Siri Mitchell

by Unrivaled

  “Is that a—a—” I stepped forward so I could whisper. “Is that a Royal Taffy wrapper?”

  “Uh . . .” His gaze darted about the room. “It’s not mine.”

  “Not—! Then why is it in your pocket?”

  “It’s . . . because . . . I’d rather not say.”

  “A Royal Taffy? Sam!” There could no worse form of betrayal.

  “I have to . . . uh . . . be going. Now. See you later.” He shoved the broom into the corner and headed out toward the stable.

  “Sam!”

  His only reply was the slap of the screen door.

  I used his handkerchief to wipe at my tears. When I went to refold it I saw that it had been embroidered. The initials SHB had been worked into the cambric with brown floss.

  SHB?

  Sam had a middle name? Of course he must have a middle name. But I had never known it. With his mother having died when he was a baby, and with the material being so crisp and shiny, it could not have been she who had done it. So who knew Sam’s middle name? And why had she embroidered a handkerchief for him?

  I could think of several answers to my questions, and I didn’t like any of them.

  I also didn’t like the fact that I had promised Winnie I’d come calling. Specifically because she had told her mother, and her mother had told my mother, and so the next afternoon I found myself sitting beside her on a yellow silk divan in her parlor. I’d been seated next to a green parakeet that harmonized with the color scheme. He swung from a squeaky trapeze when he wasn’t tossing seeds at me.

  “Is he bothering you?”

  Yes. “No.”

  “I’ve always liked birds. Did you know parakeets can live nearly twenty years?”

  Perish the thought.

  Winnie smiled. Did she ever stop smiling?

  She’d smiled when she’d greeted me. She’d smiled when we’d sat down. She’d smiled as we were served tea. And if it were possible, as she turned to look at me, she smiled even wider still. “I wonder, Lucy, did you hear? You must have. I’m sure you must have.”

  I waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. Did I hear what? “I . . . don’t believe so.”

  “Because it was such a surprise!”

  “What was?”

  “That there even is such a thing!”

  Was anyone ever as maddening as Winnie Compton? “Such a thing as what!” I felt like I had missed an entire part of the conversation.

  “As another Mr. Clarke, of course.”

  “There’s a . . . another Mr. Clarke?” Mr. Clarke of Standard Manufacturing? I contemplated that riddle for a moment, but then quickly conceded defeat. I set my teacup down on the table beside me. “Winnie, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Mr. Clarke’s son.”

  “He has a son?”

  “He was at the ball. Surely you must have met him.”

  “No.” A spawn of the devil would have been highly memorable. I would not have forgotten someone like that.

  “Charles was his name.”

  Charles. That sounded dreadfully dull and stuffy.

  “He was being introduced to practically everybody.” She sent a glance my way as her smile dimmed for a moment. “But I’m sure you weren’t meant to have been overlooked. There were so many people there that night. You have to admit that it would have been easy to forget one or two.”

  Yes. Especially me with that enormous crown atop my head.

  “I’m sure there was nothing meant by it. But such a shame you didn’t get to meet him. He was enormously handsome. Although no one seemed to know that Mr. Clarke even had a son. Don’t you think that’s odd?”

  Everything about that man was odd. Worse than odd!

  “I don’t understand how you could have a son and then forget you had him and then remember and . . .” She put a hand to her head as if she had suddenly come down with a headache. “It’s just all so confusing. But he was very nice.”

  As Mr. Clarke had been. Before he’d stolen our candy from us. Like father, like son! “There was probably a scandalous divorce, and the son was raised in some slum somewhere in a rat-infested house and fell in with the wrong group and went to jail for some terrifically abominable crime from which he’s just been released. That’s why we haven’t heard about him.” I clapped my hand over my mouth. What had I just said? All those novels I’d read on the voyages to and from Europe must have corrupted me.

  Winnie’s eyes widened for a moment, and then she broke into that tinkling laugh she had. “Oh! You’re just teasing, Lucy. For a moment, I thought you were actually telling the truth!” She touched me on the hand as her laughter died. “I’m so glad you came to call. I didn’t used to like you at all, but now I can see that I was mistaken. You aren’t at all mean and bossy and selfish. Isn’t it funny how long I’ve been suffering under that impression?”

  She didn’t used to like me? Winnie Compton hadn’t liked me? I climbed into the carriage.

  I hadn’t liked her.

  How could she have the gall not to like me?

  Mean and bossy and selfish. Was I truly like that?

  Who could I ask? Sam?

  No. He would probably agree with Winnie.

  Mother laid a hand atop mine. I hadn’t even realized I’d been picking at the tufting again. “I was very pleased with the way things went this afternoon.”

  I wasn’t.

  “I think it’s nice that you’ll have a companion to see you through the season.”

  I didn’t. Not if it that companion was Winnie Compton.

  After an eternity of sitting in a parlor on such a fine, bright day, my fingers itched to do something. Make something. So once my mother disappeared into her sitting room, I wandered into the kitchen. Mrs. Hughes had just pulled a roast from the oven. It was sitting on the counter, steaming.

  “Lucy, love, could you get me a ladle?”

  I handed one to her.

  As she took it, she peered up at me. Then she put a hand to her waist. “I know that look. You’ve got candy on your mind. I suppose it’s best just to get out of the way and leave the place to you.”

  “I don’t want to run you off. I could just work around you.”

  “No, no.” She tilted the pan and ladled the juices from the meat into a jar.

  “If you don’t need this pot . . . ?” I took it from its hook, then ducked my head as I tugged an apron down over it.

  I wanted something . . . something that reminded me of how I felt when I looked into that man’s eyes, back at the ball. Back when he’d made me feel like everything would be all right. But I also wanted something that would satisfy the urge I had to snap the head off Winnie Compton. Something magical and airy . . . and brittle at the same time.

  A meringue!

  Perfect. I’d have to beat egg whites again, but it would be worth it. I gathered several eggs, some sugar, and a bottle of vanilla extract. Then I pulled out the breadboards and wet them down with a washrag.

  “Mrs. Hughes? Do you know where the paper is?”

  “The paper . . . ? And what are you doing with my cutting boards!”

  “I was hoping to make some meringues.” Meringues were one of Mrs. Hughes’ favorites. I pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I promise to set some aside for you.”

  “And for Mother?”

  “And for your mother.”

  She smiled. “I suppose that’s fine, then. What was it you were asking for?”

  “Paper.”

  “The brown paper? It’s in the pantry somewhere . . .”

  “Somewhere” turned out to be on the floor beneath one of the shelves. I pulled it out and dusted it off, then cut several lengths and laid them out on top of the boards.

  After separating the eggs, I took up a whisk and started whipping them. As my arm churned, my thoughts wandered to the man from the ball. To the dizzying sensation I’d felt as I stared into his eyes.

  Good heavens—I hoped I hadn’t stared too long! What must h
e think of me?

  He’d been perfectly respectable in every way, but the feelings he’d raised in me were . . . alarming. Alarming? Maybe not alarming. That wasn’t quite the right word.

  I stopped to check the consistency of the egg whites. They slid right off the whisk, so I kept whipping.

  Alarming wasn’t the right word—it’s not as if he were some criminal. My feelings were . . . different. But different wasn’t bad. Strong. Maybe that was the word. I’d had a strong reaction to him.

  Just like I’d had to sherbet powder. Such a strange, fizzy effervescence that had been . . . delightful. Dizzying. Delectable. Delicious.

  I felt myself blush. He was a man, not a piece of candy!

  Telling myself to concentrate on my work, I whipped the whites stiff, added most of the sugar, then whipped some more. Once the mixture stopped collapsing on itself, I added the vanilla and the rest of the sugar, whipping it until it rose into glossy peaks.

  The oven was still hot from the roast, so I left the door open to cool. Since I had the time, I spooned the meringue into a bag and then piped it onto the boards in fancy shapes.

  Kisses.

  I felt myself flush again. Taking up a saucer, I used it to fan my face. I wished I’d thought to ask that man his name.

  Bending, I slid the boards into the oven and closed the door. Then I took up a towel and dried dishes for Mrs. Hughes.

  At least I hadn’t had to meet the new Mr. Clarke—even though he was nice and very handsome according to Winnie, who probably thought everyone was very nice and handsome. Except for me, who was mean and bossy and selfish.

  Half an hour later, the meringues were done. And half an hour after that, they had cooled enough to eat. I bit into one with a satisfying crunch. And as the meringue dissolved in my mouth, so did my anger at Winnie. Who cared about Mr. Clarke’s son? The man I wanted to meet was the one from the balcony. The one I’d run into on Olive Street.

  There was just something about his eyes.

  I took another meringue and then a third, stuffing them into the apron’s pockets. Tiptoeing up the back stairs, I went to see my father.

  “God bless you, Sugar Plum!” He popped the meringue into his mouth, chewed and swallowed it in one bite, closing his eyes as he savored it. “I’ve always thought a meringue is a thing like hope, buoyed as they are with plenty of hot air. A bit pretentious at the start, don’t you think?” He settled his hands on his chest. “But let that hope wait, let that resolve harden for a while . . . Leave the oven door closed, and something wonderful happens. You just have to be willing to wait for it.” He smiled. “And speaking of hope, I find myself hoping . . . you don’t happen to have another, do you?”

  The only thing I found myself hoping for that week was a chance to see that man again. And the next time I did—if I did—I was going to ask him his name.

  Even in church, I couldn’t seem to keep my thoughts on the eternal. They were too filled with balls and dancing. Wondering who the man was, and which family he belonged to. So distracted was I, that I almost glanced in the direction of the Clarkes as we passed their pew. But at the last moment I remembered to turn my head. Father had been adamant about not changing churches after Mr. Clarke had taken the company. It was bad enough that they’d stolen his livelihood; Father vowed they wouldn’t steal our church from us too.

  I tried to peer around the edges of my hat during the service to see if the man might serendipitously be there, but the brim was too wide. By the time the minister announced the Prayer of Confession, I was all but nibbling on my nails. Though I dutifully bowed my head and clasped my hands, I’d always wondered about the utility of confessing. If God knew everything, then there oughtn’t be a need to confess to the things we’d done wrong. So I sent up a prayer—a wish, really—about the man instead. Although . . . that was just as ridiculous. But there was no one else to talk to about the ball, and I didn’t know who the man was.

  Please, God, could I see him again?

  As the prayer ended and the organ played an introduction to the next hymn, I felt guilty and more than a little foolish for using confession time, which I didn’t believe in, in order to beg a favor from a God I wasn’t really sure was listening.

  14

  On Monday afternoon I stood back to look at the advertisement that had just been painted on a building along Grand Avenue. Now there was no trace left in the city of anyone’s candy but ours. It hadn’t been all that different from Chicago: Find where the other fellow had put up his advertisements, and cover it over with yours. And since it was a free country, I knew if I wasn’t careful, the other fellow could just as easily put up his advertisements over mine.

  Nelson drove me back to the factory. I waited with Mr. Mundt for half an hour before my father invited me into his office. He was standing in front of the window, looking out at the factory across the railroad tracks. “When crates of Royal Taffy leave the factory, they go to all four corners of the country.” He turned around, strode to his desk, and crushed his cigar violently into an ashtray. He took another cigar from his drawer and sliced the end off with a cutter. “Standard used to have another owner. Did you know that?”

  I didn’t know anything at all about my father’s time in St. Louis.

  “He hadn’t a thought in his head about business. He had the recipe, he’s the one who came up with Royal Taffy, but he couldn’t have given it away to a beggar. No sense at all. I don’t even know if he realized what he’d created. But he gave me my first job in this city.” He struck a match and put it to the cigar, then took a long drag on it, exhaling with a big sigh. “Hired me to sell his candy for him and set his books straight.” He took another puff on his cigar. “One thing I always knew how to do: Focus on the bottom line. But he always seemed to spend himself right back into trouble. Always experimenting, always ordering new ingredients for this or that.”

  “I’d think experimenting could only make a candy better.” I thought of the Queen of Love and Beauty and her candy.

  My father scowled. “Why should things always have to be better? Why can’t people just leave well enough alone and figure out how to sell what they’ve already got?”

  “Wouldn’t things sell better if they were, in fact, better?”

  He shook his head as if I’d just spouted nonsense. “Royal Taffy sold just fine. Even back then. I was getting paid in commissions, and I couldn’t seem to stop making money. And then, when an opportunity came up, I took it. I loaned money to him in exchange for a share of the ownership. When he needed more money, I got more shares. And that’s how I got the recipe too. Didn’t take long before he was working for me. That’s how it’s done, Charles. You wait, you watch, and when someone presents you with an opportunity, you take it!”

  “What did you do with him?”

  “I fired him. Part of the agreement.”

  I couldn’t keep my mouth from dropping open. “He agreed to that? Being fired from his own company?”

  “He deserved it, really. He might have come up with the recipe, but everything he’d done since had nearly brought the company to ruin. He was a complete incompetent.”

  “But if the recipe was his to begin with . . . ? You didn’t . . . I mean . . . you must have at least bought the recipe from him.”

  He shook his head. “No. But I own everything outright. We made sure of it.”

  We? “Who—I mean—”

  “You’ll have to learn that sentiment has no place in business, Charles. Just look at what I’ve made of the mess that was left me.” He turned around in his chair and stared out again at the factory.

  “But what happened to him?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Where is he? Where did he go, what did he do?”

  “He did what he’d always done. He wasted his time and money trying to make candies no one wanted to buy and paid no attention at all to money. If he’d been smart, he would have moved on to something else. Something different. That’s what he was sup
posed to do.” He took a puff on his cigar and stared up at the ceiling. “I start to feel badly about it sometimes, but then I remember: You can give a fellow a chance, but you can’t make him take it. ”

  “But—if you took his candy?”

  “I didn’t take it. Is that what has you so gape-mouthed? You think I stole it from him?”

  It certainly seemed that way.

  “I got it fair and square. Had him sign an agreement every time he borrowed money.”

  “But he couldn’t have understood . . .”

  My father shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. It was all done legally.”

  “And this is your rival? The man you want to put out of business? Again?”

  “That’s the one. The favor I told you about.”

  “Did you ever consider he might not take it well? Seeing as how this will be twice you’ve taken his business away?”

  “There’s more to it than I can tell you, but trust me when I say it’s for his own good.”

  The whole thing didn’t sit well with me. It didn’t seem right.

  “That’s why I’m counting on you. We need to shut him down as soon as possible.”

  My new shirt was pinching my neck. I slid a finger down the back and tried to loosen the collar. I didn’t care what old Mr. Dreffs said; rubber collars were definitely better.

  “The sooner people forget there was ever a Francis Kendall, the better. For him and for us. Come January, I don’t want anyone to be able to remember that his business ever existed.”

  I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the man.

  My father pressed a button on his desk. “I want you to sit in on this meeting I’m going to have and then . . . take tomorrow off! In fact . . . why don’t we both take tomorrow off? Go to the air meet out at the airfield? Enjoy ourselves? What do you say?”

  Mr. Mundt appeared at the door.

  My father nodded at him. “I’ll need you to take notes.”

  The secretary came in and sat on a chair in the corner.