One Step Enough

by Carla Kelly

  “No,” he replied, surprising her. “We have work to do here in Provo. I cannot help my friends.”

  He bought their tickets to Salt Lake and began to relax on the train, a route he said he had not traveled since his arrival in Utah almost eight years ago.

  “But it’s only forty-five miles,” Della said.

  He shrugged. “Might as well be four hundred and fifty miles, if you work six days a week and have a small child to care for.” He patted her hand. “But here we are now.”

  Feeling like a world traveler, Della pointed out the little towns between Provo and Salt Lake to both Davises. Angharad stared in amazement at the width of Utah Valley, before they slowed down for Point of the Mountain and Salt Lake Valley.

  Della had to suppress a laugh when the child turned to Owen and asked him so seriously if he had any idea what it was like not to be wedged in a canyon.

  “I have some notion,” he assured her. He nudged Della. “Richard used to tease her that Winter Quarters Canyon children all had one leg shorter than the other one because they walked on slopes.”

  Della laughed out loud and nudged back, touched in her heart that he could mention his friend without apparent sadness.

  The sight of Salt Lake City was almost too much for the little girl, her mouth open over tall buildings and streetcars and the general bustle of people hurrying about on wide sidewalks.

  “Would you like to live here?” Owen asked her as they walked almost as purposefully as the other pedestrians, following Della.

  Angharad shook her head. “I will leave it to them.”

  “You chose wisely.”

  Della slowed her pace a little. “You might change you mind when you eat a cream cheese sandwich on date nut bread from Mr. Auerbach’s store.”

  Angharad stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, which meant that several men in dark suits with briefcases had to step around her. “I cannot even imagine that, Mam,” she told Della.

  “I can,” Della replied and set Angharad in motion again before there was a pile up of pedestrians. “Easily as good as nonpareils. Believe me?”

  Angharad thought a moment. “I’ll believe you, even though thousands wouldn’t.”

  It was an answer worthy of the man who held his daughter’s other hand and was laughing now. “Oh, you Welsh,” Della murmured, delighted.

  One amazement piled on top of another for the wide-eyed little girl. When they reached the corner of State and 300 South, she stood a long moment at the nearest Auerbach’s window display, with mannequins dressed in the latest summer fashions.

  “You actually worked here,” she said to Della.

  “I actually did. There’s something even more exciting inside.”

  “Third Floor, please,” Della said to the elevator man on the main floor.

  Even Owen jumped when the white-gloved attendant closed the filigreed metal cage, followed by the heavier door. “Fair takes me back to the hoist in a colliery,” he said as they began to move up. “Cleaner, though. No coal. And we’re going up, not down.”

  Della looked down to see Angharad clutching her father, her eyes huge in her face. “You’ll be fine,” she assured the child. “It’s her first elevator ride, Seth,” she told the elevator man, an old fellow she knew well from trips up and down from Menswear to the offices.

  When they came to a smooth stop, Angharad relaxed visibly. With a real flourish, Seth took a wrapped caramel from a small bowl in a niche. “First time riders always get one of these,” he said.

  Angharad took it and thanked him prettily, which made him beam at her. With a grand gesture this time, he opened the cage and then the larger door and bowed her out. She gave him her best curtsey and led the way.

  “How in the world could you tear yourself away from Auerbach’s to come to our canyon to teach?” Owen asked Della as she directed them toward the frosted glass door at the end of the corridor.

  “It was on a whim that I came to your canyon,” she told him. “Even last Christmas, Mr. Whalley said he would hire me full time if I was too afraid to take that train back to Winter Quarters.” She leaned closer. “Besides, by then I had decided I was in love with you.”

  He took her hand and kissed it. “No words, Della, no words.”

  “Da, tyd yma.”

  “Look now, I’ve been summoned.”

  Owen walked down the corridor and stopped, his turn to stare and hold Angharad close. Della hurried to stand beside them and gaze at the framed art on Magic Paper, done with Franklin Rainbow Colors that her lower grades class had drawn for Mr. Auerbach last fall, when she wanted to show her summertime boss something about her canyon children.

  Her voice hushed, Angharad stepped forward and touched her drawing, the picture within a picture of her father helping her sketch a dragon, the one Owen had confessed he had a hand in creating.

  “There we are, lovely one,” he said.

  He walked slowly down the hall, stopping at the longer sheet of paper showing the canyon train taking Kristina, Pekka, and Reet Aho to Salt Lake City, the picture with a dragon on the roof waving to the dragon standing beside a lady with bountifully curly hair, surrounded by her students even now dispersing throughout Utah.

  “We thought the Ahos needed a dragon,” Angharad told her father. “Mayhap we all did, think on.”

  “Mayhap we still do,” he said. Blindly, he held out his hand for Della, and she took it.

  Chapter 17

  L

  Come in, come in, my lovelies,” Mr. Auerbach said, ushering them into his office. “At last I am privileged to meet another canyon child and the happy couple. Mr. Davis, you’ve found yourself a peach.”

  No denial from him. With a sideways glance at Della, Owen shook hands with the powerful and kind man. “I have, sir. The man who married us said if I do what she says, I’ll be a happy fellow.”

  “I trust you know wisdom when you hear it,” Mr. Auerbach told him.

  Salt Lake’s department store king turned his attention to Angharad. He gave her a courtly bow. “Angharad Davis?” he asked.

  “I am, sir,” she replied, with enough poise to make Owen smile inside.

  She tugged on Owen’s sleeve. “Da, is this where I …”

  “Aye, miss.” He watched with appreciation as she carefully unwrapped his carved box, setting on the lid and giving the box a little pat.

  With a curtsy good enough for Queen Victoria, Angharad handed the box to Mr. Auerbach. Her courage deserted her and she stepped back until she leaned against Owen. His hands went to her shoulders.

  “What did we want to say?” he prompted.

  That was all she needed. “Thank you for the beautiful furniture,” Angharad said, and then she extemporized, to everyone’s amusement, “Mam tells me I cannot eat on the parlor chairs on pain of being sold to gypsies. The bed is big enough so I can sleep in the middle if there is thunder and lightning. We all agreed.”

  “Your gift was so kind, Mr. A,” Della said when Mr. Auerbach regained his composure. “So are the towels and sheets.” She laughed. “How did you know I had been admiring that particular bedspread?”

  “A lucky guess, Della.” Mr. Auerbach touched the box and removed the lid. “Fancy this,” he said and took out a piece of paper with a dragon.

  “Da says everyone needs a dragon.”

  All we can get these days, Owen thought, as Mr. Auerbach beamed at Angharad and tucked the paper back in the box.

  “And now my dears,” he began, turning his attention to Della. “Do you suppose Miss Davis here would care to try a cream cheese on date nut bread sandwich?”

  “I am certain she would,” Della said.

  “I would?” Angharad asked.

  “Yes. It’s even better than those cherry phosphates at the Palace Drugstore in Provo.”

  “I’ll prove it to you,” Mr. Angharad said. He opened the door. “Miss Milton, would you take Miss Davis to the mezzanine for cream cheese on date nut bread?”

  “I woul
d welcome the opportunity,” said the dignified and magnificent Miss Milton. She held out her hand for Angharad.

  Mr. Auerbach gestured to the chairs, his face serious, now that Angharad was out of earshot.

  “We were all appalled to hear of your sad news,” he said. He leaned back in his chair. “I find myself looking at my Winter Quarters art gallery in the hall, wondering who is left and who is gone.”

  “Many of my students are fatherless,” Della said, her voice low. “They are scattering to the four winds now, as their mothers take them to live with other relatives.”

  “And you, Mr. Davis?” The gaze he turned on Owen was unflinching. “We know what it is to suffer, we Auerbachs. Life is not kind to Jews in Europe or, I think, coal miners anywhere.”

  “No, sir, it is not,” Owen said, when he regained his composure. “I send you special thanks from Thomas Parmley for your generous contribution to the canyon’s widows. He would write you, but he is so busy, and I … I have left the canyon.”

  “We were happy to help. May I call you Owen?”

  “Aye, please.”

  “Owen. Della.” Mr. Auerbach came around his desk and took their hands. “I am ready this moment to offer you both employment here in our store. Della, Mr. Whalley will be in my debt forever if you will come aboard as his assistant. Owen, I can always use a good carpenter.” He smiled. “And from the look of this box, you could easily do a brisk business making this an Auerbach’s exclusive offering. What do you think?”

  Della would do this in a minute, Owen thought. He felt cold fingers patter down his spine.

  He was wrong. His wife gave her former employer her kindliest smile but shook her head. “Sir, I think moving to Salt Lake would put us too far away from our remaining friends in Scofield, and … and other considerations. We have temporary jobs now, and hope for the best for this fall.”

  Owen had to give Mr. Auerbach credit for trying. “I know I could pull a string or two and find you something to do at your old Westside School besides teaching. I own considerable rental property over there. I could make you quite a deal on a house.”

  Owen could feel Della wavering. He knew how she felt about her first school, but his dear wife touched Mr. Auerbach’s sleeve. “You’re so kind to worry about us. I must say no, but with all my thanks. We’ll manage, sir.”

  Mr. Auerbach was made of sterner material, and obviously not used to someone turning him down, even though he appeared to remain good-natured about the matter. He threw up his hands in what Owen hoped was mock frustration. “Humor me, Della. Bear in mind, at least, that my offer is always open to both of you.”

  “That we will do, sir,” Della said.

  Owen watched her eyes fill with tears. She brushed them aside, leaned closer and kissed Samuel Auerbach’s cheek. “You’re the best man I know, perhaps with the exception of this husband of mine. Thank you, Mr. A.”

  “And you’re as good as any daughter,” Mr. Auerbach replied. “Will you let me know how you are getting on? If any of your former students are in need of something, I can always help.” He gestured toward the door. “After all, I have their art gallery outside my office.”

  “I promise. Thank you again for the wonderful furniture.”

  “Anytime.” He cleared his throat. “Ahem. If you’re ever in need of a crib, you need only contact me.”

  Owen felt his face grow warm. A glance at Della showed him her own adorable confusion, which made Mr. Auerbach laugh at them both. “Two sillies sitting here in my office! Maybe three. I have eight children of my own!” He glanced at the clock. “And now I have a shareholders’ meeting.”

  He escorted them into the hall, and whispered to Della that her old boss in Menswear had been discovered last week looking at engagement rings before the store opened.

  “I know he’s sweet on Mrs. Aho, and nothing could please me more,” Della said. “Mr. Auerbach, are you a little bit of a matchmaker?”

  “Eveline says I am a meddling old meshuganah,” he said. “Is there Welsh word for troublemaker?”

  “Gwneuthurwr drafferth,” Owen said promptly and then laughed.

  Angharad waited for them in the narrow snack bar in the mezzanine. While Della thanked Miss Milton and wiped cream cheese off Angharad’s face, Owen didn’t say no to a nut bread sandwich of his own.

  “My word, Della. We might have to return here every few weeks to let Mr. Auerbach know how we’re doing,” he told her as she dabbed at his cheek.

  “That’s fine with me,” she said, amazingly complacent. “That way you’ll be too stout to wedge yourself under a shelf of coal and chip away.”

  “Method to your madness, eh?”

  “No. Self-preservation,” she said without a smile. He did not doubt this was a word to the wise, with the hope that it was sufficient. “Now I suppose we must face my uncle.”

  Why he had thought that was a good idea escaped him, and they put it off long enough to eat fish and chips in the basement cafeteria and pay a visit to Kristina Aho, who was painting the Saltair Pavilion in a display window. Paintbrush in hand, she said there would be real sand and mannequins cavorting in the latest swimwear.

  Owen admired Kristina’s blond good looks, rendered more lovely because her hair was caught back in a red western bandana as she painted. As she and Della chatted, he marveled that a Finnish woman widowed by the Number One could move so gracefully into a confident lady who could support her family. Give it a generation, he thought, touched. Pekka will graduate from the university here and find himself an American wife. In another generation, Finnish customs will become quaint, except at Christmas.

  He considered Angharad and knew she would be the last of his line to speak Welsh. The thought might have saddened him a few years ago, but not now, not with Della in his life and the sure knowledge that she, too, could carry on confidently, if needed. Hurrah for the ladies.

  “There’s no avoiding a visit, I suppose,” his wife said as they walked one block, crossed a wide street, and then stopped in front of an imposing building. Anders, Court and Landry, Attorneys at Law, Owen read silently.

  “The firm occupies two floors,” Della said as Owen opened the door for her and Angharad.

  She had gone noticeably pale and he worried. “We don’t have to do this.”

  “We’re here. Might as well.”

  He admired her show of confidence as she asked the superior-looking woman seated at a desk to announce their arrival. He stood there, acutely conscious of his well-brushed but shabby suit and Angharad’s dress that had seemed perfectly appropriate for a warmish spring day, but which now looked rumpled and worn. Show no fear, Owen, he told himself.

  They seated themselves in the lobby and waited five minutes, and then ten. Della leaned closer. “Five more minutes, and then we leave,” she whispered. “We have a train to catch.”

  Owen’s smile froze when Karl Anders opened a door, nodded to Della, and came in their direction. It wasn’t lost on him that the receptionist stood up when he passed her desk.

  “Della, what a delight to see you,” he said as his cheek brushed past hers but didn’t quite touch. “You should have told me you were getting married last week. I would certainly have tried to be there.”

  Owen, who had sat out cave-ins in the dark, had to remind himself not to be intimidated. Still, there was something chilling about a man in a perfect suit who could walk across a perfect carpet and snatch the light from his wife’s face.

  He should have known better than to underestimate the woman who shared his bed and loved his daughter.

  “Uncle Karl, it was a trying time all around. We’re sealed together now and wanted to say hello. We were already in Salt Lake on other business and the Interurban doesn’t leave for an hour. How are you?”

  Oh, Della, Della, he thought with admiration. He kept a straight face as Karl Anders took that in and realized, somewhere in his perfect mind, that he wasn’t the first choice.

  “Good enough, niece,” Anders
replied. Then it was Owen’s turn. He held out his hand. “I remember you from last Thanksgiving, Mr. Davis.”

  They shook hands, and there it was, just the smallest glance down to see if there was coal dust on the attorney’s fingers.

  “Aye, we met in Provo,” Owen said, wanting to match his wife’s cool reserve. “I’m out of the mines now, so no fears about coal dust on your fingers.”

  A small frown, but that was all. “I wish you both well.” Anders gave Angharad a glance. In her kindness, just a child who had no idea what was playing out in the lobby, she gave the lawyer her sweetest smile. “Your … your … daughter?”

  “Aye, sir, Angharad. Your niece taught her this school year in the canyon.”

  Uncle Karl nodded, evidently not a man who felt comfortable around children. Owen tried to imagine years of sterile life in the Anders household and silently cheered Della’s fortitude.

  There was not going to be an invitation into Karl Anders’ office. That fact was as plain as if a judge had banged down his gavel and declared a mistrial.

  “Caroline will be distressed that she missed seeing you,” Anders said, as smooth a lie as Owen had ever heard. No wonder he was a successful lawyer.

  “She’ll recover, I am certain,” Della replied.

  “She has been under the weather for some months now.”

  “Please tell her for me that I hope she feels better soon.”

  Oh, Della, you could have been a barrister too, Owen thought, amused.

  “I will pass on your best wishes,” Anders said. “Now I must return to my office. So much to do.”

  Owen shook hands with his wife’s uncle, hoping never to see him again, but nodding and smiling because he understood prickly relatives himself. Who didn’t?

  “Uncle Karl, take care of yourself,” Della said. To Owen’s astonishment, she took his hand in grip so firm her knuckles whitened.

  Owen held his breath. He knew that look of hers, the one that turned steely when she narrowed her eyes.

  “I only wish one thing,” she said, her voice low, after a glance back at Angharad, who had already started for the door that led mercifully to the street. “I wish Aunt Caroline had given me that letter from my father years ago.”