An Unexpected Suitor

by Anna Schmidt

  “But, Mother, surely you can’t condemn an entire group by the actions of a few,” Rose’s daughter, Violet, had protested.

  “I am not condemning anyone, Violet,” Rose had replied. “I am entirely sympathetic to the fact that circumstances beyond their control led these gifted young people down the wrong path.”

  “They want to perform and use their talents,” Violet had started to protest, but her mother had silenced her with one raised finger.

  “There are other avenues, respectable avenues, for making use of such talents. Nola here is a shining example of that. As a girl I recall she had a notion to study music in Boston, no doubt with an eye toward performing concerts and such.”

  “Classical music,” Nola had interjected.

  “It’s no more than crossing the street to make the shift from respectable classical entertainment to the kind of vaudevillian and melodramatic fare that Harry Starbuck puts together and that these people invading our little village are only too eager to perform. Thank goodness, Nola, that you had the good sense to see your duty to your dear mother and siblings and turned your God-given talents toward something as necessary and respectable as providing the music for Sunday services.”

  Nola flinched now at the memory. It had hurt to have her dream dismissed in such a cavalier manner. Yet she could not deny that the actors’ colony had doubled over the last two seasons and now there was rumor that Starbuck planned to enhance the local population of actors by bringing in his own troupe of handpicked performers from New York. In fact, everything Harrison Starbuck was doing seemed designed to encourage that population to frequent the island.

  “They’ll drive out the regular summer families,” Rose had warned. “Mark my words. Once that cabaret opens, there will be an increase in the level of rowdiness and respectable visitors will look for other places to vacation.”

  Nola had never had reason to question Rose’s authority on such topics. The woman had been raised in the high society of Boston. Rose had often talked of their houseguests, an impressive parade of the rich and famous that had included at least one European duke and his duchess. And the very fact that Starbuck had now set his sights on Nola’s home and tearoom to expand his empire seemed further proof that Rose’s warnings should be heeded.

  “Well, you have met your match, Harry Starbuck,” she muttered as she watched him pause outside her gate to light a fresh cigar before crossing the street. Oh, he was handsome, all right, in that insolent manner that set her teeth on edge. Everything about the man, including the way he dressed, seemed deliberately calculated to affect an image of nonchalance. The sable-brown hair was straight and a little too long, and it blew across his forehead whenever he removed his hat. And those eyes—blue as a summer sky—and the mouth that always seemed just a breath away from bursting into laughter.

  His clothing was yet another affectation in Nola’s view. Above the perfectly tailored trousers his attire evoked a kind of careless aplomb. Especially the battered straw fedora that he always wore at a rakish angle. Then there was his preference for a red bandanna scarf tied at the open neck of his shirt in place of a proper tie. Nola’s inventory continued as she watched him. He usually preferred a vest but no jacket. On those occasions such as today when he deigned to wear an unstructured—never tailored—jacket, he left it unbuttoned, loosely hanging from his broad shoulders and revealing a gleaming white shirt with no collar and no starch.

  Nola could not help wondering who did his laundry. Those shirts were always so pristine, even lacking the proper appearance of a good dose of starch. On the other hand, that softness linked to the faint scent of lime that clung to his clean-shaven jaw and the wide-brimmed fedora indeed gave him an exotic air that even she had difficulty dismissing entirely.

  Not that Nola made a habit of assessing men’s apparel. It was just that clothing on Harry Starbuck seemed one more detail of the man’s determination to stand apart from others. Shaking herself back to the reality of the moment, she realized she was still standing where he had left her. She’d come back to the tearoom before going on to the market for some reason, but at the moment she could not recall what. She tapped the day’s mail against her skirt as she tried to gather her thoughts. She refused to move until she had determined her destination, lest Starbuck see her go into the tearoom and immediately out again and believe he had achieved his purpose of befuddling her. If only he would go on about his business.

  But he’d paused in the middle of the street to help a visitor with directions. Then he passed old Mrs. Jacobs hobbling along and fighting to keep her umbrella upright against the wind. He relieved her of the umbrella, held it steady over them both and took her elbow as he escorted her safely to McAllister’s general store before heading up the side stairway to the office he’d rented in addition to his cottage. Halfway up he paused just long enough to look back at Nola, catch her watching him, and give her a slight bow before entering his office.

  Chapter Two

  “He’s always been a handsome rascal, that one,” Judy Lang noted as she came out onto the porch, broom in hand.

  “You’re half-right,” Nola agreed.

  “Which half?” Judy actually winked.

  “Oh, Judy, surely I can give you more credit than to be taken in by a man who is more charm than substance,” Nola said as she brushed past the woman who had become like a surrogate mother to Nola and her siblings after their mother died.

  “Word has it that he has plenty of substance, if you catch my meaning,” Judy said, following her inside and rubbing two fingers together in the ageless symbol for money.

  “Well, if he continues to buy everything not nailed down in ’Sconset, he won’t have it for long.” Nola opened the first of the stack of envelopes. “Now then, if we are finished discussing Mr. Starbuck for the day, the mail is here.”

  Judy set the broom aside and picked up the feather duster, running it over the railing that separated the seating area near the windows from the one closer to the fireplace. “You didn’t get to the pharmacy?”

  Of course, the headache powder Judy had wanted, Nola thought. She’d been on her way to the druggist when she’d caught sight of Starbuck standing on her side porch and altered her route. “I’ll go back for it right away,” she promised as she sifted through the mail and focused on the envelope marked with the return address of the employment agency she relied upon to provide her a full staff for the season. She’d been anxiously awaiting word from them since she had written several times with no response. She sliced through the envelope with the whalebone letter opener her father had carved for her on one of his voyages and quickly scanned the contents.

  “What is it, child? You’ve gone white as a sheet.” Judy thrust a chair under Nola. “Sit,” she ordered and Nola did. “Now tell me what’s got you so upset that you’d follow my direction without question. That letter spells trouble from the look of you, but we can weather it. We’ve been through hard times before, right?”

  Nola waited for the always excitable woman to calm herself, making use of the moment to collect her own wits. “The employment agency has closed. They are out of business.” Nola swallowed around an enormous lump that threatened to block her breathing. “The first of the summer visitors will soon begin arriving and we have no help, Judy.”

  “People still need jobs,” Judy argued, taking the single sheet of paper from Nola’s fingers and reading it carefully. “Why, they’ve not only closed, they’ve taken your deposit as well.” She handed the paper back to Nola, pressed her palm to Nola’s forehead and cheek and added, “I’ll go for that headache powder. Looks like we both could use some.” Then she grabbed her shawl and hurried out the door.

  It did not take long for the news to spread through the small community. If there had been an electric current running from business to business and from one vine-covered cottage to the next, word could not have traveled faster. Starbuck was the third person to hear once Judy had told her husband, Jonah.

 
Jonah Lang often did odd jobs for Starbuck and when he showed up at the office just before lunch, he was clearly downcast about something. “Everything okay?” Starbuck asked nonchalantly, knowing the older man would tell him the real problem sooner or later.

  “Aye.”

  “You feeling okay?”

  “Aye.”

  “How’s Mrs. Lang?”

  “She’s holding her own under the circumstances.”

  There it was, the invitation to probe deeper. “She got some bad news, I take it. Anything I can do to help?”

  Jonah stared at his scuffed work boots for a long moment. “She might be looking for work.” And then it came, the entire tale of the arrival of the letter, the stunned Miss Nola, the handwriting on the wall.

  “I see,” Starbuck said once the older man had finished his tale.

  “Of course, this might be good news for you,” Jonah added, eyeing Harry closely. “If she can’t keep the place open, I mean.”

  “The failure of another person’s business is never something to be celebrated, Mr. Lang,” Harry replied as he saw Jonah to the door. “You go on now and tell Mrs. Lang not to worry. You’ll both always have employment with me.”

  But the truth was that Harry couldn’t help wondering if Nola’s apparent misfortune wasn’t actually a sign. God’s signal that Harry was on the right track and should pursue his idea of buying Nola out.

  It had always amazed Harry how prayer worked. It had always stunned others to discover that Harrison Starbuck was a deeply religious man. He was well aware that most people simply assumed there was some ulterior motive to his singing in the choir or volunteering to help with the annual church clambake, but the fact was that Starbuck believed in God. How could anyone not? All a person had to do was get up every day and face the rainbow of possibilities each rising sun brought with it. It would appear that this day had brought opportunity for him in the form of misfortune for Nola Burns.

  On the other hand, he had always taken bad news for others as something of a challenge. In this situation, he had no doubt that God would expect him to realize that he had to help Nola Burns find an equally satisfying outcome. But with someone like Nola, simply throwing money at the problem was not going to be the solution. He stood at his office window and studied the house down the street.

  “Okay, so if not just money, what else?” He prayed in the casual manner he had adopted as a boy when talking to God. “Nola Burns is a devout woman so I can’t believe You’ve sent her this trouble without something else good behind it. Question is, am I the one who needs to help her discover that good?”

  Surely a woman like her who had endured hard times would likely have a stash of cash put away for just such an emergency. Judging by her choice in fashion—plain unadorned sturdy cotton or wool dresses of gray or blue—she certainly didn’t spend much on herself, and if the vendors around town could be believed she drove a hard bargain when it came to getting the best price for what she did buy.

  So, what else?

  He could offer her a partnership where he would own the premises and she would manage the inn he hoped to open there. Work together? The idea was laughable even if there was the slightest chance she would go for such a thing. He turned back to his desk and rolled out the plans he’d had drawn up for putting up a new luxury inn on the site.

  “She’ll never go for it. Not with me,” he argued as he rolled up the blueprints, closed up the office and headed down the outside stairs to retrieve his bicycle.

  Not with me. Not with me. The words matched the rhythm of his pedaling as he rode the rutted grassy road past the old pump and trough in the town center then turned down Rosemary Lane to the cottage that had become his ’Sconset home.

  He needed to talk to someone who not only knew Nola, but could be trusted not to go running all over town with the news he’d been asking questions. Rachel! The image of his mother’s first cousin, Rachel Williams, popped into his mind as he sat alone at his kitchen table cracking open the clams he’d prepared for his noon meal. Everyone liked and respected Rachel. More to the point, the woman knew everyone and every detail of their lives. And like Nola, Rachel had never married. Had chosen not to marry. Yes, Rachel would understand a woman like Nola and know the best approach to take with the tearoom proprietress. Harry flicked the last of the clamshells into a bucket just outside his cottage door and mounted his bicycle for the short ride into Nantucket.

  “Well, if it isn’t my long lost cousin,” Rachel Williams exclaimed when she opened the door to her house on New Street and saw him standing there. “I thought you’d been lost at sea or some such disaster. Surely nothing short of that would keep you from calling on your mother’s poor old relation.”

  Harry laughed. “You are neither poor nor old, Rachel,” he replied as she ushered him inside and took his hat. Harry glanced into the dining room where the table was piled high with an odd assortment of items. Rachel was a dedicated historian and charter member of the island’s historical association, and she had made no secret of her disappointment in her cousin once she realized that Harry was far more interested in Nantucket’s future than its past.

  “What’s all this?” he asked, fingering one of a pile of carved ivory pipes.

  “Members of the historical association have been collecting all sorts of these thousand-year boxes and depositing them here for me to sort through and catalog.” She sighed. “It’s amazing how people simply assume that a single woman has all the time in the world for such projects. Not that I mind. There are treasures to be found in these collections of clutter.”

  “Thousand-year boxes?”

  “Now, Harry, you are not so young that you never heard the term. Your own mother must have had just such a box—a depository for all the odds and ends of the household. Odd doorknobs or keys that no longer fit a lock or the heads of walking sticks?” She fingered each item as she named it. “Stuff she probably wouldn’t use for a thousand years but kept just in case the need arose?”

  “And of what possible use is all this junk?”

  “This ‘junk’ provides a tangible portrait of daily life here on Nantucket in years past. It can be used to create living history for the younger generations, and actually being able to see and touch the things once used in daily life is ever so much more exciting than reading about them in some book. You might want to think about that when you write your next play.” She pulled out a chair and sat, then indicated that he should do the same. “Now, why have you come?”

  “You make it sound as if I need some pretense to call upon my favorite cousin,” Harry replied with mock hurt as he began following her lead in sorting the miscellany into more organized categories.

  “You’ve been back here for a good month already and this is the first I’ve seen of you other than the day you arrived.”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  They worked in comfortable silence for several minutes. Then Rachel rested her elbows on the table and studied his face. “Gossip has it that you’re interested in buying Nola Burns’s place. Turn it into some kind of fancy inn for your rich friends from Boston and New York.”

  “That’s fact, not gossip,” Harry replied, continuing to sort the knobs and watch parts and keys.

  “Save yourself the time and trouble and find another site—maybe out by the golf course. Those businessmen seem to enjoy their golf and their ladies like puttering around.” She cackled at her play on words. It was well-known that the wives of men who played golf often entertained themselves by putting on the large green set up for practicing putting below the veranda of the clubhouse.

  “The Burns place has the best location.”

  “Why?”

  “The view. The proximity to everything. Even the dwelling itself has a certain aura of nostalgia that guests will appreciate.”

  “Harrison, take it from me, you cannot simply ask a woman who has spent her entire life in one place to walk away from it just because you can afford to offer her a boatload o
f money.”

  Harry felt a flush of embarrassment creep up his neck. Of course Rachel would see things that way. She’d spent her entire life in this house. She grew up here, buried both her parents, and continued to live in the same house. Some said she never married because she was married to this house.

  “It’s not the same thing,” he replied quietly.

  “It’s precisely the same thing,” Rachel countered. “Nola Burns and I may be fifteen years apart in age but we share a great deal in common. And it’s high time men like you stopped thinking that you are doing us some favor by creating a situation that will force us to go off and ‘live’ in the larger world. I have no desire to live in that world and from what I know of Nola Burns, neither does she.”

  “I am not trying to force her to do anything,” Harry protested. “I don’t even know the woman.”

  “More’s the pity,” Rachel muttered as she stood and headed for the kitchen. “I’ve just received a keg of lime juice from South America. Would you like some limeade? We can sit in the garden. Now that the rain has passed, it’s turned into such a lovely day.”

  She did not wait for a reply and Harry could hear her bustling around the kitchen preparing the beverage. When he heard her chipping ice for the pitcher he dropped a ring of odd keys into the assigned box and dusted off his hands. “I was thinking perhaps that Miss Burns and I might work together—in a kind of partnership,” he explained as he carried the tray out to the garden and set it on a small cast-iron table.

  “And what did she say to that idea?”

  “I haven’t suggested it yet. I wanted to get your advice on the best approach. As you said, you and Miss Nola have much in common.”

  Rachel focused on pouring the limeade. “If you’re determined to give your guests an ocean view, then why don’t you just buy some beach property like everyone else is doing?”

  “Two reasons, the best parcels are gone and precisely because everyone else is doing it, I don’t want to.”