“Does she get to do that?”
“Ultimately, I can’t force anyone to stay, but I haven’t made this offer to her. I’m hoping she’ll want to stay because she’s your mother and cares about what happens to you.”
Tisha sighed, exasperated. “You’re a glass half-full person, aren’t you?”
“I like to believe there’s always hope, Tisha. Will you let me hope for you?”
The oven timer went off, and Nolan reached for a mitt and pulled out the tray of bread. He set the steaming loaf on a board on the table in front of Tisha and returned to the stove to ladle soup into bowls.
“You said your great-grandma looks out for you. Jillian’s great-grandma started a blessing our family likes to say.” Nolan carried a bowl to the table and looked Tisha right in the eye as he spoke. “May you always find nourishment for your body at the table. May sustenance for your spirit rise and fill you with each dawn. And may life always feed you with the light of joy along the way.”
She twiddled the handle of her spoon between thumb and forefinger. “Pretty words but not real life.”
“But they should be. You deserve for them to be your life.”
He sat across from her with his own soup and cut into the bread. That was enough words for now. It was time for food, the labor of the day, and a trusting silence to do their work.
An hour later, Clark Addison latched the Cage’s door closed, turned the sign to CLOSED, set a raspberry Italian cream soda in front of Tisha and two coffees on the table, and disappeared into the kitchen.
Nolan nodded at Tisha, sitting beside him, and she slid her iPhone on the table.
“Do you really have to play with your stupid phone right now?” Brittany said.
“The phone is a tool Tisha and I have agreed to,” Nolan said. “Ten?”
Tisha nodded and hit START on the timer.
“I want to start by saying that Tisha and I had a delightful day,” Nolan said. “She was a great help to me building some shelving that will be very useful for the project she’s working on with Jillian. She has quite a handy touch with a power drill.”
“Who on earth would let her use a power drill?”
“Me, of course.” Nolan pulled out his own phone and showed Brittany the photo he’d snapped of the unit they’d finished. “We have a little more work to do on the second set of shelves, but this girl knows what she’s doing.”
“Well, I don’t know what to say.”
“I’m sure Tisha would like to hear you say she did a good job. Am I right, Tisha?”
“Yes.” The answer was small but quick.
“Okay, then,” Brittany said. “Good job.”
Insincere at best, but it was a starting point.
“Thanks.” Nolan eyed the timer. “She worked hard. I also was hoping we could begin talking about some of the conflict between the two of you. I help families with things like this all the time, and I would love to help you.”
“You’re talking about what happened at Ore the Mountain in front of all those people,” Brittany said.
“That’s certainly a place to start,” Nolan said. Seven minutes left.
Brittany huffed. “Jillian didn’t need to be snooping around our house on Saturday. That’s the real reason why I’m here—to tell you to tell her to keep away.”
“I’m quite sure she understands your feelings on that question,” Nolan said. “Let’s set Jillian aside for now and focus on the two of you. Tisha, what would you like to say to your mother about those episodes?”
Tisha glanced at her phone. “I just want to know who my father is. That’s all. Doesn’t everybody want to know that? Why can’t we talk about that?”
Brittany snatched a paper napkin out of a holder on the table and began twisting two diagonal corners. “It’s not important.”
“It’s important to me! That’s what I’m trying to get you to understand. But all you do is yell. I have a right to know.”
“I have a say in the matter too. It happened to me.”
“What happened?” Tisha’s voice rose. “Just tell me. I’m fifteen, almost as old as you were whenever whatever it was happened that I’m not allowed to know about. After all, I happened.”
“No. You don’t need to know. It’s mine. You have me, you have your grandma Peggy and my grandma Ora. That’s plenty of family. You don’t need to know anything else. You’re mine.”
“I’m not yours. I’m me.”
Nolan looked from Brittany to Tisha to the timer. Four minutes.
“Besides,” Brittany said, “ultimately, in this town it’s enough that you’re a Brandt.”
Tisha shoved her chair back a few inches. “No one is a Brandt. Not for generations. We’re all called Crowder. Brandt is just a name on some building. It means nothing.”
“The Brandt Building.” Nolan pointed out the window and across the street. “The building where Motherlode Books is and the apartments.”
“That’s right,” Brittany said. “Used to be ours.”
“It was never ours,” Tisha said.
“It belonged to our family, Letitia.”
“Like a hundred years ago, if that’s even a true story.”
“That’s something we can look into,” Nolan said. “That’s right up Jillian’s alley. Genealogy.”
“I don’t need Jillian’s help.” Brittany tore off a piece of napkin and wadded it up in a tiny ball. “My grandmother has her own memories.”
“Ora?” Nolan asked.
“That’s right. She was a Brandt. Well, her grandmother was.”
“Well, that’s a great start.” Two minutes. “No doubt there are some delightful stories to hear. Tisha also would like to understand more about who she is as a unique individual. Today, when we were building shelves, she described Canyon Mines as a history lesson. I think she’s right, and she might enjoy learning more details about the Brandts in Canyon Mines. But as an individual she has a unique branch of the family that she doesn’t share with any of the rest of you. That comes from her father, and she’d like to know more about that as well. Am I explaining that accurately, Tisha?”
Tisha nodded, her fingers creeping toward the phone.
“She doesn’t need any of that nonsense,” Brittany said. “I’m her mother. I tell her what she needs. She’s a child, and we wouldn’t be sitting here right now if I could count on her to make smart decisions. Instead, I have to clean up her messes. Find her a lawyer, take her to appearances, agree to arrangements or have you threaten me with liability.”
“I’m sitting right here,” Tisha said.
“Well, you might as well not be for the good you’re contributing to this conversation.”
“Let’s all take a breath,” Nolan said.
Mother and daughter glared at each other. Nolan considered his next tactic.
The timer went off, and Tisha pounced on it.
“Another ten?” Nolan said.
Tisha stood and picked up her phone. “You promised I got to decide.”
“I will honor my promise.”
“Why are you letting her decide anything?” The pitch of Brittany’s voice, already sour, exploded with exasperation.
“Tisha has proven to me she can handle being in control of some things,” Nolan said, “and we chose this.”
“Well. Look what it got you. Not that I’m complaining. I told you why I really came.”
“There’s no point.” Tisha pushed her phone into the pocket of her shorts. “She won’t tell me who my father is because she doesn’t know who my father is, the same way Grandma Peggy doesn’t know who her father is.”
Brittany nearly upended the table and beverages, reaching across to slap her daughter’s face.
“Brittany!” Nolan jumped up and pulled Tisha back before her mother’s open palm landed on its mark.
“She deserves more than a slap. You heard what she said.”
Tisha’s face reddened. Fury? Embarrassment? Frustration? Nolan wouldn’t blam
e her for all three.
“I know who your father is,” Brittany growled. “And I know exactly where he is. I’ve always known. I’m just not going to tell you.”
“I’m going to do a DNA test,” Tisha screamed. “I’ll be related to someone out there. I’ll find out who. Then I’ll find him. I’ll find another family that’s better than these crazy so-called Brandt women.”
Brittany scoffed. “You’re a minor. You’re stuck with the family you have unless I say otherwise.”
Tisha charged the door.
“Tisha, wait.” Nolan chased her.
“I’m out of here.” She fumbled with the latch, arm upstretched and heels raised off the floor to give the extra height required.
“I’d like to see you calmer before you leave.” Nolan couldn’t imagine she would go home tonight—at least not anytime soon. Did she sneak into the boyfriend’s house on nights like this without his parents knowing? The sister might provide cover. Or did she have another girlfriend?
Tisha finally wrestled the latch up, yanked the door open, and hopped on her bicycle outside. At least it was still light out—for now.
Nolan turned to Brittany.
She sneered. “Happy?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Denver, Colorado
Wednesday, August 2, 1893
Clifford raised his coffee cup. “Why not sit with me a little longer? It’s still early. Let your breakfast settle.”
“Lity will be right back down to do the clearing up.” Georgina’s hat was already pinned in place, and her handbag dangled from one bent elbow.
Clifford knew better than to say he’d always thought that purse looked like it was made from remnants of a carpet bag, with its sturdy metal frame and heavy colorful weave. In one hand, she gripped leather driving gloves purchased from McNamara Dry Goods two years ago. Clifford couldn’t recall that she’d ever used the new gloves. The carriage had its comforts, though it was too crowded for the family to occupy together comfortably now that the girls were grown, and its open design limited its use to fine weather. It could also be a nuisance to take downtown compared to the ease of the streetcars. Even Georgina agreed.
“There’s still coffee in the pot,” he said. “We may as well enjoy it.”
“It’s just coffee, Clifford. I don’t know what’s gotten into you. All I said was I was going to take the carriage to go see Mrs. Porter because she’s feeling poorly, and suddenly you think we don’t spend enough time together.”
“We could do the clearing up,” he said. “We always did when the girls were little.”
“Is that how you remember it?” Georgina gave her hat a minute adjustment. “I don’t know why the Porters moved so far south, but they have, and Mrs. Porter is unwell and I want to see her.”
“You could take the streetcar.” Clifford reached into his pocket for some coins.
“Clifford! It doesn’t go all the way out there, and you know it. Besides, you told me yourself the horses are not getting enough exercise. If you won’t hitch the carriage for me, I’ll do it myself. I haven’t forgotten how. I do remember a few things from the old days.” She rotated away from him and headed out the back door.
Cliff scrambled to his feet just as Lity came back into the room. “Go fetch Missy,” he said.
“But the dishes.”
“They’ll wait. Get Missy and send her out to the stable. Now!” Cliff thumped around the kitchen table and outside in Georgina’s wake.
“Georgina, I’ll get the carriage for you,” he called from behind her.
She didn’t break stride. “You made your point. I will manage.”
“Please, Georgina. I was not trying to make a point. Wait here, and I will bring the carriage around.”
She marched past the garden undeterred, not placated. If he’d simply offered to drive her to the Porters in the first place, he would have avoided this moment. Perhaps there was nothing to worry about. Most mornings Missy took food to the stable before the family breakfast and their guest was gone before anyone else was up. Clifford was likely borrowing trouble. Still, he didn’t like the idea of Georgina poking around the stable. Even if Loren was gone, his makeshift bedroll might be in sight.
“Georgie.” He wasn’t sure what he would do when he caught up. He hastened his gait.
“Clifford, what has gotten into you?”
Georgina shoved open the stable door, a task she had not performed independently in at least five years, and paced in to yank on the carriage door and deposit her handbag.
The screech she emitted was everything Clifford had hoped to prevent. He winced.
“You get out of there right this instant!” She was beating the man with her miniature carpetbag, hardly giving him an opportunity to move.
Poor Loren.
“It’s all right, Georgie,” Clifford said, caught up at last. “It’s Loren Wade. You’ve met him. He worked for me.”
Her thrashing ceased but not her indignation. She glared at Clifford. “You knew he was here.”
Clifford caught Loren’s sheepish glance. They’d said nothing of Loren curling up in the carriage, but Clifford didn’t blame him for wanting to get off the ground. Why was he still there?
“I was going to speak to you, Georgina,” he said.
“Papa! What happened?” Missouri burst into the stable. She saw her mother and Loren’s disheveled form and understood. “He’s staying, Mama.”
“So you’ve all decided this behind my back,” Georgina said. “The three of you. How long has this been going on?”
“A few days.” Missy wound both arms around one of Loren’s. “Since the night that Italian barkeep was killed by the mob. The streets aren’t safe. Loren has nothing, Mama. Not even the pack he came down from the mine with. Either he’s given away everything to help someone else or his things have been stolen.”
“Keeping him here at night is the right thing, Georgie,” Clifford said.
“Can’t he go to that relief camp they opened along the river?” Georgina eyed her husband. “Isn’t that what it’s for? You’re the one who told me about it.”
“The camp has space for eight hundred men,” Cliff said. “Do you have any idea how many homeless men are roaming around Denver right now? It’s a place to start, but they never know if they’ll have money to stay open tomorrow. We can ease the load in this very small way by giving shelter to one man we care about.”
Georgina considered her husband’s face for a few seconds. “You’ve eased their load another way, haven’t you? A donation.”
Clifford said nothing.
“Clifford!” Georgina shouted. “How could you?”
“I should go,” Loren said.
Missy held him tight. “Not until we have this settled. You’re coming back tonight, and that’s final.”
“Yes, it is,” Clifford said.
Georgina huffed.
“Georgie, the railroads are no longer offering the six-dollar fare, and they won’t tolerate being mobbed by men demanding to ride for free, either. Some of these men were my men. Others worked for Mr. Tabor, which makes them feel like my men. I can’t stand by and do nothing.”
“Mrs. Porter is waiting,” Georgina said. “I’ll need the carriage.”
Loren and Missouri moved outside, and Clifford hitched up the carriage and sent Georgina on her way.
“What are we going to do?” Missouri asked. “She doesn’t know a small fraction of the truth of that night.”
“And we’re going to leave it that way,” Clifford said.
“I’ll get by,” Loren said. “I’m sorry I was in the carriage.”
Missy shook her head. “Mama would have been just as upset to see you anywhere in the stable. You’re going to stay. I only wish you could stay in the house. Papa, if he was in the basement, Mama would never know. She doesn’t go down there.”
Loren shook his head. “I won’t go behind her back like that. Not again.”
“The stable at least,
” Missy said. “Papa, you’ll make it right with Mama for the stable?”
Clifford nodded.
“I promise to stay out of the carriage,” Loren said. “I’ll only come after dark and be gone before breakfast, like I’ve been doing. I slipped up just this once and fell back to sleep.”
“You’re exhausted. I’m going to find you a proper cot,” Missouri said. “Somehow. And I want you to promise to go to the clothing bank to look for a few things to replace what you’ve lost. And something that fits.”
Loren sniffed. “My clothes surely could use a wash.”
Clifford slipped out of the stable. He’d let go the boy he’d been paying to muck the two stalls, so he’d have to put on work clothes and return later for the chore. Or perhaps if he promised Loren would do it in exchange for his shelter, Georgina would be more accepting. For now Missy and Loren could sort out their day on their own. An interesting inquiry awaited him in his desk drawer. He’d read it twice already. With Georgina out of the house for a few hours, he could take it out in plain sight and put to paper the response already formed in his mind.
The day’s wanderings included posting the letter, visiting the camp along the South Platte River, and gathering news of the city’s efforts to fund work projects to temporarily hire some of the unemployed men who still had no means of leaving Denver.
Georgina said nothing more about the guest in the stable—or the food that went missing from the kitchen in increasing amounts to sustain him. In solitary moments, Clifford used his journal to try to make sense of events that made no sense. A week passed.
Thursday, August 10, 1893. More than two months and the crisis seems unabating. I like to think that if I’d had the grand fortunes of Horace Tabor, I would have set more aside for circumstances such as this. If ever there was a time the city needs his philanthropy, this is it, yet he has nothing to give. I hear even the utilities to his palatial home have been shut off because he cannot pay his bills. I am not the only one for whom he will not open the door. I am the least of his worries. I doubt I even cross his mind.
I had no grand fortune. I had modest prospects of comfortable years ahead to begin with. But that is nothing to cling to at a time like this. When presented with an opportunity for bold action that will allow me to make some contribution to my fellow men and still provide for my family in a way I believe will serve them well for years to come, I give thanks to God and say a resounding yes to both callings. How can I do otherwise?
What You Said to Me Page 16
