Courting Trouble

by Deeanne Gist

‘‘Doesn’t look like the Willie Waddle stack is doing too well,’’ she said.

  ‘‘Thank goodness. I can’t imagine how such an undignified name made it into the top five.’’

  She smiled. ‘‘There’s no accounting for taste.’’

  He refrained from commenting.

  She wore a navy-and-white shirtwaist with novelty buttons and puff sleeves. Her blond hair had begun to loosen from its pins, but ever since the catastrophe with the escaped mice, she’d curbed her behavior some and, for the most part, conducted herself with total propriety.

  The woman might be unconventional. She might be too outdoorsy. She might be plain looking. But she sure could bring in the customers.

  The stairs creaked and a moment later Mrs. Peterson peeked in. Alarm flashed through him. She’d been looking after baby Mae since his wife’s death and never disturbed him unless it was urgent.

  ‘‘Mrs. Peterson?’’ he said. ‘‘Is everything all right?’’

  The frumpy woman entered from the storage room, carrying Mae in her arms. ‘‘I’m sorry, sir, but I cannot stay late tonight. My grandson turns two today and my daughter’s having me over for the celebration. Had you forgotten?’’

  Relief poured through him. ‘‘Well, yes, I’m afraid I did. But you go ahead, of course.’’ He took Mae and saw Mrs. Peterson out the door.

  The baby kicked her legs and waved her plump arms up and down. At some point in the last seven months, Hamilton had gone from being angry at the child for Eleanor’s death to treasuring her for the link she provided to his late wife.

  ‘‘Oh, Hamilton,’’ Essie said, staring at the baby. ‘‘Look how big she’s gotten.’’

  ‘‘Has she? It’s hard to tell when you see her every day.’’

  Shifting in her chair, Essie opened her arms. ‘‘May I?’’

  ‘‘Certainly.’’ He handed her the baby.

  Essie smiled and stroked Mae’s cheek. The baby turned her head and took Essie’s little finger into her mouth. ‘‘Oh, my goodness. I can see you’re a hearty eater.’’

  Watching Essie coo and cuddle Mae brought an unexpected tightness to Hamilton’s chest. Mrs. Peterson was an old woman. Fifty, at least, maybe older. She looked nothing like Essie when she held the baby.

  Essie looked soft and womanly and, for the first time ever, downright attractive. The tightness in Hamilton shifted slightly into something he’d not felt in quite a while.

  Mae grabbed a piece of Essie’s hair and yanked, freeing it from the pins. Essie laughed and bent over, rubbing noses with his baby.

  ‘‘Ummmmm,’’ she said. ‘‘There’s nothing quite so yummy as a baby’s neck.’’ She nibbled on Mae’s neck, eliciting a squeal of delight from the baby.

  Hamilton swallowed.

  ‘‘She smells like oatmeal,’’ Essie said, then looked up when he didn’t respond.

  Mae pounded and pushed against Essie’s chest, molding the fabric of the shirtwaist to her curves. Tendrils of hair fell across her shoulder and down her back. Her blue eyes, framed with what he now realized were exceedingly long lashes, shone with joy. Dimples framed her mouth.

  Bending down, he placed one hand on the back of her chair and the other on top of the barrel, and kissed her while she clutched his baby in her arms.

  It was a fleeting kiss, the barest of touches, really. But when he pulled back, he pulled back only an inch. Just enough to see her lips, smell her scent, feel her breath.

  He acknowledged his desire, then cupped Essie’s chin and kissed her again. This time with the intention of finding out just exactly what the town spinster was made of.

  Mae began to protest and Essie pulled back. ‘‘Hamilton,’’ she whispered, ‘‘I’m not at all sure this is proper.’’

  He felt a quick pang of guilt. Whether it was due to feeling desire for a woman he didn’t love or for feeling desire at all, he didn’t know.

  ‘‘You’re right,’’ he said, straightening and pushing his glasses up his nose. ‘‘My apologies.’’

  A look of confusion crossed her face. ‘‘Oh, please don’t apologize. Never tell me you’re sorry, Hamilton. Are you?’’

  He lifted Mae into his arms. ‘‘I’m afraid I won’t be able to help you tally these votes tonight, Essie. Perhaps we could do it in the morning?’’

  She rose, concern etched onto her face. ‘‘Are you angry with me?’’

  ‘‘Not at all.’’

  ‘‘You’re acting angry.’’

  ‘‘No, I’m not. You know what I’m like when I’m angry and this is not it.’’

  She tucked her hair back up into her pins. ‘‘I see. Well, then, I’ll just, um, let myself out. Good night, Hamilton. Good night, Mae.’’

  ————

  Essie reread the paragraph for the umpteenth time, but still her thoughts wandered. She glanced at her mother, envying her ability to sit calmly in her parlor chair stitching an ornate S on the corner of her handkerchief, as if she hadn’t a care in the world. As if it were only another ordinary Sunday afternoon.

  ‘‘Is the book not to your liking, dear?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘Where is he, Mother?’’ Essie asked.

  ‘‘I have been thinking,’’ she said. ‘‘I don’t believe I shall plant morning glories along the front verandah next year. Have you noticed how many bees they attract?’’

  Essie looked out the parlor windows, accepting her mother’s none-too-subtle change of topic. ‘‘I like the sound of their humming. It’s soothing.’’

  ‘‘It’s distressing. And a constant reminder you could be stung at any moment. No, I shan’t plant them so close to the house again. Have you any suggestions for their replacements?’’

  Essie sighed. ‘‘No, Mother. I haven’t the slightest idea.’’

  She and Hamilton had announced the snake’s name and the winner of the camera yesterday amidst much fanfare and excitement. By day’s closing they’d had record sales. But Hamilton had been distant and distracted.

  Essie had been beside herself with excitement. He’d kissed her. All that was left was for him to make his declaration to Papa. He’d said nothing of their kiss all day yesterday, nor should he. But she’d relived it a thousand times in her mind.

  This morning she’d taken great care in preparing for church. He’d treated her the same as he always did, greeting her and her family with the friendly politeness he greeted everyone else with. But the entire time, she knew he would be coming to the house today to make his declaration, for he’d told Papa he’d be by before the day was up.

  Turning the page, she surreptitiously smoothed out the pieces of paper she’d inserted into the book. Fredrick Fouty, Charlie Wedick, Winston Peeples, Hamilton Crook.

  She paused, reviewing the assets and drawbacks she’d assigned to Hamilton. If she redid the list today, she’d have so much more to put in his ‘‘asset’’ column.

  ‘‘Did you hear the news at church?’’ Mother asked.

  ‘‘I’m sorry?’’ Essie said, looking up from her musings. ‘‘Did you say news?’’

  ‘‘Yes. I heard that Ewing’s coming home.’’

  ‘‘Ewing? Ewing Wortham?’’

  ‘‘Mm-hmm. He’s to graduate from that fancy Bible college in Nashville in another few months, and our church is considering him as a replacement for Preacher Bogart once he retires.’’

  ‘‘That would be awfully strange, wouldn’t it?’’ Essie shook her head. ‘‘Seems like yesterday he was running around in short pants and pulling the girls’ pigtails. I can’t quite picture him at the pulpit, can you?’’

  The knock was abrupt, causing Essie to jump. In a slow and unruffled manner, her mother set aside her stitching and answered the door.

  ‘‘Good evening, Mr. Crook. Won’t you please come in?’’

  ‘‘Thank you, Mrs. Spreckelmeyer. I was, uh, wondering if I could visit with the judge for a few moments?’’

  The sound of his voice filled Essie. She closed her eyes, wanting
to commit to memory every detail of this life-changing occasion.

  ‘‘Yes, he’s been expecting you. If you would like, Essie is in the parlor and I’m sure she’d be glad to keep you company while I tell him you are here.’’

  Essie stood as he entered.

  He still wore his Sunday clothes, his hat grasped tightly in his hands. ‘‘Miss Spreckelmeyer.’’

  ‘‘Mr. Crook,’’ Essie said. ‘‘Please, sit down.’’

  They both sat while her mother went to get Papa.

  ‘‘Yesterday’s winner was quite the topic at church this morning, I noticed,’’ she said.

  He nodded. ‘‘I’m so glad Willie Waddle was not the winning name. Having a pet snake is bad enough. But having one named Willie Waddle would have been more than I could bear, I’m afraid.’’

  ‘‘Well, Colonel is a grand name, I think.’’

  ‘‘Yes. Yes, I agree.’’ His gaze caught, then narrowed on her book. ‘‘Is that one of Mrs. Lockhart’s novels?’’

  Essie sighed and placed the closed book on the table beside her. ‘‘I’m afraid it is. She’s foisted it on me, insisting I read it. I have been trying for an hour to get past the first few pages but haven’t had much luck.’’

  ‘‘I should hope not.’’

  Silence.

  ‘‘How is Mae today?’’

  He smiled. ‘‘Fine. Just fine. She’s such a good baby, you know.’’

  Essie returned his smile. ‘‘She’s lovely, Hamilton. Very much like you.’’

  His eyes widened and Essie could have ripped her tongue out. Oh, where was Mother? ‘‘May I get you something to drink? Some lemonade, perhaps?’’

  ‘‘Yes, please. If it’s no trouble.’’

  She hurried from the room and with fumbling fingers poured the lemonade. Upon her return, she found Hamilton studying Mrs. Lockhart’s novel. She froze, tray in hand.

  Hamilton snapped the book shut, the edges of her personal papers peeking out. ‘‘I must admit, it has been very interesting reading after all.’’

  ‘‘Hamilton,’’ she said, placing the tray on a nearby cart. ‘‘Let me explain.’’

  ‘‘Mr. Crook?’’

  They both started at Mother’s beckoning.

  ‘‘Judge Spreckelmeyer will see you now. Won’t you come this way?’’

  Essie placed a hand on his arm. ‘‘Wait—’’

  He shook off her hand, his eyes frosty and distant. Mother glanced between the two of them before escorting him out, their footsteps echoing down the hall.

  Moments later her mother returned to her chair and gave Essie a 73 brief, questioning look before plying her needle.

  Essie picked up the book. Her hands shook so badly, she immediately sat and rested the novel upon her lap. The clock chimed the quarter hour, then the half hour.

  Her father’s door opened.

  ‘‘Thank you so much for seeing me, Judge.’’

  ‘‘Anytime, Crook. Anytime. Good day, now.’’

  ‘‘Good day to you, too, sir. And thank you.’’

  The front door opened and closed. The sound of Hamilton bouncing down the porch steps reached the ears of those in the parlor. When all was silent, Papa stepped into the room.

  Mother lowered her stitching. Essie clutched her book.

  He looked first at Mother, then at her. ‘‘He asked if the Slap Out could be granted a license to act as a post office.’’

  Essie waited, but he said nothing more. ‘‘Is that all he asked for, Papa?’’

  His entire face showed his distress. ‘‘I’m sorry.’’

  ‘‘A post office,’’ Essie repeated. ‘‘Well. Will you give it to him?’’

  ‘‘It’s not my decision, ultimately, but I agreed to initiate the paper work and to give him a recommendation to the state.’’

  She nodded. ‘‘Good. That’s . . . why, it’s wonderful news. I know he’s thrilled. Thank you, Papa.’’

  ‘‘Squirt,’’ he whispered.

  But she’d already left the room.

  ————

  ‘‘I’m going up to market in Dallas for a few days,’’ Hamilton said. ‘‘Do you think you can handle things while I’m gone?’’

  Essie paused before slipping a bolt of fabric onto the shelf. ‘‘Of course. When were you thinking of leaving?’’

  ‘‘Right now.’’

  ‘‘Right now! But . . . but what about Mae?’’

  ‘‘Mrs. Peterson has agreed to stay with her while I’m gone. I’ve already sent my trunk to the station.’’

  ‘‘Oh.’’ Essie looked around the store, trying to get her bearings. Since their incident in the parlor, she hadn’t known quite what to do or say. He’d been completely unapproachable, either barking at her or ignoring her.

  ‘‘Hamilton, about yesterday—’’

  ‘‘I won’t be away for more than two or three days and will be back before Saturday, in any event.’’

  ‘‘I see.’’ She straightened a stack of handkerchiefs on the table.

  ‘‘Well, good-bye, then.’’ He pushed his glasses up.

  ‘‘Good-bye, Hamilton. Godspeed.’’

  ————

  ES: DELAYED STOP BE BACK MONDAY STOP HAVE BIG SURPRISE STOP HC

  Essie pressed the telegram against her heart. Absence really did make the heart grow fonder. She slipped the telegram back into the envelope and placed it in her apron pocket.

  She’d never been sent a telegram before. It was heady, receiving such a thing. And he wasn’t mad anymore. Was even going to bring her a surprise to make up for their little misunderstanding.

  She raised the shade and propped open the door to the Slap Out.

  ————

  Essie held the mouse catcher high over her head, gently twirling it in a circular motion. Each boy crowding around her had placed his name in the black bowl at the end of the rod.

  ‘‘Mr. Vandervoort?’’ Essie asked. ‘‘Would you like to do the honors?’’

  He looked up from the checkerboard. ‘‘Why, shore, Miss Essie.’’ Standing, he hitched up his trousers and looked the group over. ‘‘All these fellas brought in a mouse?’’

  ‘‘That’s right. You pick a name from the bowl, and that’s who gets to feed Colonel.’’

  Vandervoort raised his hand and fished inside the bowl.

  ‘‘Essie! What in the blue blazes are you doing?’’

  Essie jumped. Vandervoort jumped. The children jumped.

  ‘‘Hamilton! You’re home!’’

  He strode to her, his hair mussed, his complexion windburned, his eyes furious. He snatched the mouse catcher out of her hand, spilling a couple of names from its bowl.

  She had no idea what he was angry about and she didn’t care. She was so very glad to see him. ‘‘Mr. Vandervoort?’’ she said, never taking her eyes off Hamilton. ‘‘Whose name did you draw?’’

  ‘‘Lawrence’s.’’

  She turned her attention to Lawrence. He was about six years of age and from one of the better families in town. ‘‘Congratulations, Lawrence. You won! Would you like me to show you how to feed Colonel?’’

  ‘‘He will have to wait,’’ Hamilton said. ‘‘I must see you in the back.’’

  She smiled. It was so good to have him home. ‘‘Of course.’’ She glanced at Lawrence. ‘‘I’ll return in just a moment.’’

  Hamilton grasped her arm and propelled her to the storage room. As soon as they made it through the curtain, he spun her around.

  ‘‘What’s the matter?’’ she asked.

  He shoved the mouse catcher toward her. ‘‘Hold this.’’

  She took it.

  ‘‘Don’t move.’’

  He disappeared into the store and then returned with the catalog in hand. He slammed it onto a barrel. ‘‘Page two hundred thirty-one,’’ he said, then swept back into the store.

  Frowning, she put down the mouse catcher and turned to page 231 in the catalog. Strewn across the top of t
he page in large, bold letters were the words: THE PRINCESS BUST DEVELOPER AND BUST CREAM.

  She touched her hand to her lips, quickly skimming the advertisement. A drawing of the mouse catcher accompanied a lengthy explanation of the product. A new scientific help to nature . . . will produce desired result . . . comes in two sizes . . .

  She moved her attention to the second half of the page. BUST CREAM . . . delightful cream preparation . . . forms just the right formula for wasted tissues . . . greatest toilet requisite ever offered . . .

  She closed her eyes. Mortified. It could not be. Oh, how would she ever face him again? Any of them. But, no, the others didn’t know what it was, either. Why, they had even wanted to order some.

  What a scandal that would have been if those old-timers had bought bust developers and started chasing mice all over town with them. Choking, she opened her eyes and picked up the developer, examining it. She placed it over herself, then jerked it away, embarrassed. Horrified. Fascinated.

  Did it actually work? Who had ordered it? And why had the customer never picked it up? She quickly did a mental count of the women in town, but she couldn’t imagine anyone ordering such a ridiculous thing. She slipped it back up on the top shelf.

  Nothing in all her born days had prepared her for how to handle a situation such as this. But Hamilton was home, and he had a surprise for her. And nothing was going to keep her from that surprise— not even his understandable anger about her innocent mistake.

  She stepped out from behind the curtain. Hamilton was waiting on a petite woman Essie had never seen before. He glanced up and turned a startling shade of red. She felt her own skin flush.

  He excused himself and headed toward her. A surge of excitement shot through her. She’d seen married couples share moments such as this. Communicating with each other across a room and at a level that no one else could match.

  As embarrassed as she was, she could not help but enjoy the thrill of sharing this intimate moment with him. He stopped in front of her, shielding her from the view of others.

  ‘‘I don’t know what to say, Hamilton. I’m horrified.’’

  ‘‘You didn’t know.’’

  ‘‘I certainly did not. But whose is it?’’

  Red stained his cheeks again. ‘‘The order was placed without my knowledge. It arrived after Eleanor passed, and I had no way of discovering whose it was.’’