The Coach House

by Florence Osmund

  What did she know about Denver? Not very much. The Mile High City. Rocky Mountains. Home of the Old West and the U.S. Mint. Weather similar to Chicago’s. And more pressing, Richard had never mentioned it.

  She had never lived around mountains before. She recalled her and Richard’s trip to Aspen and how surprised she was after arriving as to how much she enjoyed it. She wondered if Denver was similar. It was a big move she was about to make, and as she stared at the departure board, she tried to rid her mind of what she would be leaving behind—the good and the bad.

  As she studied the board, Marie caught a glimpse of a man lurking around the perimeter of the room. Dressed in a dark suit, tie, and hat, at first it was his suspicious movements that caught her attention as he walked several feet and then disappeared behind a pillar. When he turned his head, she thought he might be an acquaintance of Richard’s.

  She watched him for several more seconds. He was definitely looking for someone. Coincidence? I don’t think so.

  Marie rushed up to the first available ticket agent. “One-way ticket to Kansas City, please,” she blurted out looking at the first town listed on the departure board.

  “That will be leaving on track thirteen in eight minutes.”

  Ticket in hand, Marie pulled the floppy brimmed hat out of her bag and walked as fast as possible in the direction of the trains. Out of breath, she plopped down in the first vacant seat on the train, next to the window. She bowed her head and closed her eyes for a few long seconds trying to compose herself and clear her mind. When she opened her eyes and looked up, a feeling of tranquility clothed her like a veil, compelling her to smile—that is, until she looked out the window at the man she recognized from inside the station.

  He stood within twenty-five feet of her. He looked up and down the track but not up and into the window where she was sitting. She smiled at the thought that he may just be some average guy having nothing to do with Richard or her. I need to stop being so paranoid.

  It was a twelve-hour train ride with stops in Peoria, Des Moines, and Lincoln. Marie watched the other passengers: businessmen, soldiers, young lovers, and families. She was the only single female in the car, making her own situation feel that much more pathetic.

  She fell half asleep to the relentless rhythm of the staunch train wheels riding on top of the rails. Her fatigued mind made up rhyming words to their sound.

  Clickety clack. I’m on the right track.

  Clickety clack. I won’t go back.

  Clickety clack. White and black.

  Clickety clack. Clickety clack.

  Marie pulled out the Chicago Tribune she had picked up at the train station. “Start Palestine Invasion” read the headline. She turned to the back page to look at the picture of youths dancing on the streets of New York under a Jewish flag proclaiming the new state of Israel in Palestine. She read a few articles on the front page: “Hostages Seized by Meat Union Strikers,” “Father Flanagan of Boys Town Dies in Berlin,” “Reverend Gowan Willimas Assaulted in Lincoln Park.”

  Then she saw it, buried on page seven, next to a Gasoline Alley cartoon.

  Sixty-three-year-old Lillian Strauss was found shaken but physically unhurt in her home at 4211 North Pickens on Thursday. Evidence of a possible break-in is currently being investigated.

  She had glanced at the address on the front of the house before she left it and was pretty sure it had been 4211. So there had been someone inside. And she was shaken. But she’s okay. She closed her eyes and tried to think of something else. Anything else. But all she could think of was a sixty-three-year-old woman being surprised by someone breaking into her home. Marie thought about all the noises she made the first day she was there—breaking the window, dragging the table she used to block the window, the table falling. How terrified the poor woman must have felt.

  The paper said the break-in was being investigated. Had she left anything behind that could tie her to it? She couldn’t think of anything. Feeling guilty and ashamed for what she had done, yet grateful for the much needed respite, she tried to get the mental image of a frightened sixty-three-year-old out of her mind. Marie wondered where the old woman could have been hiding while she was in her home for all that time.

  Thoughts of everyone she had let down at Marshall Field’s tormented her—Mr. Bakersfield, Esther, Catherine, especially Catherine who had shown unwavering faith in her from the very beginning. How can I ever face them again? She wondered what they thought about her, how they were covering her position at the store. She hoped Esther was okay. I have to do something to rectify the situation. She dozed off before she could formulate any further thoughts.

  Marie rubbed her eyes after waking up for the umpteenth time between cat naps. She looked out the window. “Welcome To Kansas, the Sunflower State!” the sign read. Wheat fields were as far as she could see in every direction. She watched them in a trancelike state for several miles until the conductor announced the Kansas City stop.

  The train station paled in comparison with Chicago’s Union Station. No more than a couple thousand square feet, it was comprised of one ticket agent, seating for maybe twenty-five people, and a run-down newsstand. Marie bought a local paper and took a seat in the rear of the room, away from the other people. She turned to the real estate section.

  ROOM FOR RENT

  1401 Crane Blvd

  $11 per week

  KC3-1-455

  A middle-aged woman sat down beside her. Marie felt the woman looking over her shoulder and glanced over at her. Her face was pale, almost lifeless. Marie gave her a sympathetic smile and resumed her reading.

  “I would stay away from that part of town,” the woman said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “That neighborhood isn’t for you.” She pointed to the room-for-rent ad and shook her head.

  “Where should I look?”

  “It will cost more, but I would either go to Atchison or St. Joe’s, somewhere up in that area. Beautiful neighborhoods and safe ones, too. Where are you from, dear?”

  Marie gave the woman a curious look. “Chicago.”

  “Running from someone, are you?” The woman’s eyes were vacant but sincere.

  Marie hesitated. “Why do you ask that?”

  The woman gave her a faint smile. “I’ve been around long enough to tell when someone is scared and feeling all alone. They’re usually running to or from something.”

  Marie guarded any reaction to the woman’s words. “Are there busses that go to Atchison?”

  “I’m sure there are, but I don’t know much about them. The agent might be able to help you.”

  Marie got up from the bench and extended her hand to the woman. “Thank you for your help. I appreciate it.”

  The woman’s hand was cold and limp. “Good luck to you, honey.”

  The agent gave Marie the information she needed for the bus ride to Atchison, and when she looked back at the bench where she had been sitting, it was empty. She turned back to the agent and asked him what he knew about Atchison.

  “Charming little town,” he told her. “Right on the Missouri River. Lots of old Victorian homes, horses, and parks. It was Amelia Earhart’s birthplace, you know,” he boasted. “Some beautiful churches up there as well. Be sure to check out St. Benedict’s Abbey if you go there.”

  Marie thanked the man and headed toward the bus station, three blocks away. She thought about the doleful woman on the bench and wondered if she had been sent to her by some higher power. She regretted not getting her name.

  It was an hour bus ride. The countryside was largely wheat fields interrupted only by an occasional cattle farm or stretch of prairie. As they neared Atchison, horse farms dotted the roadsides, and as they neared the center of town, it became more residential—a far cry from Chicago. Probably a good thing.

  The train station agent had been right. Lots of old Victorian homes painted in lavish, colored paint complete with wraparound porches, hanging baskets, and window boxes in full blo
om. Wrought-iron porch furniture provided a quaint setting for that early morning cup of coffee or evening glass of wine in the wake of the setting sun.

  The bus stop was in the center of town. Marie found a drug store, bought the local paper, and walked across the street to a small park. It was almost four o’clock. There were no rooms for rent in the real estate section. She flipped through the rest of the paper and found several ads for bed and breakfast. One in particular caught her eye.

  Al & Rita’s Bed & Breakfast

  $4 per night

  Adjoining antique store

  AT6-9035

  Marie called the number and was told there were vacancies.

  She walked down cool tree-lined streets to the B&B, breathing in the air that was fragrant with mid-May flowers, the breeze soft and refreshing on her face. A cardinal sang its signature tune from high up in a tree welcoming Marie to the neighborhood. Could it be the sky was brighter here, the trees greener? The innocent laughter of a child ringing out from behind one of the homes interrupted her thoughts. She smiled blissfully as she continued down the sidewalk. This could be it—my new home.

  A thirty-something woman in a wheelchair greeted Marie at the B&B. Slumped way down in the chair, her shoulders so uneven, Marie wondered how she could keep her head up straight for any length of time.

  “Hello. I’m Rita. How can I help you?”

  “I’m Marie Costa. I called a few minutes ago looking for a room.” She hadn’t thought about using a fictitious name before blurting out her real name and hoped she didn’t later regret it.

  “Ah, yes. Come right this way.” The foyer of the home was spacious, easily accommodating the baby grand piano, two love seats, and a large buffet. The natural wood floors and woodwork provided a warm and inviting background for all the antique furniture. Marie’s interior design background kicked in. With a few minor changes, this house could be a showplace.

  Marie followed Rita to the registration area. A portion of the counter had been cut out and lowered so she could comfortably work from her chair.

  “How many nights will you be staying with us?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll be looking for something more permanent in town, and I don’t know how long that will take. At least a week I would think.”

  Rita looked up at Marie, curiously. “Well, you can have your choice of a room on the second floor that faces the street or the room on the third floor that faces the back of the house. I can give them to you for the same price.”

  Marie took the third floor room, which had been furnished with a plantation décor that hadn’t quite hit the mark in Marie’s opinion. Still, it was fairly large and antiseptically clean. She hung her modest collection of clothing in the closet and put her other things in the dresser drawers.

  The backyard was expansive, and Marie’s bird’s-eye view allowed her to see it in its entirety. A walkway, flanked by small trees led to a pond at the back of the property, fifty yards or so from the house. A screened-in summerhouse was situated near it.

  Marie hadn’t eaten since breakfast and decided to venture out into the business district to find a restaurant. But first she went into the B&B’s detached garage that had been converted into an antique store. No one was inside, so she rang the bell on the counter at the front of the shop.

  A variety of items had been placed in display cases, on shelves, and on pieces of furniture. Others had been haphazardly deposited on the floor. Good quality antiques were mixed in with what some people considered junk. There didn’t appear to be any rhyme or reason as to how items were displayed.

  “Hi! Can I help you?” Rita wheeled her chair toward Marie. “Oh, it’s you. Did you find your room satisfactory?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s very nice. I thought I would browse your antiques before finding a place to get some dinner.”

  “Well, I’m afraid I don’t pay much attention to this place, so excuse the mess. It’s all I can do to keep up with the B&B.”

  “You must be very busy.”

  “That I am.” Rita’s voice trailed off to another place. “If you’re not fussy, I can put together a sandwich for you. That’s what I was going to fix for myself anyway.”

  “Oh, no. I couldn’t impose on you. I’ll just find a place in town to get something.”

  “Okay, but it wouldn’t be an imposition. Besides, maybe I can be of help in your finding a permanent place to live. I’ve been here my whole life and know a fair number of people.” She smiled. “And, I wouldn’t mind the company.”

  Marie was grateful for the offer. “Well, okay then. You’re on!”

  Marie finished looking around the shop and followed Rita to the kitchen in the main house where everything had been modified to accommodate her wheelchair.

  They chatted while Rita prepared the sandwiches. “How long have you been doing this?” Marie asked.

  “The B&B you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “My husband and I bought it fifteen years ago.”

  “Oh. So the two of you manage it together? That’s nice.”

  “Well, we did for the first five years. Then we were involved in a car accident. He died, and I ended up in this thing.”

  Marie looked at Rita’s solemn face. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Please don’t feel sorry for me. I manage. Where did you come from, Marie?”

  “Chicago.”

  “And what are you looking for here?”

  Safety. “What do you mean?”

  Rita looked at her a little closer. “Are you looking for an apartment? A house? A job?”

  “An apartment…and yes, a job as well.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Well, my education is in interior design, but if I can’t find a job like that here, I’m pretty willing to try anything. I need to support myself.”

  “Hmmm.” Rita wheeled herself over to her desk on the other side of the kitchen. She came back with two index cards. She handed one to Marie. “Julia and Wayne Edwards own a big old Victorian home on Third Street. Maybe five blocks from here. There’s a coach house in the back, and I know their tenant just moved out. It’s a charming little place. You might want to look into it.” She handed Marie the other card. “Francine Baker is a well-known interior designer in Kansas City. Tell her I gave you her name. She might be able to help you find a job.”

  Marie wrote down the contact information. “You are wonderful, Rita. I don’t know quite how to thank you.”

  “You don’t?”

  Marie looked at her quizzically. “Just say the word.”

  “You’ve seen the disaster of a decorating job I’ve done in this place. Could you improve it without spending any money?”

  “Yes. I’m sure I could.”

  “Then I’ll tell you what. You make improvements to one room, and if I like what I see, I’ll let you stay here for half price for as long as it takes you to do all eleven rooms. What do you think?”

  She extended her hand to Rita. “I think we’ve got ourselves a deal.”

  Marie dressed for bed as soon as she got to her room and sat on the love seat near the rear window that overlooked the backyard. It was dusk, and the tail end of a sunset could be seen in the distance, its ribbons of pink and red slowly disappearing behind the trees. She curled her legs up under her body and rested her chin on her knees.

  After twenty minutes of mindless staring out the window, Marie re-dressed and walked two blocks to Riverside Liquors. Several minutes later, she emerged, brown paper bag in hand, and retreated to the B&B. She poured herself a healthy portion of Cabernet Sauvignon. Limited money notwithstanding, she was going to enjoy a glass of wine.

  The wine relaxed her. There was no television in her room, but there was a radio. The Andrew Sisters were almost finished singing “Underneath the Arches.”

  Pavement is my pillow

  No matter where I stray

  Underneath the arches

  I dream my dreams away

  She thought about
the lyrics. I will not dream my dreams away. I don’t care what it takes, I will not hide underneath the arches and let my life pass me by.

  The wine took effect, and before she finished the second glass, she was fast asleep, still curled up on the love seat. Her last thoughts were not of what she had left behind but rather what her future might hold.

  * * *

  The sound of chirping birds wakened her. Marie stretched her arms out first and then her back and finally her legs, trying to get all the kinks out. Eight o’clock. She had just enough time to bathe and get down to breakfast before Rita closed the kitchen.

  The square oak table situated in the middle of the dining room sat twenty-four people, six on each side. Sparkling white dishes on lime-green placemats had been meticulously placed around the table. Flowered linen napkins lay across each plate, no two alike. Each place setting included five pieces of silverware, a water glass, a juice glass, and a coffee cup. In the center of the table was an elaborate candelabrum.

  A dozen or so guests were busily eating breakfast. Marie took a seat near the corner of the table next to a smartly dressed woman. She introduced herself to the woman and waited for a reply, but got none. The woman concentrated solely on her food.

  Marie turned to her left and smiled at a man sporting a grey business suit but didn’t say anything to him. He returned a weak smile.

  A young woman dressed in a black shirtwaist dress and spotless crisp white apron entered the room and walked over to Marie. The waitress asked her what she wanted for breakfast. They were the only two speaking in the room. No one else uttered a single word, which Marie thought to be strange.

  She looked around the room and caught the eye of an older man sitting at the other end of the table. Slightly balding, a little overweight, he looked to be in his sixties. He threw his glance toward the back of the room, toward the window facing the back of the house. He nodded. Marie nodded back.