by Renee Ryan
“Yes, Mrs. Singletary.”
“One last request.” The widow captured Callie’s gaze in the mirror. “I would find it most helpful if you would sit in on my meeting with Mr. Bennett today. I will expect you in one hour and twenty minutes.”
A week ago, Callie would have thought Mrs. Singletary’s request strange and disconcerting. Not today.
A week ago, Callie would have worried that Mrs. Singletary had an agenda in asking her to join her business meeting with Reese.
Not. Today.
Because, today, Callie accepted the truth about her employer. Beatrix Singletary was shrewd and cunning.
And she always, always got her way.
Chapter Thirteen
Whenever Reese met with Mrs. Singletary at her home, he kept the conversation brief and to the point. Today was no exception. With a complete lack of fanfare, he laid out the particulars of Jonathon Hawkins’s requests. “The hotelier wants three changes to the initial contract Garrett Mitchell designed.”
Concern shifted in the widow’s gaze. “Do not tell me Mr. Hawkins is having second thoughts.”
“Not in the least. I don’t believe you will find the stipulations troublesome.”
This seemed to satisfy the widow’s misgiving. “Carry on.”
“The first is minor, a simple case of rewording.” He pointed out the newly worded passage with his index finger. “The second is a bit more complicated. It states if either of you decides to sell your share of the properties, you will give the other first rights to the purchase.”
The widow considered the changes in silence, her eyes tracking over the page.
At last, she nodded her head. “I see no problem with either provision.”
“Agreed.” He flipped to the next page. “The third change is no more complicated than the other two, but could prove a problem if you aren’t in agreement with Mr. Hawkins on the matter. He wants—”
The widow held up a finger as if she had something to say, then brought it back down. “Go on.”
“Mr. Hawkins is insisting the hotels retain the Dupree name and asserts this point is nonnegotiable.” Since Beatrix Singletary did not take ultimatums well, Reese continued before she could speak. “As you already know, the original Hotel Dupree was owned by Marc Dupree before he married Laney and joined forces with her at Charity House.”
“Ah, yes, hence the hotel’s name.” The widow’s brow furrowed. “That still doesn’t explain why Mr. Hawkins insists on keeping the name.”
“He was one of the first residents of Charity House.”
The widow blinked at him in surprise. “I knew he had a personal connection with the Duprees, but...” Mrs. Singletary stopped to draw a breath. “I had not realized it was so direct.”
“He believes his success in business is in large part due to Marc and Laney’s influence in his life, especially Marc’s. Maintaining the Dupree name on all current and future properties is his way of honoring their legacy.”
The widow turned her head to the side, giving Reese her profile as she mulled over this last piece of information. “And if I refuse to maintain the Dupree name?”
Reese inhaled slowly. “The deal will fall apart and Mr. Hawkins will withdraw from further discussions.”
She turned back to face him. “Maintaining the Dupree name is that important for him?”
“Yes.”
“Very well.” She picked up the quill beside her hand, dipped it into the ink pot and then flipped to the last page of the contract.
Reese couldn’t refrain from asking, “You are not put off by Mr. Hawkins’s refusal to negotiate on this point?”
“Indeed not—I admire the man’s sense of loyalty.” With a flourish, she signed her name on all three copies, set down the pen and then leaned back in her chair. “I believe I will very much enjoy working with him on this project.”
“I will deliver the signed contracts to him this afternoon.”
At the same moment he reached for the pages, a knock came from the other side of the door.
Mrs. Singletary flashed him one of her cagey grins. “The young woman has exquisite timing.”
Reese’s stomach lurched. He wasn’t sure what the widow meant by the comment, but he had no doubt who the young woman was with exquisite timing.
In anticipation of Callie’s entrance, Reese rose to his feet. He straightened the contracts into one neat pile then flipped open the lid of his briefcase.
Feeling a strange tightness in his chest, he shoved the contracts beneath the revised bride list.
Soft footsteps stopped a few feet behind him. “Hello, Reese.”
He looked over his shoulder. Felt his gut roll again as he turned around fully. The sight of Callie in a perfectly cut, fashionable, light purple dress ratcheted his heartbeat to an alarming pace. She’d done something different to her hair again. This newest style highlighted her long neck and arresting features.
The impact was like a punch to his heart. “Good afternoon, Callie.” He wasn’t surprised by the rustiness of his own voice. The woman made him uneasy, now more than ever. “You look quite lovely today.”
“Thank you.” She produced a slightly nervous smile.
Reese swallowed, hard.
He shouldn’t be this attuned to the woman. She was Mrs. Singletary’s companion, tasked with the duty of finding him a bride. She was only in his life to assist him in sorting through potential candidates. She would eventually fade into the background while Reese wooed another woman.
The thought didn’t sit well.
Callie was not a porcelain doll on some shelf, to be dragged out when needed, then flung aside when she’d done her duty.
She deserved better.
As though reading his mind, she stared at him intently, almost defiantly, her green, green eyes running across his face, as if her entire focus was on him. No one but him.
He felt a spark of something long hidden away, a desire to toss away lists and ledgers, to once again discover the joy of a spontaneous act.
Dangerous, dangerous thinking. Riddled with disaster.
Reese was no longer a boy of eighteen. He and Callie had only just become friends. He must ignore this surge of affection and focus on his goal. To find a wife who would make him a decent companion and a proper hostess, a woman who would help him fill his nursery.
Mrs. Singletary shoved her way between them.
Reese balked at the intrusion. In a show of silent solidarity, he moved to stand beside Callie.
The widow smiled fondly at them both. “How is the bride hunt coming along?”
Oh, she was a sly one, broaching the subject with the calmness of one announcing it looked like rain coming on the horizon. One day, Reese would like to see Beatrix Singletary on the wrong end of a matchmaking plot.
Callie stepped forward. “We have hit a slight snag in Reese’s bride search, but not an insurmountable one.” She smiled over at him. “I have charged Reese with the task of revising his original list of requirements. We will proceed once he’s finished.”
“Which, you will be pleased to discover, I am.” He dug inside his briefcase, pulled out the slip of paper on top. “I present to you—” he thrust out his hand “—my new list.”
Callie’s mouth formed a perfect O, but no words came forth. Nor did she reach for the paper.
Why not? She’d told him to draw up a new list and take his time doing so. He’d followed her directive, coming up with the most exacting specifics with the most precise language possible.
He pressed the paper into her palm.
She lowered her gaze. Almost instantly, her head shot back up. For a moment her mask of exquisite, maddening control fell away and emotion shone through.
There. There in her eyes, he saw astonishment and al
arm and, most baffling of all, hurt.
Somehow Reese had managed to hurt her. That hadn’t been his intent. He might have been a bit too precise with a few of the items, for levity’s sake only. He’d thought Callie would see the intended humor.
He touched her arm, wanting her to understand.
She shifted out of his reach. His hand dropped away.
Uncomfortable silence hung between them.
“I see you two have much to discuss.” Mrs. Singletary inserted herself into the conversational void, her voice a mix of flatness and droll irony. “I’ll leave you to it.”
Reese held himself motionless as the widow exited the room. Only after she shut the door did he shift his stance. He’d never been restless or edgy. Until Callie.
She turned to him, her gaze unreadable.
It was then that he realized she wasn’t telling him he’d been too vague this time around. Nor was she pointing her finger at him in outrage, or scowling at him like a schoolmarm—pity, that—or telling him he’d still gotten it all wrong.
Reese had a brief insight that if he would only let down his guard, and open his heart, even a little, this woman would light up his world as no one ever had before.
He cleared his throat, as he seemed to do far too often when he was alone in Callie’s company. “Is there something wrong with my list?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Or rather, yes. I mean, no.”
“Which is it? Yes or no?”
“Oh, Reese, your new list. It’s so very...specific.”
Annoyance burst into life. “Which is what you said you wanted. You told me my requirements were too vague. You insisted I should be more specific.”
A sigh leaked past her lips. “I see you took my words to heart.”
“Of course I did. You were right, Callie, I hadn’t spent the proper amount of time or thought on the first go-round. Any number of women could have fit my original requirements, including highly unsuitable women. So I—”
“Reese.” She held up her hand to stop him from continuing. “I’m afraid you might have been a bit too specific this time around.”
He scowled. “Which item are you referencing?”
Lowering her head, she studied the page. “You have listed you desire a woman with brown hair.”
“What’s wrong with brown hair?” Miranda’s had been a wild flaming red. Fanny’s, pale blond. It made sense for him to avoid both colors.
“Do you realize how many shades of brown hair there are?”
He eyed her warily. “Is that a trick question?”
“There are scores. Golden brown. Reddish brown. Dark brown. Black brown.”
Why was she harping on hair color? “Any shade of brown will do.”
Something flashed in her eyes, something that looked like hurt. A protective instinct took hold of him, followed by a desire to make her smile. Before he could stop himself, he took her hand, brought it to his lips. “Attend the theater with me tonight.”
“I...” She cocked her head “What?”
“Callie Mitchell.” He pulled her closer, pressed her palm to his heart. “Would you do me the honor of being my guest?”
She drew her hand free, tucked it against her waist. “I am already attending the theater with Mrs. Singletary.”
“Then you two must sit with me and my father in our box. I insist,” he added when it looked as though she might protest. “If the play is boring, we will discuss my bride list further.”
It was the last thing he wanted to do but, at the moment, seemed the absolute right thing to say.
“I’ll let Mrs. Singletary know of your invitation.” She lifted her chin. “The final decision will be up to her.”
“Fair enough.” He would make sure the widow accepted. Callie must sit beside him tonight.
The desire to have her close, sitting in the seat next to him, shouldn’t fill him with such anticipation. But it did.
Reese refused to analyze his motivation.
So he wanted to provide Callie with an evening that brought her joy and happiness? They were friends, after all. It made sense that he would want to please her. To restore her pretty smile. A night at the theater seemed the perfect place to start.
What could possibly go wrong?
* * *
All this talk of marriage was beginning to depress Callie. She needed a distraction, if only for an afternoon. With Mrs. Singletary taking tea with a friend, that left her several hours to fill before she had to dress for the theater.
Any activity would do, as long as it took her mind off of Reese’s latest list of requirements. Brown hair, indeed, what was the man thinking?
Twirling a lock of her pale blond hair, Callie tried not to think about his other requirements. Most of which she would never hope to meet. She could not speak at least two other languages besides English, only Spanish, and not very well. She could not play a musical instrument.
She could not sing in tune.
Really, Reese had been alarmingly specific this time around.
Telling herself she was merely curious, Callie picked up his list and read it again, from top to bottom, more slowly this time. Other than wanting children, there was only one other requirement she met. Her name did not begin with the letter P.
She rolled her eyes to the ceiling, a bubble of laughter escaping through her pursed lips. The man was impossible. Really quite funny. And oh-so-endearing.
She looked back at the list, sighed miserably.
No scandal in her past.
The fatal blow. A gut punch, as her brothers would say.
Technically, Callie hadn’t actually ignited a scandal when she’d run off with Simon. But her behavior had been shameful. At the very least, her judgment would forever be suspect. Bad company corrupts good character.
What would Reese think if he found out what she’d done?
Tears pricked at the back of her eyes. She wrapped her arms around her middle and tried not to cry.
Shoring up her emotions, she retrieved her Bible from the nightstand. She searched around in the Psalms for some verse, any verse, to make her feel less dismal. Nothing. She landed on 1 Peter. She read for a while, mostly skimming the passages until she was in the fourth chapter. Everyone had a talent, so the Apostle claimed, gifted to them by God.
Perhaps tapping into her talent might help with her sour mood.
Lowering to her hands and knees, she fumbled around beneath her bed, found the box of paints, brushes and round canvases she’d tucked away. She sat back on her heels and ran her palms over the rectangular wooden box.
Back at school, Callie had loved art classes. It wasn’t until she’d taken a course in miniature portraiture that she’d discovered her true talent. One she pursued for her own enjoyment.
She took out a blank, three-inch oval canvas and positioned it on the small writing desk near the window. Natural light was always best for the intricate detail work required for small portraits.
Once her paints were mixed and sitting in colorful piles on the palate, she began.
Time evaporated.
Confusion and hurt disappeared, leaving only the creative process. She’d nearly forgotten the joy of putting an image on canvas, of making a picture out of nothing but an idea, the closest she would ever come to understanding the beauty and order of the world God had created with His hands.
Hours later, when the sky had faded to a dull purple and the light in her room took on a gray cast, Callie sat back and studied her handiwork.
A bride and groom stared back at her. The bride wore white, in the same style as the crimson gown Mrs. Singletary had loaned her. Callie looked closer at the image. Without realizing it, she’d painted her own face on the bride.
The groom wore a black formal suit
with tails, a crisp white shirt and bow tie beneath. His hair was nearly as black as the suit, his eyes one shade lighter and his face...
She leaned in closer still, gasped.
The groom’s face belonged to Reese.
Callie had painted a wedding portrait of them together.
A sound of dismay whistled in her throat. To dream of more than friendship with him was one thing, but to put that secret hope on canvas? Insufferable.
As she cupped the tiny canvas in her palm, she admitted the truth at last. Her heart yearned for Reese.
Which meant her heart was headed for disappointment.
Even if, by some strange twist of events, he turned his attention onto her, Callie could never win him for herself. He belonged to Fanny. And even if he didn’t, her past mistake would always be with her, looming as a dark reminder of her true nature.
“Miss?” Julia popped into the room, holding several magazines against her. “Where are you?”
“Over here,” she called out.
“Why are you sitting in the dark?”
“Time got away from me.” She swiped at her eyes. “I hadn’t realized dusk was upon us.”
Julia walked through the room, turning on lamps and wall sconces as she progressed. “Mrs. Singletary sent me to style your hair for this evening’s event.”
As if waiting for her cue, the widow herself sauntered into the room. “Let’s try something more festive for our evening at the theater.” She took one of the magazines from the maid. “Something like, say—” she flipped through the pages “—this one here.”
Julia leaned over the magazine. “That would look rather nice on your companion, but what about this one instead?” She flipped the page and placed her finger on another image.
While the two consulted over Callie’s hairstyle, ignoring her completely, she took the opportunity to slip the portrait she’d painted in the back of a drawer of her writing desk. She then stored her paints under her chair as stealthily as possible.
Thankfully, neither woman paid her any attention.
“I hear the Gibson Girl is all the rage out East,” Julia remarked, turning the page once more. “It looks like this.”
