Every Perfect Gift

by Dorothy Love

  Mr. Ochs nodded. “I might even be able to let my printer’s devil go. I’d save a lot of money if I didn’t have to pay his wages every week.”

  Sophie thought of Caleb. A linotype machine would undoubtedly be better for her, but without the small amount she paid him, what would become of him and his family?

  The doors to the ballroom opened, and a portly man in a fancy suit entered with an equally elegant woman on his arm.

  “That’s Horace Blakely,” Mr. Ochs said. “I met him last fall when I was up here touring the place.”

  A bell tinkled and the room gradually quieted. All eyes turned to Mr. Blakely, who held up one hand, palm out, and smiled. “Ladies and gentlemen of the press, it’s an honor for Mrs. Blakely and me to welcome you to Blue Smoke, the finest resort in the South.”

  Applause rippled across the room.

  “When I first saw Hickory Ridge back in seventy-six, she was a pretty little town fallen on hard times. But the local banker, Franklin Gilman, refused to let his town die. He organized the first-ever Hickory Ridge Race Day, which still draws visitors from all over the country.”

  He smiled a little ruefully. “My horse was beaten that day by the now-legendary Majestic, ridden by one of Hickory Ridge’s most outstanding citizens, Mr. Griffin Rutledge—now head of our riding program. And if you know me, you know I don’t like to lose. But I gained something that day too. Something about this place called to me—these beautiful, unspoiled mountains, the clear springs and grassy meadows, and . . . well, a sort of peacefulness that seems to fill the air, like a favorite hymn on Sunday morning.”

  All around her, reporters were opening notebooks and digging for pencils. Sophie set her punch cup on a nearby tray and took notes too.

  “On the train home from that first race, I started to dream about building a place where folks from all over could come to enjoy the solitude and beauty of these magnificent mountains. Fish in the clear-running streams. Ride the trails. And partake of the finest foods and wines available anywhere.” He held up his glass as if for a toast and swept his arm toward the window. “It took a long time to acquire the land, clear it, and build a rail supply line, not to mention building the resort itself. But this evening you are witnesses to the result of big dreams, hard work, and imagination. If you will follow me, we’ll begin the tour.”

  Sophie followed Mrs. McPherson and Mr. Carmack to the door. Mr. Ochs spotted another friend across the room and soon was engaged in animated conversation, waving his hands in the air. For the next half hour, Mr. Blakely led the reporters through the public rooms and about the manicured grounds, peppering his comments with enough facts and figures to fill a government report.

  They stopped at the stables, and Griff Rutledge walked out leading Majestic. Griff waited for photographers to set up their cameras and posed for pictures with the sleek black stallion before pointing out the riding trail snaking upward through the forest. Mr. Blakely then led them back to the main building by way of a lavishly planted garden just beginning to bloom. They reached the wide terrace and stood quietly, taking in the view. The sun perched atop the mountain as if suspended by a string, turning the sky to pink. The doors opened and a small band of strolling musicians came onto the terrace, filling the air with song.

  “This concludes my remarks,” Mr. Blakely said, “but if any of you have further questions, I’ll be happy to answer them. Or you can ask my partner and managing director of this enterprise, Mr. Ethan Heyward.” He scanned the crowd, a scowl darkening his fleshy face. “If you can find him.”

  After another round of food and drink, the photographers packed away their cameras and the reporters began gathering their things, saying good-bye. Mr. Carmack nodded a farewell to Sophie and called for his rig. Mrs. McPherson patted Sophie’s arm. “I’m glad to have met you, Miss Caldwell. Perhaps one day we’ll have a chance to compare notes on the New Orleans Exposition.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Tell me. Did you write about it for anyone?”

  “Only a couple of small articles for our paper in Dallas.”

  “Oh, so you’re from Texas too?”

  “Since I was a girl. I started working for the paper after I finished school. My boss, Mrs. Mills, thought I was ready to handle the reporting, but her boss thought otherwise. He said I was too young.”

  Mrs. McPherson shook her head. “Nonsense. I’ve known Prudence Mills for years. She’s solid as they come. If she thought you were ready, you are. Age has nothing to do with it. A keen eye and a decent vocabulary trump age any day.” She motioned for her carriage. “Have you heard about Mr. McClure’s news syndicate?”

  “Only that he formed one a couple of years ago.”

  “I hear it’s doing well. Perhaps you should approach him about writing for his organization. It would be excellent exposure for your talents, and the pay is all right.”

  “I’d love that, but right now the Gazette is more than enough for me to handle.”

  The carriage arrived and Mrs. McPherson climbed inside. “Perhaps later, then. Good-bye, my dear.”

  Sophie waved as the carriage started down the drive, and then returned to the ballroom where a few reporters still leaned against the wall, laughing and comparing notes. She found a chair by the window and watched the lengthening shadows fall across the grass. Where on earth was Ethan? She hadn’t seen him all night.

  She was tired but eager to get home and write her story while all her impressions were still fresh in her mind. And she needed to think about the editorial she promised Gillie. How could she possibly influence the mayor and the council where others had failed?

  She rose and left the ballroom, her shoes skimming the Oriental carpet, and hurried down the hall to Ethan’s office. Perhaps he was working on more details for tomorrow night’s ball. She lifted her hand to knock on the door, but the sound of angry voices stopped her.

  The door crashed open and a tall, olive-skinned man stormed out, nearly knocking her down as he passed. Ice-blue eyes briefly met hers, and in that instant, something immediate and visceral passed between them. She had never before seen this man, but somehow she felt a kind of instant kinship.

  “Pardon,” he muttered before hurrying into the night, a small leather pouch tucked into the crook of his arm. A few moments later horses’ hooves clattered across the brick driveway and receded into the silence.

  Sophie peered into the office. Papers and books were scattered everywhere. A crystal glass lay on its side on the floor, its contents dribbling onto the priceless carpet.

  Ethan sat behind his desk, his head in his hands.

  “Ethan?”

  He started and leapt to his feet. “Sophie. You must forgive me for being such an inattentive escort. I became sidetracked, I’m afraid.” He picked up the glass and began stacking the books. “Did you have a good time?”

  “Yes, but, Ethan, what happened here?”

  He squared his shoulders and offered her a tight smile. “I should get you home. Wait a moment, and I’ll call for the carriage.”

  Together they returned to the ballroom where the staff were already busy cleaning up, preparing for tomorrow night’s festivities. Ethan spoke to a couple of the men and then offered her his arm. Outside, they waited beneath the portico while the driver brought the carriage around.

  Ethan nodded to the driver. “Silas, I want you to see Miss Caldwell safely to the Verandah Hotel.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sophie looked into his face. “You aren’t coming with me?”

  “I’m afraid not. Something has come up that needs my immediate attention. But I’ll call for you tomorrow evening for the ball, just as we planned.”

  She studied him in the flickering light of the gas sconces, the flames spilling gold across his troubled features. Clearly, the argument with his visitor had upset him. “This is about that man who was in your office just now, isn’t it? Is he a reporter? Who is he?”

  Ethan handed her into the carriage and st
uck his head into the open window. “He’s nobody, Sophie,” he said, clearly dismissive of the stranger. “Nobody at all.”

  Ethan watched Sophie’s carriage disappear into the darkness and silently cursed his bad luck. He’d wanted to spend more time with her this evening, help her establish herself with the other newspaper writers in the region. But then Julian showed up, a ghost from his haunted childhood, and spoiled everything.

  Still reeling from the shock of Julian’s sudden appearance, from the rage and the memories it evoked, Ethan crossed the portico and headed for his suite of rooms on the second floor. What he needed was a good night’s sleep—an unlikely prospect now that his mind was filled with horrific images he’d spent years trying to forget.

  At the top of the staircase, Horace Blakely spied him. Cigar in hand, Horace hove toward him like a battleship cutting through rough seas. “Ethan.”

  “Good evening, sir.”

  “You’re to be congratulated on arranging such a successful reception. The Boston and New York writers were suitably impressed.”

  Ethan nodded and loosened his blue silk cravat. “I’m glad you approve.”

  “Didn’t see much of you during the festivities, though.”

  “I know, and I regret it, but it was one of those nights. Li Chung’s assistant dropped an entire platter of canapés and was afraid to make more without my approval. One of the Kentucky carpenters complained that someone had stolen his banjo, but it turned up in one of the other cabins. And then to top it all off, I had an unexpected visitor, a man I hadn’t seen since I was a boy. It made for a chaotic evening, I’m afraid.”

  Blakely nodded. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about the workers’ camp. I assume you’ve decided what’s to be done about those cabins. Once the men are released next week, we won’t have need of them.”

  “I put Lutrell Crocker in charge of tearing them down. Much of the lumber is still good. We ought to store it for future repairs to the stables and fences, save the cost of buying new.”

  Blakely nodded and chomped his cigar. “Other than the misplaced banjo, any more unrest in the ranks? The newspaper article that young woman wrote last month gave me quite a scare. Once a place gets a bad reputation, it’s hard to turn things around.”

  Ethan leaned against the door frame and stifled an irritated sigh. Clearly he would not escape his boss anytime soon. “A knife fight last week. A couple of Irish got drunk and went a few rounds with the stableboys. Griff Rutledge took care of that one, though. And luckily, no one breathed a word to Miss Caldwell.”

  Blakely’s cigar smoke swirled toward the ornate plastered ceiling. He flicked ash onto the carpet and peered at Ethan. “All right, boy. Out with it. What’s troubling you?”

  For a moment Ethan was tempted to confide in his boss. Deprived of his parents at an early age, he’d long since grown accustomed to solving his own problems, relying on no one but himself and God. But Julian’s sudden reappearance had left his emotions too raw for words. He needed to be alone, to sort out his feelings and decide what to do about Julian’s presence in Hickory Ridge.

  Before the story erupted and blew his whole world sky high.

  TEN

  “So how was the reception?”

  Through the Verandah’s open window, the creaking of rigs and freight wagons, the shouts of children, and the barking of dogs punctuated Lucy’s question. The other hotel residents had already left for their jobs at Blue Smoke or at the shops lining the street. Though it was still early, Sophie and Lucy had the place to themselves. Lucy slid a stack of flapjacks onto a plate and set it on the table in front of Sophie.

  Sophie drizzled syrup over the flapjacks and took a bite. “Sumptuous.”

  Lucy grinned. “Are you talking about the resort or my cooking?”

  “Both.” Sophie sipped her coffee, then added a bit more cream.

  “Well, you have Flora to thank for the flapjacks. She gave me her mama’s recipe.” Lucy poured herself a cup of coffee from the blue enameled pot and slid into her chair. “What does Blue Smoke look like? I heard it’s like something in one of Mr. Chastain’s storybooks.”

  Sophie grinned. “There was so much gold, I wouldn’t have been surprised if we were robbed at gunpoint.”

  “You spent too much time in lawless Texas, my friend.”

  “No such thing as too much time in Texas. But I’m not joking. The whole place was dripping in gold.” Sophie speared a bite of flapjack. “I met some wonderful people. Mrs. McPherson—she owns a paper in Texas—said I should submit some articles to a news syndicate.”

  Lucy frowned. “What’s that?”

  “A single source for articles from a lot of different writers that are then sold to a number of papers around the country.”

  “Oh.” Lucy narrowed her eyes. “How big a take does the owner get?”

  “I have no idea. Mrs. McPherson says the pay is acceptable. I might look into it one of these days. Right now it’s all I can do to keep the paper going.”

  “Not to mention the ball at Blue Smoke tonight.” Lucy finished her coffee and poured another cup. “Honestly, Sophie Caldwell, if you are not a true-life Cinderella, I don’t know who is. Half the women in Hickory Ridge have been dying for Mr. Heyward’s attention ever since he got here, but he seemed completely immune to their charms. Then you showed up, and the first thing we knew he started seeing you at every opportunity.”

  “I don’t expect I’ll see much of him after the big to-do for the mucky-mucks is over.” Sophie polished off her flapjacks and pushed her plate away. Thinking about tonight’s event filled her with a mix of anticipation and puzzlement.

  Even though she hadn’t seen all that much of Ethan, she was growing fond of his company. And last night, in the carriage, she’d supposed for a moment that he felt the same way about her. But then, after the altercation with the man in his office, Ethan had pulled away. Why? And why had he not invited anyone from the Georgia press to the reception? It didn’t make sense. Maybe it was worth looking into, if she ever found the time.

  “Speaking of Mr. Chastain.” Lucy spooned sugar into her coffee. “That once-upon-a-time wife of his sent another wire yesterday, after I already wrote to her explaining that the Verandah is full up. She seems set on coming back here all of a sudden.”

  Sophie nodded. “Robbie told me. Maybe she’s looking for a job at Blue Smoke.”

  Lucy laughed. “That would be a first.”

  “You knew her?”

  “Only briefly. I lived here for a time before I went west to marry Jake. She showed up one day, charmed the socks off poor Mr. Chastain, married him, and then up and left. It was all very strange.” Lucy began clearing the dishes.

  Sophie finished her coffee and rose. “I should get to the office. Caleb is probably wondering where I am.”

  “How’s he working out?”

  “Fine, though I’m not sure he’ll ever master orthography.” She shook her head. “Last week I asked him to set the type for Mr. Pruitt’s advertisement, and the next thing I knew he was making up a notice for t-h-r-e-d and s-o-p-e. Luckily I caught the errors before he printed it. I can only imagine Mr. Pruitt’s reaction to two misspelled words in a single sentence.”

  “Just be glad he’s able to handle the press so you don’t wind up with so much ink under your fingernails. I remember Patsy Greer’s fingers were always black with ink.”

  “I remember that too. She was good to me. Very patient. I’m sorry she moved so far away. I’d like to see her again.”

  “You never know who might show up here in town now that Blue Smoke is becoming famous.” Lucy finished stacking their dishes and brushed crumbs from the tablecloth. “Shall I fix a bath for you again tonight?”

  “Oh, Lucy, that’s sweet of you, but I don’t expect you to be my personal maid. Not when you have this place and all your other guests to look after.”

  “I don’t mind. I like helping you get all fancied up. That way I can enjoy some of the excitement of g
oing out.”

  Sophie studied the hotelier. Lucy Partridge was much too young and much too pretty to keep to herself all the time. But she still mourned the death of her cowboy husband, buried somewhere in Montana territory. Lucy wouldn’t hear of courting anyone else, at least not yet.

  Lucy patted Sophie’s arm. “Go on and get your work done. I’ll have your bath ready at five o’clock. And don’t get waylaid this time. Mr. Heyward might not take kindly to being kept waiting two nights in a row, even for someone as pretty as you.”

  “Thanks,” Sophie said. “That would be a big help. Miss Hattie came by the other day and ordered new menus for her restaurant. I promised to have them ready by Monday, and my old jobber press breaks down at least once every day.” She sighed. “What I wouldn’t give for a new one. But I can’t afford it.”

  “You’re just getting started,” Lucy said. “You can’t expect overnight success.”

  “I suppose not.” Taking up her reticule from the hall table where she’d left it, Sophie waved good-bye and headed for the Gazette office.

  The first week of June had dawned clear and hot. Sophie dabbed her damp forehead and nodded to a couple of salesmen heading for the railway station. Down the street, Doc Spencer was just coming out of his office, with Gillie following behind. They spoke for a moment before he climbed into his rig and drove away. Spotting Sophie, Gillie waved and then went back inside.

  Sophie pushed open the Gazette office door and dropped her reticule onto her desk. Caleb was waiting for her, a scowl on his face. “Guess what’s broken again?”

  “Did you try resetting the pin like I showed you?”

  “Yep, but it keeps dropping back out. How am I supposed to get anything done when the equipment won’t work right?”

  “I know it’s aggravating, but what can I do?”

  He shrugged. “Some days I wish I had my old job back.”

  “In which case you would soon be unemployed altogether.” She raised the window to let in any breath of cooling air and looked over the proof sheets he’d placed on her desk. “Blue Smoke is officially open as of tomorrow, so most of the carpenters will be let go.”