by Deeanne Gist
Mrs. Lockhart punctuated her demand with a thump of her cane, sending a ripple up her arm, across her shoulders, and through her sagging middle.
Hamilton forced a polite smile. ‘‘I will look yet again, ma’am. Do you happen to remember the title of the work?’’
‘‘Certainly. Don’t you think I’d remember what volume I ordered?’’ The elderly woman pinched her lips together revealing a spider web of creases and folds around her mouth. ‘‘Honestly. I detest dealing with such simplemindedness. When is Miss Spreckelmeyer to return?’’
‘‘As I said earlier, she’s taken ill today. I expect her to return as soon as she is able.’’
‘‘Well, it can’t be soon enough. Now hurry it up, young man. Miss Spreckelmeyer would have had the book all wrapped up and tied with string by now.’’
‘‘The title, Mrs. Lockhart. It would be helpful to know the title.’’
‘‘I told you that already. Will you please pay attention. It is a work by Mrs. Bertha Clay entitled Clarabel’s Love Story.’’
‘‘Yes, ma’am. If you will excuse me, I’ll check once more in the back.’’
He allowed a scowl to cross his face the moment he stepped through the curtained partition. Clarabel’s Love Story. What in heaven’s name did that old boiler want with a love story and where in the blazes would Essie have put it?
He’d already checked all the lower shelves and he couldn’t imagine it being on any of the high ones. Still, he upended an empty fruit crate and climbed on top to better see the upper shelves. He shoved aside lantern holders, trunk locks, and carving tools, awakening dust motes long in hibernation, then picked through sulphur candles, butter molds, and nursery-bottle fittings.
As he searched, his hand brushed against a familiar eight-inch rod attached to the bottom of a black suctioning device shaped like a bowl. Much to his surprise, it had arrived in the post mere days after his wife’s passing. The order had been of such a delicate nature, his wife had not even told him of it.
When he’d first unpacked the contraption, he’d researched it in his catalog. The advertisement claimed that this ‘‘bust developer’’ would build up and fill out shrunken and undeveloped tissue and form a rounded, plump, and perfectly shaped bust. In the weeks following its arrival, he’d eyed most every woman in town, speculating about which mystery lady in Corsicana, Texas, had decided to compensate for her lack of that greatest charm, a bosom. But the owner of the enhancer had never come forward to claim her purchase, and it had been sitting on this shelf ever since. He smirked at the memory, then returned it to its place on the shelf and continued his search for Mrs. Lockhart’s novel.
The bell on the door jingled and voices in the store increased in volume. Saturday was his busiest day of the week. He couldn’t waste any more time on the book. He returned to the front and told Mrs. Lockhart she would have to come back Monday.
‘‘Well,’’ she said. ‘‘I had planned to fill an order today, but perhaps I should go to the Feed Store instead. Mr. Pickens always knows where his inventory is.’’
‘‘My sincerest apologies. From now on I will be sure to coordinate the location of all my stock so that both Miss Spreckelmeyer and I can find it at a moment’s notice.’’
Through round spectacles, she scrutinized him from the part in his hair to the tips of his boots. ‘‘See that you do. I shall be back first thing Monday morning.’’
The rest of the afternoon went much the same. Miss Lizzie wanted a woman’s opinion on what color would suit her best. She went down the street for Mrs. Pickens’ advice—and cloth.
At just past three, Preacher Bogart arrived wanting Miss Spreckelmeyer to describe to his wife the new baptismal pants Essie had mentioned. They evidently had boots sewn right onto them, like wading pants except nicer. Hamilton looked them up in the special-orders catalog but could find no such thing. The Bogarts went to the Feed Store to see if Mrs. Pickens had ever heard of them.
An hour later, Mr. Bunting wanted Miss Spreckelmeyer’s advice on whether to buy his wife a brooch pin or a hair charm for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Hamilton gave his opinion, but Mr. Bunting decided to ask Mrs. Pickens.
Even Vandervoort and his cronies were out of sorts. Miss Spreckelmeyer had promised to play the winner of their checkers match, for none of them had yet beat her. They grumbled over their game until closing, then left without saying good-bye.
By the time Hamilton locked the door, he’d made fewer sales for the day than he had in months. Especially for a Saturday. He pulled down the shade on his front door. Perhaps he should consider what Miss Spreckelmeyer was offering him. She was a bit on the muscular side, a bit on the bossy side, and a bit on the eccentric side, but she certainly knew how to close a sale.
—————
Essie arrived at the store Monday morning at her normal time. Her ailment had lasted only a day, leaving Sunday for her to regain her strength and her anticipation. She’d taken great care with her toilet this morning, donning the clothes, collar, and cuffs she’d planned to wear Saturday and taking extra care with her hair.
Hamilton opened the back door. ‘‘Essie,’’ he said. ‘‘I’m so glad to see you.’’
She stood as still as a hunter who had his prize quarry in range. Hamilton had used her given name. And in the very next breath, all but said he’d missed her.
He stepped back, widening the door. ‘‘How are you feeling?’’
‘‘Much better. Thank you.’’ She crossed the threshold and plucked her apron from the wall hook. ‘‘I’m so sorry about Saturday. How did it go?’’
But he didn’t answer and she looked up. Her hands hesitated. She had been blindly tying the bow of her apron behind her, causing her shirtwaist to temporarily tighten across her chest.
His gaze rested at the very place her buttons strained. She drew a breath, startled. Never before had he made his interest so clear.
She quickly finished her bow and fluffed her apron, reveling in the rapid tempo of her pulse.
‘‘Everything was all wrong without you,’’ he said, his voice sinking into an intimate register. ‘‘The customers were disconcerted. The coffee came out too strong. The fancy-goods department was in shambles before noon. And,’’ he took a deep breath, ‘‘sales were down.’’
In the windowless storage room the shadows were deep and the corners dark. If she were imagining this moment, it would be the perfect time for him to take her into his arms. But she wasn’t imagining it and she wasn’t quite sure how to encourage him.
‘‘It’s all right,’’ she said. ‘‘I hardly ever get sick and I’ll have everything fixed up quicker than a hen on a hot griddle.’’
Yet she didn’t move, knowing that the moment she did, the mood would be broken.
He took a thorough survey of her person. ‘‘You’re a passable-looking woman, Miss Spreckelmeyer.’’
‘‘Essie,’’ she said, barely above a whisper. ‘‘Please, call me Essie.’’
—————
Essie’s mother had always told her not to stare at a man. ‘‘How can he get a good look at you if you’re always staring at him?’’ she would say. Remembering this advice, she was careful to keep her gaze on anything but Hamilton.
Yet she’d felt his regard all day, whether she was helping customers, weighing items, or wrapping purchases. When he asked her to clean out and organize the storage room, she put it off as long as possible, not wanting to be out of sight or out of mind.
Instead, she settled down for a match of checkers with Mr. Owen, while Misters Vandervoort, Jenkins, and Richie gathered round to offer advice to their friend. They were playing the best of five games. Owen was down by two.
‘‘You be red this time,’’ he said.
She began placing her pieces on the dark squares closest to her.
‘‘What’d the judge think of last month’s meeting, Miss Spreckelmeyer?’’ Mr. Richie asked.
‘‘Of Corsicana Commercial Club?’
’ she asked, putting the last checker in place. ‘‘He was pleased the members voted in favor of tapping some shallow artesian wells. Otherwise, we would continue to be a one-staple community with no hopes of bringing in new businesses.’’
‘‘Anything happen so far?’’
Essie moved between her own pieces, edging closer to Mr. Owen’s with each turn. ‘‘They put together a water-development company and took bids from various contractors.’’
‘‘What’d they say?’’
‘‘That three wells will give us a flow of 750 thousand gallons of water a day.’’
Mr. Jenkins whistled.
‘‘Better not do that, Lafoon,’’ Mr. Vandervoort warned.
Mr. Owen froze, his big, pudgy fingers resting on a black disk.
‘‘She wants you to jump that, ’cause soon as you do you’ll be in a worse spot than you are now.’’
‘‘Well, if I don’t, I’ll lose three pieces.’’
Vandervoort shrugged. ‘‘Do what ya want, then.’’
Owen jumped Essie’s piece, opening the lane to his king row. She moved that direction.
‘‘How they gonna get that much water to flow up through them wells?’’ Mr. Richie asked.
‘‘Papa said they wouldn’t need any pumping installations at all. Said there is enough natural pressure to fill standpipes and storage tanks. Crown, please, Mr. Owen.’’
Scowling, he crowned her checker. ‘‘What about the seed house? Any word on what the town’s supposed to do with that vacant monstrosity now that Mr. Neblett’s gone belly up?’’
‘‘No,’’ she sighed. ‘‘I’m afraid there was no news on that front.’’
A few minutes later, she won the match.
‘‘That’s it,’’ Owen said. ‘‘I’m goin’ out front to whittle awhile. Y’all comin’?’’
The men shuffled outside. She put away the checkers, wiped off the board, then glanced up to find Hamilton staring at her from his desk chair.
‘‘You ought to let them win once in a while,’’ he said.
‘‘I’ve tried, but then we get to talking and I forget to make bad moves.’’
He raised his hands above his head, arching his back.
‘‘Tired?’’ she asked.
‘‘A little.’’
‘‘Can I get you some coffee?’’
‘‘That sounds good.’’
She chose a black enamel cup from those hanging beside the stove, knowing it was Hamilton’s favorite. She handed it to him, basking in her intimate familiarity with his likes and dislikes.
‘‘Thank you,’’ he said, taking a sip.
‘‘You’re welcome.’’
The hum of conversation from the front porch filtered through the walls. His foot dislodged a burlap bag leaning against his desk, causing the beans inside to shift and resettle.
Rolling back his chair, he slowly pushed himself to his feet. ‘‘Why haven’t you ever married, Essie?’’
Blood rushed to her cheeks. No one ever asked me. But she couldn’t say that. ‘‘The right fellow never did come along, I guess.’’
Every impulse she had urged her to close the gap between them. She stayed where she was.
‘‘You look nice today,’’ he said. ‘‘Tidy. Did you do something different?’’
Yes. Yes, I did. ‘‘No. Just the same ol’ me, I guess.’’
The town cat’s meow made them both jump.
Hamilton frowned. Essie smiled.
‘‘Cat!’’ she said. ‘‘What are you doing in here?’’
She scooped up the short-haired, scrawny animal and rubbed her nose against its neck. ‘‘You looking for some attention?’’
Hamilton stared at Cat, the color draining from his face.
‘‘What is it?’’ she asked.
He took a hasty step back and plopped down in his chair. ‘‘Nothing. Nothing at all. Did you finish up in the back room?’’
‘‘No. I haven’t even started. I’ll go do that now.’’
‘‘Thank you. And take that . . . that stray with you.’’
————
Essie started with the top shelves, dusting, organizing, wiping down and cataloging while humming ‘‘I Just Started Living.’’ Hamilton had almost made a declaration. Right in the store in the middle of the day when anyone might have walked in.
He hadn’t said anything about talking with her after closing, but she hoped he would. If he didn’t lose his nerve. She smiled. He always seemed so appreciative when she accomplished some task around the store. So she was determined to get as much of the back room done as she possibly could.
Her fingers strayed to a black rubber bowl. Pulling it off the shelf, she discovered it had a long, straight rod attached to its bottom. What in the world?
Was it a stand of some sort? A rain catcher? A candy dish? Whatever the thing was, she wiped it clean, then made a note to herself to ask Hamilton. He’d certainly know.
—————
Hamilton locked the door, pulled down the shade and took a deep breath. He’d studied Essie all day long. She had a strong, symmetrical face, with high cheekbones and bold lines—nothing delicate about it. Her cheeks dimpled when she smiled, her lower lip was fuller than the upper, her blue eyes were a bit too large, and her nose was a bit too thin.
What he couldn’t determine, however, was what kind of shape she had hiding under that skirt. He knew her legs would be long. He just didn’t know how much meat they’d have on them.
He’d seen her calves when she rode her bicycle—shoot, the whole town had seen them and there wasn’t an ounce of extra padding on them.
A woman ought to be soft. Voluptuous. Something a man could cozy up to. Not wiry and hard and muscular.
Oh, she had curves up top. Nothing overflowing, but nothing that would require an enhancer, either. Her stomach, however, was as flat as an iron. Would it be as hard?
He’d almost reached out and touched her today. Just to see.
But the woman already had wedding bells clanging in her head. He’d best not make any advances at all until he was sure. Absolutely sure that he could live the rest of his life with a woman he truly just did not find attractive. He’d managed to tolerate her bossy nature during working hours, but could he do the same every day and every night for the rest of his livelong days?
The thought gave him pause. He knew all about bossy women. His mother had ruled the roost while he was growing up, henpecking her husband and sons until Hamilton could hardly stand it anymore. He’d promised himself he would never, ever marry a mouthy woman.
Essie wasn’t mouthy, exactly, just stubborn. And old. And set in her ways. A man liked to have a young, fresh gal on his arm. One he could shape and mold. One who would make the days go by quick and the nights go by slow. Not a woman who’d be turning gray a few short years after the nuptials.
If his conscience would let him, he’d write a list of all she offered and all she didn’t. But that would be too cold. Too mercenary. Too unforgiving, by half.
He could hear Essie in the back throwing out a bucket of cleaning water. Humming to herself off key. He had perfect pitch and tuned the church organ by ear every Sunday before services. He could not abide an instrument that was so much as an eighth of a step off. Essie was a full half step off.
Maybe he should make a trip up to the wholesalers in Dallas. Get away for a few days. Think through exactly what he wanted to do.
‘‘Hamilton?’’
He turned. She might have been tidy earlier, but she was a mess now. Her blond hair stuck out in tufts, her hands were red from scrubbing, her apron was filthy, her face was smudged.
‘‘Guess it’s time we call it a day,’’ he said.
She clasped her hands in front of her. Waiting. For something. He racked his mind. It wasn’t payday. Wasn’t . . . anything.
‘‘Did you want something?’’ he asked.
She licked her lips. ‘‘Did you?’’
‘�
�No. Not that I can think of.’’
‘‘Oh.’’ She shifted her weight. ‘‘I cleaned up all the top shelves and half of the middle ones.’’
‘‘Excellent.’’
‘‘I guess I’ll finish the rest of them tomorrow.’’
‘‘That’ll be fine.’’
Still she stood there.
He adjusted his glasses. ‘‘Well. Good night, then.’’
She sighed. ‘‘Good night, Hamilton. I’ll see you in the morning.’’
————
Back home in front of the mirror, she pulled the pins from her disheveled hair. The candle on her vanity guttered in the breeze from the open window.
She was losing him. She could feel his hesitation. His doubt. His second-guessing. She had to do something. Fast.
She said her prayers, then climbed into bed. Was it because she got sick? Because she beat Mr. Owen at checkers? Was Hamilton still sore about that bearskin?
Whatever it was, she knew the quickest way to his heart was through his store. She must do something drastic. Something that would bring the town to his store in droves.
chapter FOUR
MORNING DEW DECORATED the lawns of Essie’s neighborhood. Dappled sunlight from the eastern sky splashed onto the shimmering blades butted together like an endless green carpet.
She kept to the road, her strides long and brisk as she headed to the Slap Out, beseeching the Lord to give her a revelation. Some idea, some inspiration that would cultivate customers as numerous as the grass in these yards.
The screams of a child jerked her out of her reverie. Scanning the area, she spotted a young boy and girl in the vacant lot toward the end of the street.
The boy, who couldn’t be more than six or seven, had placed himself between the girl and whatever was frightening them. Arms spread in a protective gesture, he stumbled back. The girl continued to scream and peer around his shoulder.
Lifting her skirts, Essie sprinted to them. As she approached, she recognized Emily Wedick, one of the many Wedick girls, and Harley North, an orphan who lived in the state’s facility just outside of town.
