Ruth pushed up her spectacles and set down the heavy iron. “There must be a better way to help Daddy. It’s not as if we can walk up to a man and ask him to marry us.”
Jen tossed her head. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’ll come up with a plan of attack.”
“A plan of attack? You make it sound like a military maneuver.” Ruth shook her head. Sometimes Jen behaved more like a boy than the lady she ought to be.
A scorched smell tickled her nostrils. The iron! In her inattention, she’d set it down. She jerked it up. Thank goodness, the silk hadn’t burned.
“I made a list of eligible bachelors.” Jen produced a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket. With a great show, she smoothed it out on the tabletop.
Ruth fought a wave of panic. “No man wants to feel like he’s being hunted.”
“But it’s all right for them to pursue us,” Jen pointed out before addressing her list. “Gil Vanderloo is home from college. He asked me to dance once. A definite possibility. You could ask about him when you drop off the dresses.”
“I will do no such thing.” Through the open windows, Ruth heard the church bells ring the five-o’clock hour. “Oh, dear. Mrs. Vanderloo wanted her gowns before five so she could dress for her garden party. You’ve made me late with all this silly talk.”
She finished the last seam and slid the dress onto a hanger to cool. She plunked a plain straw hat on her head and jabbed a hatpin through the loose bun of fine blond hair at the nape of her neck. Gloves, gloves... Where were her gloves? She dashed around the shop looking for them while her sisters reviewed Jen’s list. If she weren’t already frantic, the whispers would have driven her mad.
“I don’t have time for this nonsense.” Ruth grabbed the pasteboard carton she used to protect garments against dirt but hesitated. Even this short distance could wrinkle the gowns, and Mrs. Vanderloo didn’t have time to iron them out. Considering the weather had cleared after this morning’s rain and few clouds now graced the sky, she decided to risk going without. What could happen in a few blocks?
She grabbed the hangers and held the dresses high so their hems didn’t brush the ground. Once out the door, she’d loosely drape them over her other arm and pray they didn’t crease.
Before leaving, she directed her sisters to close the shop. Without waiting for confirmation, Ruth pushed backward through the door, turned and crashed into something very solid. The impact staggered her, and in a desperate attempt to regain her balance, she dropped the hangers.
“Hello, there.” The rich baritone voice came with strong hands that caught her by the shoulders and prevented a spill.
She’d run into a man—a very tall man. A stranger, no less. An extremely handsome stranger who at that very moment still held her shoulders. Ruth swallowed hard as she looked up at his impressive height. Goodness! He practically scraped the sky, but the effort was worth it. He looked as if he’d stepped out of a moving-picture show in his meticulously tailored suit. Clean-cut and dark-haired, he exuded the confidence and charm of the fashionable set. From the expensive silk necktie and jaunty fedora to the polished black shoes, every inch of him advertised his wealth.
And she’d just plowed into him.
“Are you all right?” His voice did sound kind.
Ruth drew in a shaky breath, far too conscious of the hands he’d just removed from her shoulders. My, he was handsome! An exotic yet comfortingly familiar scent enveloped him. She breathed in deeply. Bergamot. That was it. The scent reminded her of a steaming cup of Earl Grey tea. Who was this man, and why did his touch send a shiver down her spine on such a hot day? He must think her either careless or a fool. Or half-blind. As she adjusted her glasses, the taunts of her childhood schoolmates came to mind. Goofy Ruthie. Frog eyes.
“I’m sorry.” She averted her gaze. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
“The fault’s mine. I wasn’t paying attention.”
He was apologizing? She risked another glance at the exceedingly handsome man.
His lips curved into a wry smile. “Sorry about your dresses.”
Dresses? She smoothed her skirt. Oh, dear, she’d worn a plain old dress that was years out of style and fraying at the cuffs. “I’m all right.”
“I meant the ones you dropped.” He bent, and she followed his outstretched arm to the horrifying sight of Mrs. Vanderloo’s tea gowns floating in a mud puddle.
She clamped a hand over her mouth, but it couldn’t stop the strangulated cry that shot up her throat. Already she was late, and now Mrs. Vanderloo’s expensive dresses were ruined. This could cost the shop dearly.
He lifted the gowns with one hand and brushed at the mud on them with the other.
“Stop!” she cried. “You’ll only make it worse.”
“I’m afraid it’s too late.” He turned the dresses so she could see the damage.
Her eyes blurred with tears. The ivory georgette bore a streak of dirty brown, and the mint-green lace gown looked as if an entire pot of coffee had been dumped on it. For years Mrs. Vanderloo had been one of the shop’s best customers, but lately she’d gone from ordering new dresses to bringing in ready-made frocks for alterations. Each time she complained about the bill. Each time she threatened never to bring another gown to them. This would be the proverbial last straw. The shop couldn’t stand to lose more customers.
She gulped. “They’re ruined.”
“They’re just dresses.”
“Just dresses? They’re not just dresses. They’re tea gowns. Expensive ones. What will I do?” She pressed her hands to her face, nauseated at the thought of how much this would cost.
“I’m sorry,” he said more gently. “I wasn’t thinking of their value. Let me help. Since the whole thing is my fault, I’ll replace them. Is there a store in town that sells comparable gowns?”
Ruth shook her head.
“Then let me bring you some catalogs tomorrow.”
“No!” Even though Mrs. Vanderloo had bought these from a catalog, she would insist Ruth replicate them exactly, using the same or better materials at no charge.
His forehead furrowed. “I assure you that the catalogs are from the finest stores. Select any gowns you wish. Cost doesn’t matter.”
If cost didn’t matter, then he must indeed be rich.
“I couldn’t.”
“Nonsense.” He held the unmarred sleeve of the georgette gown next to her arm. “If I may make a suggestion, I’d choose a different color. Ivory doesn’t suit your fair complexion. Rose would better bring out the color in your cheeks.”
“But—” Ruth began to protest that the dresses weren’t hers when the peculiarity of his statement struck her. Few men could tell rose from blush. To most, both were pink. Yet this stranger clearly knew the full range of colors and hues. “Are you an artist? It’s not every day that I meet a man who understands color.”
He laughed. “Who doesn’t like a little color? Don’t worry. I’ll set things right. What do you say? Will you let me buy the dresses?”
The offer was incredible, especially when Ruth was to blame. “That’s not necessary—”
“Of course it is. We’ll get two that highlight your fine features.”
“But you don’t understand. The dresses aren’t mine. You see, I’m a seamstress, and these belong to a customer. I was supposed to deliver them before five o’clock so she’d have them for her garden party tonight.” Ruth broke off, acutely aware that she’d started blathering.
The man glanced at the Fox Dress Shop sign over the door, and a look of dismay crossed his face before he reined it in with a taut smile. “Then I’ll let your client choose the replacements.”
“You would do that?” Ruth tried to wrap her mind around such generosity. “But it isn’t your fault, and Mrs. Vanderloo is quite particular.”
&n
bsp; The corners of his eyes crinkled in a way that suggested he smiled often. “Of course she is. But together we can persuade her that it’s to her best advantage to accept the replacements.”
Together? He was going to go to Mrs. Vanderloo’s house with her?
She must have been standing with her mouth agape, because that smile of his turned into a grin.
“I ran into you,” he said. “It’s only fair that I offer the apology.” He extended an arm. “Shall we?”
Ruth couldn’t breathe. This handsome, wealthy stranger wanted to escort her down Main Street in front of everyone. No man had ever done that, and this one didn’t even know her. Such a thing was not done. Tongues would wag. Ruth pressed her hands to her hot cheeks and pretended to check her hat in the window. Behind her, the stranger still held the dresses, and inside the shop her sisters grinned like monkeys.
They thought she was flirting.
She whirled away from the window and straight into the arms of the handsome man. Oh, no! She’d done it again.
“I’m sorry.” She backed away, her face blazing hot. “I didn’t realize you were standing so close. I—I was just checking my hat.” She patted it for emphasis.
The elegant suit, the gold cuff links, the silk handkerchief. A man like him would never be interested in a wallflower like her.
“You look quite presentable.” His easy smile warmed her in the most unnerving way.
It was just a compliment, she told herself. Nothing more. She was the one who’d let reason fly away on the wind. No doubt Jen’s ridiculous marriage idea had precipitated such lunacy. He just happened to match her criteria exactly. What if...? Ruth shook her head. Instead of fantasizing about relationships that could never happen, she should concentrate on the business at hand.
Mrs. Vanderloo was her customer. Ruth should handle the situation alone, but the man’s offer of two new dresses might appease the difficult client. The dress shop couldn’t afford to lose her business. Ruth had no choice but to accept. Of course, she would pay him back for the gowns. That should settle the matter.
“All right. I accept.” She might have to concede that point, but she didn’t need to take his arm. “I’d better lead the way.”
* * *
Sam Rothenburg’s day had progressed from bad to worse. First, the train had been late. Then he’d arrived at the store to find construction days behind schedule. When Miss Harris, the secretary, told him that his father was threatening to make a progress inspection, he had to find a way to spur the out-of-town crews to work faster, or Father would yank him off the project. Sam had proposed this store. He had to make it work.
He’d promised the work crews a bonus for finishing early, and they’d sped up. Then three crewmen dropped an expensive display case, shattering the glass and snapping the oak framing. Sam had left rather than lash out at the workmen. Head down and boiling with frustration, he never saw the shy, delicate creature step out of her shop.
She looked a few years younger than him. She was slender and rather plainly attired, and her gaze fluttered this way and that but never directly at him, rather like a frightened bird. Sam had never considered himself intimidating. The thought almost made him laugh. If she only knew how powerless he was. But she didn’t know him. No one here did. Per Father’s orders, no one would until after the store opened.
So he withheld his name and hoped she hadn’t seen his dismay when he learned she was a dressmaker. The moment Father realized a dress shop stood next to the future site of Hutton’s Department Store, he would crush it. Sam felt a little guilty. This lovely woman would soon find herself out of a job. That was why he’d offered to replace the gowns. It didn’t cost much to ease his conscience.
She hadn’t accepted his arm, however, showing an independent streak that impressed him.
He hurried to catch her. “You’re quick on your feet.”
She ignored his comment. “I suppose I ought to know who you are.” Her gaze never left the boardwalk ahead.
Sam swallowed his initial concern. This lady couldn’t possibly know who he was or what type of store would soon open next to hers. Father would not have given the Pearlman city council the Rothenburg name, thus no one could know a Hutton’s Department Store was opening in Pearlman. Father liked to make a spectacle of every grand opening. That was why the store windows were covered and an out-of-town crew hired. He even went so far as to use a holding company to purchase the property. Well before the Hutton’s Department Store sign was revealed, people’s curiosity would be piqued. It was a marketing ploy that had worked well in the past, and Sam expected it would generate the same response here. For now, no one must know the Rothenburgs were involved, including one lovely dressmaker.
“You can call me Sam.” No last name just yet. When pressed, he’d use Roth, but the shortened version of their name that they’d adopted during the Great War never sat well on his tongue.
“Sam.” On her lips his plain name soared. “Samuel. Like the Old Testament prophet.” Faint pink still tinged her fair cheeks. “I’m Ruth. Ruth Fox.”
Fox Dress Shop. With dismay, Sam realized she must own it. The unease returned. The arrival of a Hutton’s Department Store tended to drive local clothing stores into extinction. His family’s stores gave the common man or woman the chance to improve his or her station in life by providing fashion at affordable prices. Thanks to Hutton’s, a housekeeper could dress like a Vanderbilt at a fraction of the cost. In the past, only the well-off could afford to hire a seamstress or tailor. Those wealthy clients could continue with their hometown shop, but they usually abandoned the local tailor for the quality and value of Hutton’s merchandise. Progress was inevitable. It could also be painful.
“Ruth.” Repeating her name distracted him from the guilt. “Like in the Old Testament.” He could use biblical references, too.
“I was named after her. Ruth left her homeland to remain with her mother-in-law.”
“Did you do that also?”
She blushed. “I’m not married. No mother-in-law.”
“Yet.” He loved the rosy color that infused her cheeks. “If I remember correctly, the Old Testament Ruth didn’t stay widowed.”
A faint smile graced her lips. “Naomi did arrange for Ruth to meet her kinsman, Boaz, and he did marry her.”
“Don’t I recall that Naomi had to use a little inventive persuasion to get Boaz to notice Ruth?” Sam glanced over to see this Ruth’s cheeks ablaze. With such an alabaster complexion, every flush showed. A wisp of her honeyed hair floated free from the knot at her nape and streamed onto her shoulder. He wanted to tuck it behind her ear, an urge he hadn’t felt in eight years. Since Lillian...
Ruth ducked her head. “Perhaps.”
For some reason that he couldn’t discover, this conversation embarrassed her. He shifted to another topic. “Ruth’s a pretty name.”
“It’s plain, just like...”
Though she didn’t finish the sentence, he could guess what she’d intended to say. Just like me. But she wasn’t plain, not in the least. If only she could see how lovely she was, not in the gaudy manner of socialites, but in a natural, God-given way.
“Hello, Ruthie, dear.” A short and rather round older woman hobbled up to them with the assistance of a cane.
“Mrs. Simmons. How are you?”
Ruth addressed the woman with so much warmth that Sam took notice. Was this how small-town people treated each other? Fragments of a childhood memory came to mind. A pretty little town blanketed in snow. The glow of lights. The cheerful greetings of shopkeepers. Father laughing, holding him up to a shop window. Sam had felt loved, wanted, as if he belonged. Maybe Pearlman was like that.
Ruth stooped to embrace the older woman. “Is your knee bothering you again? I thought it was healed from your fall last winter.”
“Oh, i
t is. It is.” The woman chuckled. “You know how it is with rheumatism. Sometimes the old legs don’t work quite the way they ought. But enough of me. How is your father doing?”
Ruth’s smile faded. “We haven’t heard from Mother yet. She left for Battle Creek on Monday.”
Sam pretended to examine the merchandise in the drugstore window.
“Do you know when he’ll be coming home from the hospital, dear?”
Ruth’s father must be very ill if he required hospitalization. That meant the family needed the dress shop’s income even more. Sam shoved aside the guilt. It wasn’t his problem.
Mrs. Simmons grasped Ruth’s hand. “I’ve been praying for him.”
Prayer? Sam shot a sideways glance at the woman, whose round face glowed with hope and compassion. That was exactly what his mother would say.
“Thank you.” Ruth ducked her head, something she did far too frequently. “Daddy can use everyone’s prayers. We hope to get a wire from Mother soon.”
If Ruth were waiting for a wire, then they didn’t have a telephone yet. Incomprehensible. How could a business operate these days without telephone service? He shook his head. If the Foxes didn’t step into the twentieth century, their dress shop was sure to fail, Hutton’s or no Hutton’s.
“I’ll be sure to let you know,” Ruth continued. “We’re hoping for good news.”
“I’m sure you’ll get it,” Mrs. Simmons said. “I understand the sanitarium has exceptional treatment for his condition.”
Sanitarium? Mrs. Simmons must mean sanatorium. A sanatorium meant Ruth’s father suffered from a contagious and life-threatening illness like tuberculosis. He might never come home. Each word the two women uttered made his stomach roil more. Father’s marketing ploy hung over the Foxes like an invisible weight. When the department store opened in two weeks, their livelihood would be hopelessly crippled.
That wasn’t his concern. He was here to open a store. Provide quality clothing at an inexpensive price. Hutton’s brought economic benefit to the masses. It gave people more for their hard-earned money. He couldn’t let one little dress shop derail progress.
A Hero in the Making (Brides of Simpson Creek Book 7) Page 25
