It Happened at the Fair: A Novel

by Deeanne Gist

  “Indeed.”

  She pointed to little whirling machines sprinkling water over a soft lawn of grass. A fat robin hopped about, playing in the manufactured raindrops. “Look, someone else has invented a sprinkler system too.”

  “So he has.”

  They skirted a circular basin filled with pink and white water lilies releasing sweet perfume and approached the domed facade of the Horticultural Building. On either side of the walk, magnificent fields of crimson, orange, and salmon-colored blooms were sullied with giant pots of stiff, awkward cactuses. They were as tall as two men combined and had short stumpy arms. Their small, yellow star-shaped flowers must have been stuck on by Mother Nature as an afterthought, for they didn’t at all look as if they belonged.

  HORTICULTURAL BUILDING

  Inside, Della came to a complete stop. “Heaven on earth, would you look at that.”

  Pansies. The dainty flowers stretched as far as the eye could see and in every color imaginable, making a vast, scroll-like design. In the center of the rotunda, like a diamond in a most ornate setting, stood a mountain with a collection of tropical plants covering its majestic slope. A trickling waterfall beckoned with a song of freshness.

  “I’ve been practicing my words,” he said.

  She blinked, pulling herself back to the present. They were standing before the most wonderful display of foliage that has ever been seen in the history of the world under one roof and all he could say was he’d practiced his words? She’d have thought a farmer would be moved to tears by such a spectacle.

  “Would you like to quiz me?” he asked.

  She stared at him in disbelief. “Now?”

  “Well, sure. We have a lot to cover, and I don’t want to get caught again at the end of the evening without accomplishing what we set out to. So I figured we could start with a review and move to the smilers or something.”

  She raised a brow. “It’s been one day. Are you telling me you’ve mastered all fifty words in one day?”

  “Well, maybe not all fifty, but a good percentage of them.”

  She wished she’d never agreed to this. She worked nonstop with her students, and though she loved them and her job, by the end of the day she was ready for a break. Especially here at the fair.

  The first week she hadn’t been able to explore a thing because of her ankle. Then these last two, she’d been touring with Hilda and Maxine. The truth was, though, they’d wanted to see exhibits that were at the bottom of her list and to continue to spend money at restaurants when they could acquire boxed suppers from Mrs. Harvell. To make matters worse, the students and other faculty members were their main topics of conversation until Della could hardly wait to escape for the night.

  It didn’t take her long to realize the benefits of having Mr. McNamara act as a guide. Of course, that was before she knew they were both staying at the same boardinghouse.

  Her father, ever concerned about her, had given her a plethora of articles and essays on the dangers a woman might face. To him, knowledge was the most powerful weapon she could wield. He’d have found Mr. McNamara highly suspect.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “Try me.”

  Sighing, she mouthed, School.

  “Pool,” he said.

  Uniform.

  “Humorous.”

  Marigold.

  “Mexico.”

  She lifted a brow.

  He smiled. “How did I do?”

  “I said school, uniform, and marigold.”

  His smile wilted.

  She pointed toward the west side of the building. “There’s an outdoor exhibition of greenhouses and gardens that sounded interesting, so let’s head in that direction first.”

  They walked through endless corridors filled with specimens of fruit, wine, seeds, and garden machinery. Throughout it all, she tried to remember to mouth the pucker words. His recognition much improved until she realized he wasn’t even looking at her. He was filling in the blanks on context clues alone.

  “If you want to become proficient,” she said, “you’re going to have to watch me when I speak.”

  You’d have thought she’d asked him to arm wrestle Paul Bunyan, his expression was so appalled. Still, she could sympathize. Although the displays had become a bit monotonous to her, he was probably so enamored with them, he didn’t want to chance missing something. Perhaps she should take him someplace he’d find less distracting. Someplace a man might not be all that interested in.

  The displays of laces and embroideries in the Woman’s Building might be just the thing or, better yet, the shoe exhibit, with countless varieties and grades of footwear. She smiled. She’d have to look again to see which building housed it.

  A crowd ahead of them gathered around a thirty-foot tower made of California oranges. The intoxicating aroma made her stomach growl.

  TOWER OF ORANGES

  “Look at me,” she said.

  He turned his attention to her, his brown eyes wary.

  How many oranges do you think there are? she mouthed.

  “Did you say, ‘how many oranges’?” he asked.

  “Yes. How many oranges do you think there are?”

  He examined the tower. “I’d guess—”

  “Don’t say it out loud.” She picked up a scrap of paper by a ballot box and handed it to him. “Write your name, address, and guess. If you’re correct, they’ll send you a box of navel oranges.”

  “You mouthed your, you’re, you, and oranges.”

  She smiled. “Very good. I’ll fill out one too.”

  By the time they made it to the outdoor exhibit, the sun had set, its light having been replaced by electric bulbs. She carried on a one-sided dialogue for the most part, continuing to use as many pucker words as possible.

  “I just can’t get over all these plants,” she said. “I’m assuming they’re some kind of exotic spice, but they almost look like weeds, don’t they?”

  When he didn’t repeat the pucker words, she glanced up at him and paused. “Mr. McNamara?” Clasping a portion of his sleeve, she pulled him beneath one of the hanging light bulbs. “Are you, is your, what’s the matter with your eyes? They’re all puffy.”

  He shrugged. “I’m fine.”

  She circled around in front of him, grabbed his lapels, and centered him so she could see better. “My stars and garters, you’re not fine at all. We need to get you to the infirmary right now.”

  “I don’t need an infirmary.”

  She headed toward the exit, then turned when he didn’t follow. “Come on. It’s right around the corner from here.”

  “I know where it is. I went there on opening day to see if your friends had found you.”

  Her lips parted. “You didn’t.”

  “I did.”

  “I’m terribly sorry.”

  “I’ve forgiven you.”

  “Thank you. Now, come on.” She again headed for the exit. “Clearly you’ve been bitten by something. Heaven knows what it could be. No telling what foreign spiders and insects are hiding amidst these plants. I have a sister who swells up like a balloon when she’s stung by a bee. Everything puffs up, her air is cut off, she can’t breathe, and she turns blue.” She charged out the door. “It scares the living—”

  At the sound of the door slamming behind her, she turned. He wasn’t with her. Her pulse rocketed. Had he fainted from lack of air and she’d not even known it? Lifting her skirt, she raced back inside. “Mr. McNamara! Mr. McNamara!”

  “Yes?” he answered from behind her.

  She screamed.

  He jumped.

  “Heavens.” She placed a hand over her heart. “You scared me. Are you all right? Didn’t you hear me calling? Do you feel faint? I thought you’d—”

  “Silence.”

  She stilled.

  “Of course I heard you. The entire fair heard you.”

  “Then why didn’t you follow me?”

  “I did. I was right behind you.”

  “Yes.
Well, we need to get you to a doctor.”

  “I do not need a doctor. This happens all the time. I just need to get out of these greenhouses.” Grabbing her elbow, he propelled her through the door and out onto a deserted landing by a statue of William Penn. The greenhouses were behind them, the back entrance to the Horticultural Building in front of them. Distant sounds of laughter and calls of vendors drifted on the breeze.

  He released her.

  She rubbed the spot he’d grasped. “What do you mean it ‘happens all the time’?”

  “Just exactly what it sounds like,” he snapped. “It happens all the time.”

  She couldn’t see his face, only his silhouette. “Are you trying to tell me that plants make your eyes swell?”

  Silence.

  A great unease filled her. “Mr. McNamara, are you or are you not a farmer?”

  “I am.” His words held a sharp edge. As if he’d gritted his teeth.

  Clearly he was lying. And if he was lying about that, he could very well be lying about everything. Even his trouble hearing. Could her father be right after all?

  “You must think me the most gullible woman on the face of the earth.” Backing up a step, she surreptitiously grabbed handfuls of skirt and petticoat, inching up their hems. “Our deal is off. Good night, sir.”

  Spinning around, she took off at an all-out run.

  “Miss Wentworth!” He hesitated a beat, then chased after her.

  All she had to do was make it to the end of the building and around the corner, then race to the main boulevard. Once there, she’d find plenty of people to help her.

  He was gaining quickly.

  Too late, she realized she should have just run back inside the Horticultural Building. Renewing her efforts, she pressed toward the end of the building, his footfalls gaining ground. He caught her arm in a firm grip.

  Screaming with every fiber of her being, she whirled around and kicked him in the shin as hard as she could.

  He immediately let go, his expression one of complete shock.

  She wasted no time in finishing her run to the street. The boulevard was deserted. She couldn’t believe it. Where was everyone?

  Her side began to ache, but she ignored it and ran toward the Court of Honor. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw him standing at the edge of the boulevard watching her. Shivers ran up and down her arms. She didn’t turn around again.

  HORTICULTURAL BUILDING, EAST ENTRANCE

  “All she had to do was make it to the end of the building and around the corner, then race to the main boulevard.”

  CHAPTER

  14

  Cullen waited for Della on a bench in the entry hall of Harvell House. He knew she hadn’t beat him home because Mrs. Harvell had instituted a new system for her boarders. The woman had grown tired of waiting for everyone to return at night so she could put out the lantern. As a result, she’d decided to leave a list of names by the front door. Each person was to draw a line through their name when they arrived. The last person in was to extinguish the lamp.

  Miss Wentworth’s was the only one left on tonight’s list. He couldn’t decide whether she hadn’t returned because she realized he’d be here or he should worry that some misfortune had befallen her.

  If some nefarious type had tried to waylay her, he had no doubt she’d give him more than he’d bargained for. His shin still stung from her blow. But he’d let her go at the first sign of protest. A man bent on mischief wouldn’t be so quick to give up his prize.

  He pressed a cold washcloth against his eyes. Of all the buildings to tour, why did she have to pick that one? He’d known what was going to happen the moment he set foot inside. But what could he-have said? The deal was she picked the sights.

  So he’d kept his mouth shut and hoped for the best. And he just might have gotten away with it if it hadn’t been for that last hour in the greenhouses.

  He supposed he could understand her disbelief, but it never occurred to him she’d think he was misrepresenting himself. And now, how was he supposed to prove to her he was a farmer? He had nothing in his room that even hinted of his occupation other than the pair of denims he’d worn on the train up here. There were Wanda’s letters, of course, but he wasn’t about to show her those—not with Hodge’s comments inserted between every other sentence. And even without Hodge’s remarks, her letters would prove nothing other than the fact that Wanda lived on a farm.

  The handle on the door made a slight rattle.

  Removing the washcloth, he slowly sat up.

  Inch by inch, the wooden door creaked open until it was wide enough for her to see the list. A breeze whooshed in, sending the paper up into the air. It floated back down to the floor in a slow pendulum motion.

  He heard her mumble but was unable to catch her words.

  Finally, she poked her head inside, glanced up the stairs, then stepped in and closed the door with the greatest of care.

  She couldn’t see him in the shadows. Had no idea he was there. If he said something, she’d most likely scream and wake up the entire house.

  Which left him with three choices. One, make his presence known and risk a scream. Two, sneak up behind her and cover her mouth—which was not typical farmer behavior. Or three, do nothing and deal with it tomorrow.

  But if he did nothing, she’d have all day to imagine the worst and he’d be found guilty without due process. No, he needed to confront her now and do his best to convince her of his character.

  She tiptoed to the paper and returned it to the table. When she bent to draw a line through her name, he slipped up behind her, grabbing her waist and mouth at the same time, then immediately swung her clear of the table. The last thing he wanted was for her to kick over the lantern and have a repeat of Mrs. O’Leary’s cow.

  She screamed into his hand, jabbed him with her arms, kicked him with her feet, clawed him with her nails, bit into his palm, then tried to butt him with her head.

  “Stop it,” he hissed. “I’m not—umph—going to hurt you. I just want to—ooph—talk.”

  She flailed and thrashed, then hooked her foot behind his calf and slid it up to the bend in his knee, then tried to bring him to the floor.

  He tossed her up for a second and clasped her waist again. “Stop it, Adelaide.”

  “Wnwooooo!” She grabbed his little finger and tried to bend it backward.

  He tightened his hold. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to talk to you.”

  She reared back, barely missing his chin.

  “My name is Cullen McNamara. I’m a farmer in Mecklenburg County, North Carolina.” He stopped to take several deep breaths in between her struggles. “Certain plants and weeds have made me swell up and break out in hives for as long as I can remember.”

  Her strength was beginning to fade, praise God.

  “Think.” He gave her a shake. “That’s the whole reason my father sent me up here. He’s scared to death I’m going to drop dead in the middle of a cotton field.”

  She stilled.

  He took several more breaths. “So he got this grand idea to send me to the World’s Fair because . . .” More deep breaths. “. . . he thinks every business owner in the world . . . will be falling all over himself . . . to buy my sprinkler system.”

  His poor lungs, he thought. They just could not handle plants, seeds, and Adelaide Wentworth all in one night. “But no one wants the sprinklers . . . and I’m not going to drop dead . . . because if I were, I’d have done it years ago.”

  His arm protested against her dead weight, but he didn’t dare set her down yet. Closing his eyes, he leaned his forehead against the back of her head. “I really am who I say I am. I swear on my mother’s grave.”

  She gave a slight nod.

  “Are you going to scream?”

  A slight shake to the left and right.

  “I’m going to remove my hand.”

  Another nod.

  He carefully peeled his hand away but kept it close in case s
he screamed.

  “Put me down,” she gasped.

  “Are you going to run?”

  She didn’t answer.

  He took that as a yes. So he walked them toward the bench, his legs bumping hers and tangling in her skirts.

  She clutched his arms. “Put me down, I said.”

  “Hush, not so loud. I just want to sit down. You’ve worn me out.” He sat, bringing her with him.

  She slapped at his arm. “Let me go,” she hissed, her voice quiet. “I’m on your lap.”

  Leaning his head against the wall, he closed his eyes. “Hush. Just be quiet and be still for one second so I can catch my breath. Please.”

  With a huff, she waited, then thrummed her fingers on his arm. “How long do you need? I thought farmers were supposed to be strong, what with all that shoveling of hay and digging of rows and pushing of plows.”

  He held out his free arm. “Grab my upper arm.”

  “What?”

  “Just grab it.”

  She did.

  He flexed his muscle.

  The thrumming stopped. Twisting slightly, she placed one hand beneath his arm, then smoothed down his jacket with the other. “I’d have thought it’d be a lot bigger.”

  Sighing, he picked her up, plopped her beside him, stripped off his jacket, removed his cuff, and shoved up his shirtsleeve. Once more, he flexed.

  Her eyes widened. “Good heavens, that’s huge. Are they both like that?”

  Rolling his eyes, he flexed his other one but didn’t fool with the sleeve. He felt ridiculous.

  She reached over and poked the bare one, then squeezed it and cupped it with her hand.

  He looked at a point just over her shoulder and ignored the fact that she smelled like roses, her hair was completely disheveled, and her lips had parted in fascination.

  Finally, she leaned back.

  “Do you believe me now?” he asked, lowering his arms.

  “Lots of men have muscles.”

  He slid his eyes shut. “Ask me any farming question you want.”

  “How do you milk a cow?”

  He opened one eye. “That’s kind of hard to explain without the cow.”