powder he’d administered. The child was resting, but what if Josie hadn’t sent for him? He clenched his fists in frustration. Didn’t look like a cold to him. More like influenza. But where had this child picked it up?
The Mason home was spotless and the child clean. Josie told him she washed everything in hot water. She was a stickler that way. She did mention Elijah sometimes accompanied her to work at the mercantile. Everyone passed through those doors—townspeople and strangers. He smacked his forehead with his palm. That must have been it. Maybe the carrier had passed through town, because he’d not seen any other patients with these symptoms. Maybe that was the last of it.
He’d stop by the Mason house and check Elijah’s improvement in the afternoon. For now, he had to get back to the office, see patients, and send out more correspondence. Perhaps someone would finally show some interest in joining his practice.
James looked up at the large front window of Rose’s Café. He paused, his stomach rumbling. The door opened, bells tinkled, and a customer walked out. The aroma of cinnamon rolls wafted out with him. Hot coffee and one of those plate-sized rolls slathered with butter would be tempting right about now. He’d missed breakfast because of early appointments.
He peered into the window. Connie stood near a table, pouring coffee. Her head nodded, and he could picture her laughing eyes as an old codger related his tale. A number of elderly men camped out in her place every morning, sipping coffee, enjoying her baked goods, and innocently flirting with her. Kind-hearted women like her were tough to find. So why was he standing here in the cold looking in? Because he was the town doctor, and her son was his patient. Mustn’t get too close. The closeness they’d felt at the birthday party really didn’t mean anything. Wouldn’t be professional to court a patient’s mother, and his position was all he had—his source of dignity and prestige. When a person got too close to another, it was easy to get hurt. Phoebe popped into his head. She’d laughed at him in front of all their friends and colleagues.
She ridiculed him, saying he’d be treating the natives, living in a sod hut, eating beans and potatoes, and getting paid in chickens and produce. She wasn’t too far off the mark. He did treat the occasional Indian, get paid in produce, and he had lived in a tiny house his first years back in Omaha. Sweet Connie would never mock a person that way.
Still, it was a risk getting too close to someone. In a couple more weeks, Andy’s wrist would be better, then he could avoid Connie much more easily. He just had to stay away from her café. He wouldn’t seek her out. If he ran into her, he’d be polite. That was it. That was all that was required of him as a gentleman and a physician.
Never mind the powerful physical attraction they shared. Never mind the fondness he had for Andrew. Yes, this was the right thing to do. A cold wind swirled around him. He pulled up his fur-trimmed collar and walked on. Then why did he feel so wretched?
He lumbered to his office. Several patients awaited him, coughing and hacking in his small reception area. After two solid hours of treating them, James took a break. His stomach growled, and his energy lagged. Pulling open his desk drawer, he hoped a snack would appear. Nothing. Sometimes Arianna would bring in cookies or rolls and stash them there, but she wasn’t scheduled to work until tomorrow. He yanked on his overcoat and stepped out the alley door. Snow drifted down as he fumbled with coat buttons and hurried the few steps to Claire’s store.
“Hello, James.” Claire handed a customer her package and turned to greet him. “I haven’t seen you since my birthday celebration. Did you enjoy yourself?” She rested her elbows on the wide oak counter, a pleasant smile on her face.
“Yes, thank you for including me. I was wondering if you could prepare me a bite to eat. I didn’t have breakfast or lunch today, and I’ve been so busy with patients I don’t have time to go home.”
“Of course. I have bread, cheese, and apples. Would that do? Why don’t you help yourself to a cup of coffee from the stove? I could toast you a cheese sandwich while you drink that.”
“I’d appreciate it. I have about ten minutes before my next patient is scheduled.” He poured a mug from the ever-present pot. “I’m seeing some severe symptoms. I imagine the rest of the day will be as hectic.”
“Then I’ll get busy.” She reached for clean brown paper and spread it on the counter. After slicing bread and cheese, she assembled and placed the sandwich in a buttered skillet and set it on the big stovetop. James, looking up from his coffee, noticed her sneaking side glances at him.
Five minutes later, he enjoyed the best grilled cheese sandwich he’d ever had, washed down with fresh, hot coffee and an apple for dessert. Claire busied herself cleaning up, but he could feel her eyes boring into him as she worked. “Thanks, Claire. You’re a lifesaver. I haven’t had a cheese sandwich in years.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it. I often make them when I’m here with my children. My kids can’t get enough.”
He brushed crumbs from his chin and reached in his pocket to pay her. “Mind if I come in for a quick meal again sometime?”
“Of course not, but the food is much better at the café. So’s the company.” She wiped the counter with a corner of her apron and clamped her mouth shut.
James turned away, then back. “This was simpler.” He pushed open the heavy front door and over his shoulder said, “Thanks. You’re a good woman.” He stepped onto the walk. And so is Connie.
By six p.m., James had treated twenty patients. Seventeen showed the same symptoms as Elijah—fever, then chills, combined with upset stomachs, vomiting, and diarrhea. He’d sent them home with promises of visiting them tomorrow. Elijah! Mrs. Mason was expecting him to come by. He’d have to stop there first.
Supper would be late and dried out...again. He’d rather have a hot meal at the café, or even one of Claire’s grilled cheese concoctions. His housekeeper would already be gone. It didn’t matter. He was used to coming home to an empty house. So why did it bother him so much today?
For a moment, an image of Connie and her son waiting for him took his breath away. What would it be like to come home to a roaring fire, a good meal, and her beautiful smile? The grin of a spunky little boy. A family. The image faded. I’m more tired than I thought. Families were for other people, not doctors with unpredictable hours and nothing else to give. Right?
Tonight, he’d check his mail. Perhaps there would be a letter of interest from a doctor. This influenza was going to be really bad, and he’d need some help or people were going to die. Winter had yet to show its worst, and he was already exhausted.
Chapter Five
Hunched over the desk in the corner of the restaurant kitchen, Connie ran her finger down the column of numbers. She sighed. Bookkeeping was her least favorite part of owning her business but essential. She re-added the figures. They matched up but didn’t make sense. Wild Rose’s was still losing money, even more this week than the last three. Sales before Christmas should be growing. People were out and about spending money.
“No use putting this off,” she muttered. She stood and glanced down at the delicate watch pinned to her shirtwaist. Two p.m. The Saturday lunch crowd had thinned out. Her staff busily prepared for the dinner crowd. Mountains of potatoes were being scrubbed, and huge beefsteaks had just been delivered from the butcher down the street. An enormous pot of beans and bacon simmered on the stove as Doris stirred in a jar of molasses.
Connie looked over at her cook. “I need to take a ride to
Wild Rose’s. Something isn’t right with their bookkeeping. Can you hold down the fort and keep an eye on Andy?”
“Sure.” Doris waved the wooden spoon. “Everything’s under control here. Be careful, the streets might be icy. And you’ve only got a couple more hours of daylight.”
Connie smiled at the matronly woman. Sometimes, she was more like a mother than a cook. “I will. I just hope Mr. Murphy at the livery has a buggy to rent.”
Ten minutes later, Connie slipped out the back door and hurried to the livery. Paddy Murphy hitched a horse to his nicest buggy and handed her the reins. Soon, she traveled down Center Street past Hanscom Park’s frozen pond. As the horse clopped on the brick street, she could make out the laughter of children skating across the ice.
Two years earlier, Mr. Andrew Hanscom had donated fifty acres of land to the city for the park. He purchased it from another prominent Omahan, Sam Bayliss. On the western edge of town, the new park was quickly becoming a popular place with big elm trees, ravines, and a large pond perfect for ice skating.
She made a mental note to take Andy on the ice once she got approval from Dr. Connor. Her boy loved gliding across the frozen pond, and so did she. At the thought of James, her stomach fluttered. What would it be like to glide hand in hand with him on the ice?
She clucked at the mare to pick up her pace. There was one way to find out. The next time she saw him, she’d issue an invitation. It would be perfectly acceptable with Andrew along. Who could turn down ice skating and hot chocolate afterward? Images of the three of them, cozy in front of the fire, cradling mugs of cocoa, cheeks red and toes toasty, warmed her heart. Life should have more fun. Ever since Percy died, it had been just the two of them. Was there room now for a third? It was time to find out.
She was so immersed in her thoughts, she nearly drove past her café. She huffed as she pulled in on the reins. The hitching post stood empty as she pulled up, dismounted, and secured the gentle mare. She scanned the building. The frame structure was whitewashed, the door freshly painted, but the narrow porch was littered with leaves and trash. A small evergreen sat in a clay pot. She’d grown that tree herself, potted it, and lugged it to the restaurant a month ago. Business had been thriving then. She’d decorate the tree with red ribbons for the holiday and maybe hang a wreath on the door. Now the evergreen looked forlorn, neglected. She stuck a finger into the soil. Dry.
Vowing to water it first thing, she pushed on the front door. It was locked. Through a space between the curtains, she could see the dark room. Why on a Saturday? True, it was between time for the lunch and dinner crowds, but someone should be there to serve coffee, desserts, and late lunches. She jiggled the handle again. It didn’t budge.
Fumbling in her pocketbook, she found the key and turned it in the lock. The door swung open to a dark dining room as the bells rang out. “Yoo hoo,” she called. “Mrs. Dawson?” After lighting a lamp, she picked it up and threaded her way to the kitchen. It too was dark, but there was a lingering aroma. She sniffed. It smelled like cigar smoke and chicken soup. Who’d be smoking in her kitchen, and where was everyone? She opened the back door and a note fluttered from a nail in the door.
No work today. M. Dawson
Connie tore off the note, stepped inside, slammed the door, and bolted it. The lamp’s flame wavered. She clutched the note. It didn’t make sense. Was someone ill? Had there been an accident? The note floated to the floor. She bent to pick it up and recognized cigar ashes. Someone had been here, and not that long ago.
Her thoughts raced to Widow Dawson. What if something had happened to her or those children? Now, where did she live? She squinted in concentration. Oh yes, a few streets south on Martha Street, in a small frame house. Someone had pointed it out a while back.
Connie whirled back through the café, extinguished the lamp, and locked the front door behind her. The sun already sank low on the horizon. She’d have to hurry to talk to Margaret and get home before dark. Nighttime on the streets of Omaha could prove dangerous for a lady. Winter made the situation all the more treacherous. One never knew when a storm would blow in.
Swinging up into the buggy, she located the whip, clucked to the mare, and headed south. She hoped she wasn’t too late.
A few minutes later, Connie looked up at the small dwelling. A light shone through a cracked window. The house needed paint, but the yard and porch were free of debris. Smoke swirled out of the chimney. Someone was home.
She climbed down from the buggy, her skirts gathered in her hand. She pounded on the worn front door. No answer. She pounded again, and the door opened a crack, revealing a pale youngster about seven years old.
“Yeah, whatcha want?” He braced himself against the doorframe, a skinny boy protecting his household.
Connie tried to look beyond him, but he blocked the view. “Is this the Dawson residence? Mrs. Margaret Dawson? I’ve come to see if she needs help.”
He coughed then hollered over his shoulder. “Hey, Ma, it’s for you! Some fancy dressed lady.” Connie looked down at her sensible brown wool coat. It was hardly fancy. In fact, it was getting a bit shabby. If she’d known she was going on a call, she might have worn her good coat. No matter. This might be an emergency.
“Tell her we don’t accept charity.” Margaret’s voice came from a back room.
“I’m not offering charity, young man. Say, aren’t you Benjamin?” She stuck out her gloved hand. “I’m Mrs. Simonson, Andy’s mother. I believe you two are friends.”
Ben grasped her hand and shook it awkwardly. “Me and him is friends. Whatcha want?” His voice was unsteady, and he wavered on his feet.
“I want to see your mother. I need to discuss business with her. She works for me.”
He shrugged and opened the door wider. “It’s Andy’s ma,” he yelled, turning toward the back room and pointing. “Everyone’s in there.”
Connie slipped through the door, thankful to be out of the cold. “Margaret,” she called. “It’s me, Connie. Are you all right?” She strode through a small parlor and into the kitchen.
Her cook, toddler on one hip, stood dishing out bowls of stew to three other children. “Uh, hello, Mrs. Simonson.” Margaret averted her eyes. “I was just feeding my babies.” The pot on the stove was a Rose’s pot. Connie was sure of it. She’d purchased it herself from a catalogue last year.
“I see.” She lowered her voice at the sight of the small children digging into the hot meal. Ben now sat at the head of the table, shoveling the food in as if someone might take it from him. “I’ve been to the restaurant. Why is it locked up? Are you ill? Are your children ill?” They were a bit thin, but all were enjoying their meals.
“No...we’re not ill. Ben’s a mite peaked but nothing serious. I uh...just wanted to be home with them today.” She looked at Connie then dropped her eyes to the floor. “They needed me.”
“But don’t you have someone to watch them while you’re at work?” Connie pulled off her gloves, clenched them in one hand, and pressed her lips together.
A girl of about six looked up from her bowl, chewed, and swallowed. “I’m Annie. Ben and me watch out for the little ones. That’s what we was doing when Ma came home earlier. We was sure glad to see her. We didn’t have no firewood.” She bit into a thick slice of bread.
“Is that true?” Connie shuddered, thinking about the five children cold and alone while their mother worked. The girl was too young to be responsible for her siblings.
Margaret nodded. “Ben tries, but he’s too little.” She shifted the toddler to her other hip. Her face was drawn and her eyes hollow. The tyke stared at Connie with solemn brown eyes.
“I am not.” Ben glanced up from his bowl. “Just weren’t no limbs on the ground today.”
“I understand your children come first, but why isn’t the café open? Why aren’t the others working?” Connie placed the note on the table.
Margaret flinched, and her face turned red. “I sent them home. I didn’t want to, but I
was forced to. Please...don’t ask me any questions. It won’t happen again. I just needed to be home. You’re a mother. Surely you understand that.”
Connie drew in a deep breath. “I do understand, but I came out to discuss some discrepancies in the books and found the place closed. I wanted to know why business is so poor. I’m beginning to understand. You can’t sell cabbages from an empty wagon.” I won’t mention the stolen food. Those children need it. Margaret does too. I don’t like how pale and thin she’s become. How long has this been going on?
Margaret’s eyebrows drew together. “What? I don’t get your meaning.”
“You must keep the café open. We can’t sell food if it isn’t operating. If this happens again, I’ll have to find a replacement for you. I don’t want to. I know how difficult it is to be a widow and support your children, but this is my livelihood too. I have to support my child and myself from the proceeds of the cafés.”
“I understand.” Margaret sighed and handed off the tot to Annie. “I’ll be there all the required hours. You can count on me.”
“Thank you. Please come to my other café Monday, and let’s see if we can work some of these issues out. Good day, Mrs. Dawson. I’ll see myself out.”
Connie marched back through the house and shut the door behind her. The young widow’s sobs carried through the thin walls, wrenching her heart.
By the time she arrived home, night had fallen. Andy sat in the kitchen, devouring a plate of rich beef stew. She swooped down and hugged him from behind. Margaret’s sobbing rang in her ears.
“Aw, Ma, why’d you do that?” He shrugged her off, speared a chunk of potato, and popped it in his mouth.
“Because, I’m glad to see you. That’s why. How is that wrist feeling?” He shrugged and kept eating. Mealtime was serious business to a growing boy. She sat down across from him and snatched a biscuit off his plate.
Doris looked over from the grill, grinning as she flipped a couple of sizzling steaks. “I thought the best way to keep an eye on him was to feed him.”
Christmas Bells (Christmas Holiday Extravaganza) Page 4
