Beauty for Ashes

by Dorothy Love

  Thinking of Griff and of the way some people in town judged him, Carrie nodded. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “Thank you, Carrie.” Rosaleen turned back to Mrs. Whitcomb. “It’s easy to say what someone else should or shouldn’t do, but it’s harder when you are the one who must decide.”

  “No need to get all upset,” Mrs. Whitcomb said. “Land’s sakes, Lady Audley isn’t real. She’s merely a character in a silly novel.”

  “Would anyone like more coffee?” Carrie rose to refill their cups. The train whistle pierced the silence.

  “That’ll be the eleven o’clock from Nashville.” Rosaleen retrieved her parasol from the pine table by the door. “I’m expecting a package that should have arrived last week. I must go and check with the station agent.”

  “I should go too,” Mrs. Whitcomb said, “in case there are any ladies arriving on the train who need a place to stay.” She patted Carrie’s shoulder. “I had myself a right good time today, Carrie. That Marjorie Daw is some story. I can’t wait to read the rest of Mr. Aldrich’s book.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it.” Carrie gathered the coffee cups and folded the blue-and-white striped towel she’d used to cover the rolls. “I had fun too.”

  “What about me?” Mary looked up at them. “We haven’t talked about my book yet.”

  “Next time,” Mrs. Whitcomb said, “it’ll be your turn to go first.”

  “But—” Mary held out her book, urging the older woman to take it.

  Rosaleen hurried to the door. “Carrie, I’ll see you back at the Verandah.”

  The two women left the bookshop, jingling the bell above the door as they went.

  “Well, I have never been so embarrassed in my life.” Mary tucked away her book and followed Carrie to the back of the shop. “First, you invite that unsavory Mr. Rutledge to my wedding. Then you show up with him to move out of the house, which was mean of you, considering the amount of work there is to do every day. Then you move to that dingy old hotel. And now you’re socializing with Mrs. Whitcomb and that . . . that . . . woman as if she were a respectable sort.”

  “Rosaleen is quite a flirt, granted, but she is respectable, as far as I can tell.”

  “As far as you can tell? And what do you know about such women, Carrie? You’ve hardly set foot out of Hickory Ridge.”

  Carrie emptied the grounds from the coffeepot and set it back on the stove. “Whereas you are a woman of the world.”

  “Well, I—I’ve been to Memphis, and Knoxville once, and . . . well, lots of places.”

  “Good for you. Excuse me.” Carrie busied herself wiping a shelf that didn’t really need it. Otherwise she might actually strangle Mary Stanhope. Bell. That her beloved Henry had actually married this harridan hit her again like a punch to the stomach.

  “If you won’t do it for me, do it for the boys.”

  “What?” Carrie’s hands stilled. She stared at Mary, at her milky face and pale eyes. “What are you talking about?”

  “What I’m talking about,” Mary said with exaggerated patience, “is stopping this silly stunt you’ve pulled, move back to the farm where you belong, and stop embarrassing us.”

  “Us?”

  “Henry and me. We want the boys to have a chance to be somebody in this town. It won’t happen if you keep on acting like this. Living at the Verandah, working as a common shop girl, associating with that empty-headed Rosaleen.”

  “She may dress fancy, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t smart.”

  Mary sighed. “It is possible, I suppose, that the woman’s brain is a veritable storehouse of knowledge, but the way she acts, who can tell? And anyway, I’m less worried about her than about your keeping company with Mr. Rutledge.”

  “Keeping . . . ?” Carrie laughed. “I’m not sure where you’re getting your information, Mary, but I assure you I am not keeping company with him.”

  “This is Hickory Ridge. People talk.”

  “When they’d be better advised not to.”

  Mary shrugged.

  “The way things are going, by the time Joe and Caleb are grown, Hickory Ridge will be a ghost town and all your efforts will be for naught.” Carrie pointed her finger at Mary. “You’d better hope people come here to watch Mr. Rutledge ride that horse. You’d better hope that they spend lots of money while they’re here and that some rich businessman decides he’d like to set up shop here.” Frowning, she peered at her sister-in-law. “Are you angry because we didn’t discuss the book you brought?”

  Mary began to weep. “I couldn’t care less about your stupid book society. I only came here to talk some sense into you, but I should have known you’d be mean and unreasonable. I swear, I don’t see how your brother turned out so sweet and kind, and you’re so . . . so . . .”

  Carrie folded her arms and leaned against the book shelves, waiting for the waterworks to subside.

  At last, Mary sniffed and fumbled for her handkerchief. “Go ahead then. Do what you want. But Henry and I will never speak to you again.”

  “Don’t presume to speak for my brother. Except for the short time I was married to Frank Daly, Henry and I have been alone in the world, dependent on each other since we were children. Blood ties are thicker than water and always will be.” She shoved a book onto the shelf. “And I would appreciate it if you’d stop paying attention to idle gossip. A lady’s tongue should be an influence for good. Nothing positive can come from speaking ill of others.”

  Mary reddened and snapped her reticule shut. “I have to go. And don’t expect me to come to the next meeting of your pathetic little book society. I wouldn’t step foot in here again if you paid me, and neither will any other respectable woman in Hickory Ridge.” She laughed. “One old woman, one of questionable character, and you. Charter members. What a joke.”

  Mary flounced away, her fan dangling from her wrist, and slammed the door on her way out.

  ELEVEN

  “Thank you for your purchases. Please call again on your next trip to Hickory Ridge.” Carrie smiled at the well-dressed man and his little girl and handed them their wrapped packages. The gentlemen had chosen a book of poetry and a handsome edition of Mr. Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities. His daughter selected Little Women and Snow-Berries: A Book for Young Folks. Clutching her package to her chest, she smiled up at her father with such complete delight that Carrie couldn’t help smiling too. No wonder Nate loved bookselling.

  The pair left the shop. Carrie returned a couple of books to the shelf, finished arranging the flowers Lucy had picked from the Verandah’s back garden, and regarded the results with a contented sigh. She could imagine a life here with Nate and their books. And running the shop made her feel useful again.

  Sunlight streamed through the front window, casting a warm glow over the burnished wooden counter and the tidy rows of books. India jumped onto the counter, nearly overturning the vase of fragrant pink roses and bright yellow daisies. Carrie nuzzled the cat. “Mrs. Nathaniel Chastain. What do you think, India?”

  The cat blinked her amber eyes and mewed. Carrie laughed. “So you approve?”

  Carrie mopped her face and downed a glass of water before returning to her work on Nate’s ledger. Maybe he was right and it was time to go after what was attainable. Set a date for a wedding and stop wishing for the moon.

  The bell above the door sounded, and Nate came in. He tossed his hat onto the table beside the door and looked around, shaking his head in wonderment. “Every time I come back in here, I am amazed all over again.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “You’ve done a fine job with the shop. The flowers sure do gussy up the place.”

  She nodded. “But my ladies’ book society wasn’t as successful as I hoped.”

  “Give it time. That was only your first meeting. Mrs. Whitcomb sure enjoyed it. Miss Rosaleen too. She told me so just this morning.”

  Carrie arched her brow. Lately Nate seemed to be spending a lot of time at the Verandah, even when Carrie was busy at the bo
okshop. “You took some more books to her?”

  He blushed and raked one hand across his beard. “Well, yes. She’s new in town and doesn’t have many friends.” He headed toward the back of the shop to help himself to coffee. “Some people look down on her, I reckon, because of the fancy way she dresses and her skill with card games and such.”

  True enough. Hadn’t Mary Stanhope practically called Rosaleen a loose woman? Still, Carrie didn’t love the idea that Nate had appointed himself as her welcoming committee.

  “Miss Rosaleen seems to enjoy the books so much.” He reappeared with cup in hand. “Just this morning we were talking about—”

  Carrie sighed. Enough about Rosaleen. “Nate?” She put a hand on his arm. “I’ve been thinking, and there’s something important I wish to discuss.”

  He grinned. “What a coincidence. I was just about to say the same thing. I’m on my way to the bank, but I stopped in here to ask you something.”

  “What is it?” She set India on the floor.

  “I’m going to Chicago for a few days, and I was wondering if you’d take care of the shop while I’m away. I’ll pay you for the extra hours.” He sipped his coffee.

  “That isn’t necessary. I love working here. I’ll be glad to look after things. When are you leaving?”

  “This evening, actually. On the six o’clock train.”

  “This evening? So suddenly?”

  He nodded. “Things happened rather fast. I’m on the way to the bank to withdraw some funds. I should be back on Monday.” He set down his cup and took both her hands, the familiar kindly expression shining in his eyes. “You will always have a part of my heart, Carrie girl. Don’t ever forget that.”

  Alarm bells rang inside her head. This almost sounded like a final farewell. Was Nate gravely ill and on his way to see some specialist in Chicago? Suppose he was dying? If only she had taken Ada’s advice instead of waiting so long to accept his proposal. At least they might have had a few years before he . . .

  She squeezed his hands. “And you are dear to me too, Nate. But . . . is anything the matter? Are you all right?”

  “Better than I’ve been in quite a while.” He retrieved his hat. “After I stop at the bank, I must go home and pack. Can you close the shop for me this afternoon?”

  Dazed by the sudden turn of events, she merely nodded.

  At the door he turned back to her. “My lands, I almost forgot. What was it you wanted to talk about?”

  She shook her head. “It can wait till you get back.”

  “All right then. See you Monday.”

  Carrie watched him jog across the street, tipping his hat to everyone he met until he reached the bank. He didn’t seem sick at all. In fact, he looked downright giddy. Surely he wasn’t planning to buy out another bookshop. She’d sold only a few of the volumes he had bought in Saint Louis.

  Something was afoot. But what? What on earth had gotten into Nate Chastain?

  The shriek of the six o’clock train sounded in the streets as Carrie prepared to close the shop for the evening. Though she was still unsure about her future with Nate, knowing he was aboard that train, headed for Chicago, left her feeling bereft. She set the cash box inside the wall safe in the back, twirled the dial, and picked up her hat and keys.

  She was about to close the front curtains when a movement caught her eye. Someone was coming toward the bookshop. Her heart drummed against her ribs as recognition dawned. Henry.

  Until that moment she hadn’t let herself think about how much she had missed him. True, they’d run into each other a few times at the post office and the mercantile, but their conversations had been stiff and superficial and exceedingly brief. A gulf had widened between them, and neither she nor Henry seemed to know how to breach it. Tossing aside her keys, she wrenched open the door and threw both arms around her brother.

  “Hello, Carrie.” He smiled, and she noticed new worry lines at the corners of his eyes. Had she been the one to put them there? Did he hate her because of it? She felt as if she were ten years old again and about to be chastised for losing his prized fishing pole. And she hated that feeling of being on the outs with him.

  “Could I come in?”

  “Of course.” She stepped aside and held the door open.

  His gaze swept over the shop. “Looks real good, honey. I heard Nate has practically turned the place over to you.”

  “He hired me to get things organized.”

  “Mary said you started some kind of a ladies’ book club too.”

  “I tried.” She motioned him to a chair by the window. “Apparently there aren’t as many book lovers in Hickory Ridge as I imagined.”

  “Times are hard. Most folks are too busy trying to survive to sit around discussing the latest novel.”

  His sharp words pricked her heart. Why couldn’t Henry, above all others, understand what she wanted to accomplish? Still, she was glad to see him. Despite her growing contentment with her new life in town, a part of her missed the farm. Could she somehow make things right again?

  She took the chair next to his. “How are things at home? How did our garden do this year?”

  “Pretty good.” Henry leaned forward in his chair, his hands clasped, “We had a lot of corn and tomatoes.” He shook his head. “It very nearly overwhelmed Mary. And . . . well, that’s why I’m here, Carrie Lou.”

  She sat up straighter. Any time Henry used her middle name, something was terribly wrong. He’d called her Carrie Lou when their parents perished, when Granny Bell died, when word about Frank Daly came from Shiloh. Her heart kicked. “What is it?”

  “The sawmill owners showed up last week and let most of the hands go. Including me.”

  “Last week? And you didn’t tell me?”

  “I’m telling you now.”

  “But—”

  “Would it have mattered? You’ve been furious with me ever since the wedding.”

  She dropped her gaze and smoothed the folds of her skirt. It was true that she hadn’t completely forgiven him for not standing up for her against Mary’s attacks. Had her brother chosen anyone else in Hickory Ridge for a bride, she would have welcomed a new sister with open arms, but Mary was too overbearing, too full of airs.

  Carrie still didn’t understand Henry’s attraction to the woman. And those ruffian sons of hers were the devil’s own spawn. How could he bear their noise, their constant whining demands? Even so, her heart ached for Henry. He had a family to support, and now his job was lost. “I don’t mean to blame you. It isn’t your fault that Mary Stanhope and I are like oil and water. And I’m terribly sorry about the mill. I know you must be worried.”

  He nodded. “I’ve tried to find a job here in town, but so has every other mill hand. There’s not enough work to go around.”

  He raked a hand over his tired face. Carrie noticed for the first time that his hair was thinning. Both she and Henry were getting older. Time was rushing by, and it would be a sin to waste it. She and Mary would never be friends, but for Henry’s sake she would visit the farm now and then. On Sundays, perhaps, after church. Once she and Nate were married, Nate’s natural affinity for people and his gift for storytelling would act as a buffer between her and Mary. It wouldn’t be easy, but she owed it to Henry.

  Henry focused his gaze on the shelf of books behind her. “I’m leaving Hickory Ridge.”

  She stared at him, thunderstruck. “Leaving? But how can . . . why?”

  “Sage Whiting says the railroad companies in Chicago are hiring men to work in the train yards, unloading freight. He says it’s worth a try.” Henry’s voice cracked. “Easy for him to tell me to go, since he’s kept his job for now.”

  “Then Mariah won’t have to leave Hickory Ridge.” As worried as she was about Henry’s going, she felt relieved that she wouldn’t lose her friend too. Even if Mariah had made herself scarce lately. “I will miss you every single day, but maybe it’s for the best. Mary Stanhope doesn’t know the first thing about running a f
arm. And you know how she covets fancy dresses and pretty things.”

  He nodded and sent her a rueful smile.

  “Her aspirations are too big for a place like Hickory Ridge. Just the other day she told me how hard she’s working to make sure her boys get on in the world. I know you hate the thought of moving away, but they’ll have many more opportunities in Chicago.”

  Henry rose and began to pace. “Have I been a good brother to you, Carrie?”

  “What kind of a question is that? If you hadn’t taken care of me after Mama and Daddy died, there’s no telling what would have become of me. And when Frank was killed—”

  “I need your help.”

  “I’m not sure how I can help in this situation, but—”

  “As much as I want to, I can’t take Mary and the boys with me. There isn’t enough money for four of us to travel all that way, and even if I could afford the train tickets, where would we live?” His shoulders sagged. “Besides, it could take as long as a month to get hired—if I get hired at all. Hundreds of men are competing for the same chance. I need you to come home, Carrie. To help Mary and look after the farm.”

  Her stomach clenched. “Move back and live under the same roof with her and those rude boys of hers? You saw how they treated me, and you didn’t do much to defend me.”

  “We got off to a rocky start, all right, but Mary is sorry for everything. She told me so herself.”

  “Oh, I’m sure she’s sorry. Sorry that she’s going to have to stop acting like the Queen of Persia and actually get her hands dirty keeping the farm going.”

  “It may be only for a few weeks. If I don’t get the job—”

  “Henry, please. I’m not ungrateful for all you did for me when we were children. I’d do most anything for you, in fact. But I have a life of my own now. True, I live at the Verandah, but it isn’t so bad once you get used to it. I get along with the other residents. Mrs. Whitcomb is almost like the mother I never really had. And . . . well, I’ve decided I’ve put Nate off long enough. As soon as he gets back from his trip, I’m setting a date for our wedding.”