Sweet Laurel

by Millie Criswell

There was little doubt where the bird had learned that lovely ditty, and Laurel shot Chance a condemning look.

  “Now, now, angel,” Chance said, trying to hide his smile. “Is that any way to pick on a poor, defenseless parrot?”

  “Poor Percy.” Squawk. “Give me some tongue, babe.”

  “Oooh!” Laurel screamed, her fists clenched for battle as she stepped toward the offensive bird. “I’ll give you something else, you wicked feather-brained creature.”

  “I’d like to have a look at your stereoscopic device, Chance,” Gus said quickly, hoping to save poor Percy from imminent death. “I’m not familiar with them, but Laurel informs me that they contain obscene renderings of unclothed women.” He impaled Chance with a censorious look. “I hope that’s not the case.”

  Chance had the grace to look embarrassed. “It’s a harmless enough amusement, Gus. The customers love it.”

  Walking over to the device, which Laurel indicated with her outstretched arm, the reverend peered into the viewer. It seemed to Laurel that he took an inordinate amount of time to form an opinion about it.

  “Isn’t it the most evil thing you’ve ever seen, Reverend Baldwin?” she prompted. “My mama would roll over in her grave if she knew I was working in a place that had such a sinful contraption.”

  Gus removed his handkerchief from his back pocket, but rather than cough into it, as he usually did, he mopped droplets of perspiration off his flushed face. “I suppose in France one would call this type of thing art—”

  “See, angel, I told you he wouldn’t object.”

  “But this is not France, and I’m afraid I would have to agree with Laurel on this matter, Chance. This device smacks of obscenity and can no way be misinterpreted as art.”

  “But, Gus . . .” Chance’s smile soured. He respected Gus’s opinion, hated to go against it, but business was business. “I’m afraid I have to disagree.”

  Not about to give up easily, Laurel pointed a condemning finger at the reclining nude. “What about the painting? Aren’t you going to mention that?” Crossing her arms over her chest, she waited for the good reverend to admonish Chance about his other disgusting diversion.

  She was therefore quite shocked when he replied, “I rather like it myself, Laurel. It’s tastefully done, and I don’t think it would offend anyone’s sensibilities. Many great artists have sculpted and painted subjects in the altogether, my dear. It’s very European in nature.”

  “Well, I guess I’m just a dumb farm girl, Reverend, because it sure as shootin’ offends my sensibilities. If I want to see a naked woman I can look in the mirror.”

  “We all don’t have that pleasure or privilege, angel,” Chance quickly pointed out, and the look he gave her sent tingles down her spine . . . and lower.

  Sensing that things were about to explode, Gus cleared his throat nervously. “This is Chance’s establishment, Laurel, and he has every right to run it as he sees fit. I can only make recommendations and offer guidance. The final decision must remain his.”

  “How nice for someone to remember that.” Chance stared daggers at Laurel, wishing he could pierce her prudish shell. The woman was rapidly becoming a thorn in his backside.

  “I suppose you’re correct, Reverend. And if Chance is going to be totally mule-headed about those obscenities . . .” She shrugged. “Well, it’s his soul that’s headed straight for eternal damnation.”

  “Yes, well . . .” Feeling vastly uncomfortable, but grateful that the ordeal was over, Gus loosened his collar and accepted the drink the bartender pushed toward him. Some sixth sense told him there was more to the animosity between Chance and Laurel than just a nude painting and a few obscene photographs.

  “To show there’re no hard feelings, angel, I’m going to call that painting The Opera Singer, as a tribute to you.”

  Laurel and Bull reached for the whiskey bottle at the same time, but Bull was quicker at anticipating Laurel’s intent and prevented her from firing her intended missile at Chance.

  Deprived of the pleasure of smashing the bottle over his head, Laurel walked up to Chance and, as hard as she could, kicked him square in the shin, feeling somewhat mollified when he winced in pain.

  “Hey! What’d you do that for?”

  “Kick his ass, girlie,” Percy blurted, and Chance shot the parrot a lethal look, rubbing his bruised leg.

  “There’ll be more of that, Rafferty, if you so much as breathe my name in conjunction with that . . . that vile piece of so-called art.” Turning on her heel, Laurel marched toward the stairs, ignoring the painting and the trio of men who looked after her with surprise and admiration.

  “Well I’ll be damned,” Chance muttered, rubbing his shin, his eyes glued on Laurel’s attractive backside as she climbed the stairs.

  “There’s not a doubt in my mind about that,” the reverend agreed. “Not a single one.”

  * * *

  Returning from the post office, Flora Sue smiled as she handed Laurel the letter that had just arrived. “Lucas asked me to deliver it, doll baby. I hope you don’t mind, but I figured if you waited on him to deliver it, you might not get it till next month.”

  Lucas Willowby, the postmaster, was notorious for being inefficient at delivering the mail. A reputation well deserved, as far as Flora Sue was concerned. The last issue of the Montgomery Ward Catalogue she’d received had been at least six months out of date, and by the time she’d sent in her order for a dozen frilly garters and a black lace corset, the company had been out of stock.

  “I think it’s from your sister,” Flora added. “The postmark reads San Francisco.”

  Laurel’s eyes were lit with excitement as she saw the familiar handwriting. Grabbing Heather’s letter, she headed up the stairs, eager to have an excuse to leave the parlor and Chance’s annoying company.

  Since the reverend’s appearance that morning, Chance had been making impertinent comments, accusing her of being prudish and a tattletale.

  A tattletale! Of all the nerve! She’d never been a tattletale in all her life. It was always Rose Elizabeth who tattled on everyone. Laurel had usually been the one to get switched because of something Rose claimed she’d done. Most of the time it was the truth, but Rose still shouldn’t have told.

  Plopping down on her bed, Laurel tore open the envelope. It had been many weeks since Heather and Laurel had parted company at the train station in Salina, and she was eager to hear all about Heather’s exciting job as an illustrator.

  No doubt Heather had succeeded where she had failed. It had always been like that when they were growing up. Heather had received the better grades, the effusive praise from her parents, even the prettiest figure. But it was Laurel who had gotten the beaus. For some reason no one could ever figure out, Heather had never been all that successful when it came to attracting men. Even Rose Elizabeth, who was a tad overweight—her mama had called her “pleasingly plump”—had never lacked for suitors.

  She turned her attention to the letter.

  Dear Laurie,

  Your letter was a welcome interruption into my daily routine. San Francisco is an exotic place—a real melting pot of fascinating people—but I’m afraid that even as large and cosmopolitan a city as it is, male prejudice against women prevails and I have been unable to find a job as an illustrator.

  Laurel felt a deep disappointment for her sister; she knew how much art meant to Heather.

  I have secured employment as a governess to a divorced man with two children.

  Laurel reread the sentence. Divorced! How shocking. Heather had always set the standard for the three sisters, and Laurel couldn’t imagine her sister working for such an individual. Divorce was not an accepted practice, no matter how extenuating the circumstances, though Laurel knew that Heather was very open-minded about such things.

  Brandon Montgomery could give your Mr. Rafferty lessons in the art of arrogance and stubbornness. His twin children—a boy and girl—are adorable, but he’s too mule-headed to see how his
strict regimen has turned them into sullen little people who crave their father’s love and affection.

  I have just nursed them all, including Mr. Montgomery, through a bout of the measles. Remember when you and Rose Elizabeth were covered in them?

  Laurel nodded absently and scratched her arms, remembering only too well. What a misery that had been!

  Mr. Montgomery owns one of the largest newspapers in the city, so I haven’t given up hope that one day I’ll be able to convince him of my abilities as an artist. Though that must remain a secret for the time being.

  For now I must content myself with teaching his children to draw and instructing his Celestial cook in learning to read and write English. Mr. Woo is quite a challenge.

  Rose’s letter arrived shortly after yours, and I must say I am very disappointed in her behavior. The English duke will have his hands full trying to rid himself of Rose. No doubt she’s burrowed into the farm like ticks on a dog. I intend to write her at once.

  I pray your present situation is only temporary and that you’ll be able to find work as an opera singer. I confess that when I try to picture you singing in a saloon, I cannot.

  Laurel glanced at the walnut wardrobe filled with gaudy gowns and high-heeled shoes and wondered what her sister would think if she knew the kind of costumes she was required to wear. Heather had always been very conservative in her choice of dress and would no doubt be shocked by Laurel’s attire.

  Thank goodness she’d never told Heather about that sordid incident involving Shooter Davis. If she had, Heather would have been on the first train to Denver in nothing flat to drag Laurel back with her to San Francisco.

  The rest of the letter was filled with motherly advice about eating properly and getting plenty of rest. It was signed with X’s and O’s, and Laurel’s sigh was wistful as she refolded the note and placed it carefully in the drawer of the nightstand.

  So far only one of the Martin sisters had succeeded in fulfilling her dream: Rose Elizabeth still lived on the farm.

  * * *

  Jup spotted Bertha at the kitchen sink, washing dishes and humming her favorite spiritual, and paying no attention to anything going on around her.

  Slowly sneaking up behind his wife, Jup swatted her gently on the backside. “What you up to, woman?” He chuckled as she jumped in fright, then he stepped back to avoid the slap that was sure to follow.

  Clutching wet hands to her heart, Bertha shook her head and glared at her husband. “You crazy old fool, Jupiter Tubbs. I done told you not to sneak up on me like that. I’s goin’ to have one of them heart seizures one of these days. Then where’ll you be?”

  His smile was mischievous. “I guess I’ll just have to content myself with that there machine Mr. Chance done bought hisself. A man could keep mighty satisfied lookin’ at that.”

  “Hmph!” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Mr. Chance got hisself in a lick of trouble with Miss Laurel over it. She was fit to be tied when he brought that contraption in here. And I don’t blame her one bit. Naked women struttin’ their wares for all the world to see. Mm-mm-mm. What’s this world comin’ to?”

  Jup picked up an apple and bit into it. “It ain’t all that bad, honey. Men’s got needs and some don’t have the money to pay for whores.”

  “What’s your excuse, you devil? I keeps you satisfied, but you couldn’t keep from lookin’ at those trashy white women in them pictures.”

  He encircled her waist from behind, pressing his face into her back. “Now, Bertha honey, none of those women can hold a candle to you. They’s too skinny for my taste. I likes a woman with a little meat on her bones.”

  She chuckled. “Well, you gots that. I got me enough meat to stock Mr. Lally’s butcherin’ shop and then some.”

  “What you think’s goin’ to happen if Mr. Chance don’t get rid of that ’scopic thing?” Jup asked. “You don’t think Miss Laurel will up and leave, do you?”

  Lowering herself into a slat-backed chair, Bertha heaved a dispirited sigh. “I likes that little gal a lot, Jup. She’s about the sweetest thing around. Miss Laurel’s gentle and kind. I don’t think she’s got a mean bone in her body. She’d be a good woman for Mr. Chance to hook up with. I prays to the good Lord that he don’t scare her away. She’s prideful, but so’s he. Between the two of ’em they gots more stubbornness than a mess of army mules.”

  “You knows how Mr. Chance feels about women, honey. He’s only interested in whores and the like. I don’t think he’s going to let no ’spectable woman get her clutches in him. Remember when that Sophonia Dusseldorff set her cap for him? Mr. Chance took off for Leadville and didn’t return for a month.”

  Bertha chuckled at the memory. Sophonia Dusseldorff had attached herself to Mr. Chance like a shadow. It seemed that no matter where he went, she was there. If he left the saloon, she followed him. She constantly knocked on the Aurora’s door to inquire about her father’s whereabouts, even though she knew very well where he was—Mr. D. was always at the Aurora—batting her lashes the entire time she talked.

  Mr. Chance feared the woman had some kind of eye disease, she batted her lashes so much.

  When Sophonia had made it known that she wanted Mr. Chance to father her children, he’d found it the opportune time to travel to Leadville on business, giving Sophonia a chance to cool down her ardor or to focus it on some other unsuspecting suitor.

  “Miss Laurel ain’t nothing like Miss Sophonia. She’s smarter, prettier, and she don’t have no mean mama leading her by the nose.

  “And you haven’t seen him hightailin’ it up to Leadville since Miss Laurel’s come to town. In fact, he sticks around here like his feet is glued to the floorboards.”

  Jup rubbed his chin, assessing his wife’s comments, and was about to respond when the door opened and Chance came in. He looked irritated.

  “Have either of you seen Laurel? She went upstairs several hours ago to read a letter from her sister, but she hasn’t come back down yet.”

  Bertha shot her husband an I-told-you-so look. “We ain’t seen her, Mr. Chance. But I heard her tell Miss Flora that she was going to have dinner tonight with an old friend from the Opera House.”

  Chance’s eyes widened. “Do you mean Rooster? Rooster Higgins?”

  “Heard Miss Laurel say she had a hankerin’ to keep company with a genteel sort of man.” Bertha bit the inside of her cheek to keep the obvious lie from showing on her face.

  “Genteel, my ass! Rooster Higgins?”

  “Most likely she’s upstairs primping for her outing with Mr. Rooster. He’s taking her somewheres fancy. How come you never take Miss Laurel nowheres nice, Mr. Chance? Maybe you should, the way you upset her with that nasty thing you done brought in here.”

  “You too, Bertha?” Chance began to crack his knuckles.

  “Just ’cause I work in a saloon don’t mean I’m not a God-fearing, churchgoing woman, Mr. Chance. The good Lord don’t cotton to such goin’s on.”

  Chance looked helplessly at Jupiter, but all he got was a shrug. Jup wasn’t about to contradict anything his wife had to say on the subject of God-fearing.

  “I guess I’ll go find Laurel. Make sure she knows to be back here for tonight’s performance.”

  “I’s sure she knows that, Mr. Chance. Miss Laurel’s a right smart girl.”

  “Well, she can’t be too smart if she’s going out to dinner with that dumb, worthless Rooster Higgins,” Chance retorted, turning on his heel. But before he could escape, Bertha’s parting words halted him in his tracks.

  “Can’t say Mr. Higgins’s the dumb one, Mr. Chance. After all, he’s the one spendin’ the evening with Miss Laurel. And there’s no tellin’ what a fine meal and a glass of wine will do to a woman’s mood. It makes a body mighty relaxed. Yes it do.”

  The door slammed shut, and Bertha and Jup looked at each other and burst out laughing.

  * * *

  Flora Sue rushed into Chance’s office, where he’d been holed up all evening. It was
n’t like Chance to miss an opportunity to gamble, but Jup had explained with a grin that “Mr. Chance couldn’t seem to pay no mind to what he was doing this evening.”

  “Chance, you’d better find someone else to take Laurel’s spot tonight. She’s in no shape to perform.”

  Chance spun around in his chair, a mocking smile on his face. “What’s the matter with her? Did cupid’s arrow pierce her heart and make her too giddy to work?”

  “I hardly think Rooster is Laurel’s type, Chance. Though he is kind’a cute,” she added, smiling thoughtfully to herself, which brought a disgusted snort from Chance.

  “Oh, for chrissake! What’s wrong with her then?”

  “Laurel’s drunk. She’s up in her room half-naked, singing at the top of her lungs, not caring who hears or sees her. I haven’t been able to talk sense to her, and she keeps threatening to crawl out the window and dance on the roof.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Little Miss Prude went and got herself drunk? I can’t believe it. Wait until I get my hands on Rooster.”

  “He’s up there with her now. He feels terrible about the whole thing. Said she only had two small glasses of champagne.”

  Chance catapulted from his chair as though there were springs attached to his bottom. “Rooster’s up in Laurel’s room and she’s half naked?” He’d kill the son of a bitch if he’d so much as laid a finger on her.

  “He’s standing guard at her door.” Flora Sue smiled. “It’s really cute the way he’s so protective of her, like a big brother or something. And Laurel seems equally fond of him. When she kissed his cheek in gratitude, I thought the poor man was going to drop her. Rooster’s not very big, you know.”

  “I really am going to kill the son of a bitch.”

  Fearing the murderous gleam in her employer’s eye, Flora Sue decided that Rooster needed protecting, so she followed Chance up the stairs, practically running to keep up with his longer stride.

  “Rooster!” The name spewed forth like a curse when Chance spied the nervous man pacing in front of Laurel’s closed door. “What the hell’s going on?”