by Deeanne Gist
‘‘What I’m trying to say is, if you think you can no longer marry because of what happened between you and that young man, then I think you will find that is not the case.’’
‘‘Oh, Mother,’’ Essie said. ‘‘What you and Papa believe about such things means nothing. It is what the man in question believes that is at issue. And I would venture to guess, no man wants used goods. Besides, I cannot credit any man wanting me, chaste or no.’’
‘‘I have complete faith that God has someone for you.’’
Essie rolled her eyes. ‘‘Are you quite through?’’
‘‘You do not have to give up your zest for life,’’ Mother said, leaning forward. ‘‘You needn’t give up your hats, either, simply because you made a mistake.’’
‘‘Perhaps I want to give those things up. Perhaps I am tired of adventure and extravagant hats and wild living. It has brought me nothing but ridicule and scorn. I cannot believe that you, of all people, are trying to discourage me from living decorously.’’
‘‘Oh, Essie. I am merely pointing out that to try and mold yourself into some image the town has of a ‘proper woman’ is no way to experience God’s grace. You have made a mistake. Well, it wasn’t the first and it certainly won’t be the last.’’
‘‘That’s not the way you raised me. Why the sudden change of heart?’’
‘‘Maybe I’ve come to realize that, under the circumstances, riding bicycles and sliding down banisters are not really worth worrying over.’’
‘‘Well, it doesn’t matter anyway,’’ Essie said. ‘‘My new life of works and quiet living will please God. No more mistakes for me.’’
The sun edged closer, teasing the hem of Essie’s gown.
‘‘You cannot make yourself righteous by simply changing your behavior,’’ Mother replied.
Essie stiffened. ‘‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.’’
‘‘What I mean is that when Christ died on that cross, He took your sin upon himself. The very one you committed with Mr. Currington. As well as all the ones you have committed in the past and will commit in the future.’’
Cracking another pecan, Essie stuffed down the lump rising in her throat.
‘‘Have you so little appreciation for His sacrifice that you would fling it back in His face by trying to earn your way to heaven?’’ Mother rose.
Essie’s fingers stilled.
‘‘Tell me this, dear. What good is God’s mercy if we never have need of it?’’
She reentered the house, leaving Essie alone. Her hands lay still. A half-shelled pecan rolled from her fingertips and clattered onto the porch. The sun slowly climbed up her skirt and onto her lap, blessing her with warmth for the first time in a long, long while.
————
Buggies filled the roads. Single buggies, double rigs, and even some ‘‘Hug-Me-Tight’’ carriages with barely enough room for two. Horses of all kinds pranced through the streets, kicking up dust as they clip-clopped amongst the throng.
A giant tent had been staked out on Ninth Street. Beneath its shelter were rows of tables and booths selling every kind of goods imaginable. Children pulled taffy. Women circled around quilts. Men bet on the horse race that was to be run later in the day.
Mr. Lyman had parked his old wagon next to the tent, the perfume from his spicy chili pervading the air. He stirred his concoction in a large iron cauldron over charcoal coals. Bowls of chili were five cents each with an added bonus of all the crackers you could eat for free. His dog, Wolf, lay at his master’s feet, never leaving his side.
A rope high up in the air stretched taut, spanning the street between the balconies of Keber & Cobb’s Confectionery and Castle’s Drug Store. A mule-drawn street car gave its ‘‘last call’’ warning for potential riders.
The excitement of the atmosphere began to draw Essie in. She wore a dark wool skirt and white shirtwaist beneath her simple cloth cape and velvet collar. Her hat was dark and modest.
When she’d returned to her room this morning, two of the sacks she’d discarded earlier leaned against her bed. Inside were the hats she’d told Mother to give away. She assumed Mother had given the missing third sack to charity.
Essie wove through the aisles underneath the tent, looking for the table where she was to work. The ladies from her church had set up a baked-goods booth, and Essie was to help man it for a few hours. Just like she’d told God she would. Only, He hadn’t delivered His end of the bargain.
She passed Mr. Weidmann’s booth where people lined up to buy fruitcake. She waved to him, but he was so mobbed with customers, he didn’t see her.
At long last, she found her table. Sitting behind it was Katherine Crook. Hamilton’s beloved wife. She wore an exquisite gown of broadtail fur and moiré combined in an intricate design. A high collar of chinchilla was surrounded by a lower collar of Russian sable, both framing her delicate face.
Her hat, however, did not live up to the gown’s requirements. Instead, the flat design with very little ornamentation appeared incongruous with the rest of her costume. Still, Essie’s ready-mades were pauper’s fare next to hers.
‘‘Well, hello,’’ Essie said.
‘‘Miss Spreckelmeyer.’’ Her tone was polite but cool.
‘‘I’m supposed to help sell at this booth. Are you coming or going?’’ Essie asked, circling behind the table.
‘‘I just arrived. I didn’t know you were to be working with me. I’d heard you were, um, indisposed.’’
‘‘Had you? How very strange.’’ Essie looked over the goods on the table and began to rearrange them.
‘‘What are you doing?’’
‘‘I’m grouping the goods so that they will be more pleasing to the eye and so they will make more sense to the customer.’’ She put the meringue pies on one end and the frosted cakes on the other.
‘‘You’d best take note, my dear,’’ Hamilton said, stepping up to the table. ‘‘Essie has quite a knack for sales. I’ve no doubt the hours she works will be the most profitable for the booth.’’
Katherine clicked her tongue. ‘‘Honestly. You say the most ridiculous things sometimes.’’
Essie looked up in surprise. ‘‘Hamilton. My goodness. How are you?’’
A healthy color tinged his round cheeks, no doubt from the brisk weather. There was nothing cool about his gaze, though. It conveyed warmth and kindness. She smiled in response.
His square spectacles had slid down his nose so that their upper rims divided his irises in half. She longed to push them back up so she could see his brown eyes without interference.
He tipped the brim of his derby. ‘‘You haven’t stopped by the Slap Out in ages. Haven’t you missed me, Essie? I’ve certainly missed you.’’
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Katherine stiffen. Flustered, Essie didn’t know how to respond. For the truth was, she hadn’t missed him at all.
chapter NINETEEN
HAMILTON DRANK IN the sight of Essie. There was something different about her. She was more reserved. More circumspect. More . . . refined.
He’d have expected her to wear her most outrageous hat to a festival such as this. Yet she wore a very understated hat and a somber costume.
She had greeted him with eloquence instead of exuberance. She rearranged the items on the table in a slow, deliberate manner. He liked this new Essie. He liked her very much.
‘‘What has kept you away?’’ he asked.
‘‘I’ve been . . . busy.’’
‘‘Drilling oil wells?’’
‘‘Not anymore. Papa decided it wasn’t proper and has banned me from them.’’
‘‘Really?’’ Katherine said. ‘‘That’s not quite how I heard it.’’
Essie glanced at her, but Katherine busied herself placing oatmeal cookies in a tin container.
She’d been a model wife, his Katherine, and he loved her to distraction. But he discovered she’d developed a penchant for gossiping. She had an uncann
y ability to pluck out two completely unrelated events and connect them together in the most absurd fashion.
Take Essie, for example. Her father’s endorsement of her role in his new oil venture had Katherine’s tongue twanging. Then Jeremy would come to the store and inadvertently mention something that intimated a relationship brewed between Essie and the cowboy who worked for Sullivan Oil—which was ridiculous, of course. Hamilton had seen for himself the type of women Currington had favored, though he couldn’t very well tell Katherine that.
When the drifter left town unexpectedly and the judge reversed his decision to let Essie work in the oil field, Katherine decided it was because Essie and Currington had been involved in a licentious relationship.
Hamilton had never heard of anything so preposterous. And the more he tried to defend Essie’s honor, the more adamantly his wife justified her theory. It had progressed to the point where he wasn’t sure if Katherine was able to separate the truth from whatever fantasy she had concocted within her mind.
‘‘Mrs. Lockhart misses you,’’ he said.
‘‘I miss her, too.’’
‘‘Well,’’ Katherine said, ‘‘I can’t imagine what you were thinking, Miss Spreckelmeyer, to perpetuate the decline of a churchgoing woman. Were it up to me, I’d refuse to order those scandalous books she’s so attached to.’’
Hamilton frowned. ‘‘But it isn’t up to you, is it, my dear? It’s up to me.’’
Essie looked between the two of them. ‘‘You must admit, Hamilton, they are shameful. Mrs. Crook is right about that.’’
Katherine pulled back, causing her chin to collapse into folds against her collar. ‘‘And just how would you know that?’’
A hint of a smile touched Essie’s lips. ‘‘She insisted I read one. Clarabel’s Love Story, I believe it was. Quite shocking.’’
Gasping, Katherine sent him an I-told-you-so look.
He suppressed a groan and did what he could to repair the damage. ‘‘That was very businesslike of you, Essie. I can’t seem to impress upon Katherine the value of familiarizing herself with the items we carry. Yet you were always so good at that.’’
‘‘Oh, nonsense,’’ Essie said. ‘‘I read that book long after I quit working at the Slap Out. And I’m sure the customers just love Mrs. Crook.’’ She stayed Katherine’s hand. ‘‘You might want to put those pralines next to the divinities. Don’t you think it would be more attractive that way?’’
Katherine slammed the pralines back down where she’d had them, breaking one in half. Essie gave her a confused look.
‘‘Well,’’ Hamilton said, ‘‘it was good to see you again.’’ He turned to Katherine. ‘‘I’ll come back for you after a while.’’ He held her gaze for a moment, telegraphing his thoughts: And be nice.
She huffed and turned her back.
————
Essie had forgotten how much she enjoyed selling things. Didn’t matter if it was a bag of nails or a piece of cake. She loved the challenge. And the people. And the competition.
‘‘Mr. Vandervoort!’’ she exclaimed. ‘‘How in the world are you?’’
The old nester sauntered up to the table, then coughed up and swallowed an accumulation of phlegm. ‘‘Well, Miss Essie, things are pretty dull in the Slap Out without ya. No snakes, no mice—’’ he leaned forward with a teasing light in his eyes and whispered, ‘‘—and no ‘mouse catchers.’ ’’
Essie caught her breath.
He winked, then said more loudly, ‘‘Yep. I surely did want me one o’ them mouse catchers. But Hamilton wouldn’t sell me one to save his life.’’
She bit her lip, but not before a giggle escaped.
‘‘What?’’ Mrs. Crook said. ‘‘You’re in need of a mouse catcher, Mr. Vandervoort?’’
Patting his chest, he chuckled. ‘‘Oh, I don’t know that I’m in need o’ one, exactly. But I shore would like another gander at it. That Hamilton won’t let me have so much as a peek.’’
‘‘You mean, we have what you want and he won’t sell it to you?’’
‘‘He has his reasons,’’ Mr. Vandervoort said, rocking back and forth on his feet.
‘‘Well, perhaps I could help you the next—’’
‘‘Can I interest you in some tutti-frutti?’’ Essie interrupted, picking up a square and offering it to him. ‘‘Or perhaps some penuche? Mrs. Whiteselle made it, you know.’’
‘‘Excuse me, Miss Spreckelmeyer,’’ Katherine said. ‘‘I believe Mr. Vandervoort and I were in the middle of a transaction.’’ She smiled at him.
‘‘It don’t matter none,’’ he said. ‘‘I think it already sold, actually.’’
‘‘No,’’ Essie said under her breath.
He nodded. ‘‘You didn’t know? Well, shoot. I was hopin’ you could tell me who the lucky owner was. I’d surely like to know.’’
Covering her mouth with her hand, she couldn’t suppress her amusement. ‘‘That is too bad of you, Mr. Vandervoort. For shame.’’
He guffawed. ‘‘Ah, Miss Essie. You gotta come have a cup o’ coffee with me and the boys. We still talk about the day that cowboy came into town and wound you up so tight with the snake that you ended up dropping all those mice.’’
Mirth fell from her as quickly as if she’d been doused with a bucket of cold water. ‘‘I didn’t drop the mice.’’
‘‘Well, maybe you didn’t. But that feller shore did tangle you up.’’ He picked up a square of tutti-frutti and handed her two pennies. ‘‘We’ll see ya later.’’
She watched him walk away, images of that day flashing through her mind.
‘‘They do talk about it quite often,’’ Mrs. Crook said. ‘‘Seems it was the first time they ever saw the cat capture your tongue.’’
Essie dropped the pennies into a cigar box. She had no idea anyone else had been watching the two of them. But of course it made sense that they would have been the center of attention. Adam had not only been a stranger, but he’d been a gorgeous stranger. Every man and woman in the place would have tracked his every move.
He wasn’t so perfect now, though. He had a crooked nose. She wished they all could have seen that.
‘‘It was the same man who worked on your father’s oil rig. A Mr. Currington, I believe?’’
Nodding politely, Essie scanned the crowd for a potential customer.
‘‘I do declare, he turned every girl’s head in town. But it was evidently young Shirley Bunting who claimed to have captured his heart.’’
Essie whipped her head around. ‘‘What makes you think that?’’
A knowing smile touched Katherine’s face. ‘‘Hadn’t you heard? He was to escort her to this festival. She purchased fabric to make an autumn jacket in honor of the occasion. That’s how I know.’’
Essie didn’t believe it. She would have heard something. But she’d been so absorbed in her own little dreamworld that she hadn’t noticed much of anything since Adam began his seduction of her.
‘‘You’re a bit pale, dear. Are you all right?’’ A look of realization came over Katherine. ‘‘Oh no. You didn’t have . . . feelings for him, did you?’’
Essie forced herself to take slow, deep breaths. ‘‘No, no. Of course not. Whatever gave you such an impression?’’
Katherine cocked her head. ‘‘Well, it only makes sense, him being so handsome and all. And the two of you working so close together right after Hamilton jilted you.’’
Essie stiffened. ‘‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’’
‘‘No need to get defensive, dear. Hamilton told me all about how you chased after him, no matter how many times he tried to discourage you.’’
Mortified, she couldn’t believe he had shared such a thing with Katherine. A spurt of anger shot through her.
She imagined them sharing other intimacies, then talking about her, laughing as they discussed what a pathetic old maid she was. The fragile palisade she’d erected around her heart began to crumble.
‘‘Mr. Currington left town rather quickly, as you well know.’’ Katherine looked left and right, then leaned close. ‘‘The night he left, he came knocking on our back door to settle up his accounts. There had been some trouble. Woman trouble. And the sheriff was running him out of town.’’
Essie felt like an exposed possum caught in the open while a hunter took aim with his shotgun. Too bad she couldn’t ‘‘play dead.’’
‘‘Unbeknownst to Hamilton, I had come down the stairs in my stocking feet to make sure all was well. I stopped when I heard the men’s voices.’’ She licked her lips, warming up to her story. ‘‘I could tell Hamilton was angry. He’d never much liked Mr. Currington, you know.’’
‘‘No,’’ Essie said. ‘‘I hadn’t realized that.’’
‘‘Yes, well. He asked who the woman was, but all Mr. Currington said was that she wasn’t the kind you pay for. Nor was she the kind you’d want to marry. Too old, he said.’’
Breathing grew difficult. The tent, the crowd, the tables began to close in on her. She needed to get out. She needed air.
‘‘At first I thought it was Shirley, but she’s just a young little thing. I wonder who it could be?’’ Katherine gave Essie a penetrating stare. ‘‘Whoever it was, he was clearly using her to slake his thirst for pleasure. Why else would a man like that toy with an older woman?’’
She knew. This woman knew Essie’s secret. Or at the very least, she strongly suspected. If Essie were to run, all would be confirmed.
‘‘Poor Shirley,’’ Essie managed. ‘‘She must be devastated.’’
Katherine chuckled. ‘‘Hardly.’’ She indicated someone with a nod of her head.
Essie turned. Shirley Bunting, in a form-fitting jacket of satin merveilleux shot in copper shades, walked by with an entourage of men trying to gain her favor. The young woman laughed and teased and flirted.
‘‘Well,’’ Essie said, hearing her voice tremble and hoping Katherine didn’t notice. ‘‘I’m so relieved. It would have been tragic for her to have found out Mr. Currington was stringing her along while pursuing interests elsewhere.’’
