Brides of Virginia

by Hake, Cathy Marie

  “Mama says you have exquisite yardage.” The younger one flashed him a guileless smile.

  “How kind of her to say so.” He secretly wondered which one was which, but he didn’t dare ask. Judging from the way Lula Mae had waxed poetic on Patience’s domestic talents, he presumed she was the elder one with the sulky expression.

  Lula Mae gushed, “I’m sure my daughters have never seen such lovely trims either. Why, you have a positively wondrous selection of lace, ribbons, and buttons.”

  “I’m glad you think so, Mrs. Evert. Take your time, ladies.” He gestured toward the area he’d created for the fabrics, patterns, and sewing notions. “I’m sure you’ll find something to your liking.”

  The taller daughter let out a beleaguered sigh. “Sewing is ever so dreary, Mama. Can’t you hire a seamstress like Julia’s mother?”

  Garret couldn’t hear what Lula Mae whispered back, but from the set of her jaw, he could tell she wasn’t about to put up with her daughter’s plan.

  A buxom woman who longingly ran her fingers over the Singer treadle sewing machine Garret had on display offered, “I’d be willing to sew for you. I’m planning to turn my parlor into a seamstress shop.”

  “Thank you, Lacey,” Lula Mae said as she cast her daughter a quelling look, “but my daughters are quite adept at sewing.”

  The older daughter scowled; the shorter daughter continued to smile. She was cute in how she didn’t mind that her front teeth overlapped just a bit. Garret didn’t doubt that in another year, her mama would instill a self-consciousness about that sweet flaw and drill her until she habitually spoke and laughed behind a gloved hand. For now, though, she reminded him of a little bunny. She scooted into the corner and started to look through the patterns while her sister huffed her dissatisfaction at each bolt of fabric her mother pulled out.

  Garret made a mental note about Patience. If the attitude she displayed now was her usual, she wasn’t the sort of woman he’d want to share a box supper with, let alone marry. Every pattern required too much work, and each length of fabric elicited a disdainful rejection.

  Finally the younger Miss Evert turned and huffed at her. “Honestly, Patience, if you don’t care, I’ll pick out something I like. All your dresses get passed down to me, so one of us may as well be happy.”

  Oh, so I was right. The younger one is Charity. Garret smothered a smile as Patience developed a sudden interest in a length of blue she termed “robin’s egg.”

  “Don’t you think this will be ravishing on Patience, Mr. Diamond?” Lula Mae draped a yard around Patience, who glowered at him.

  “Pretty as a peacock.”

  “Same color as one, too,” Zeb said from over by the nail barrel.

  Patience shoved away the fabric. “I don’t care if he’s rich, Mama. I’m not—”

  “Shh!” Lula Mae fumbled with the bolt and dropped it. Squeezing her daughter’s arm to silence her was obviously more important than fine taffeta.

  Snorting with glee, Zeb dumped the nails back into the barrel and folded his arms across his chest. Two ladies standing by the canned goods whispered to one another behind their hands, and Garret hadn’t ever been more thankful for the chime on the door. It gave him an excuse to turn away. Saved by the bell.

  “Isn’t it the most gorgeous day?” Rose struggled to fit a pair of baskets into the door. She couldn’t seem to look up from them long enough to do more than laugh. Oh, and she laughed so freely. Even with her hands empty, she wouldn’t lift one to cover her mouth.

  Garret started toward her, but she finally wiggled through. A breeze shut the door behind her, and she tried to take a step, only to have giggles spill out of her.

  “Rose, whatever is so entertaining?” Mrs. Kiersty tipped back her head so she could see beneath the brim of her flower-and-ribbon-bedecked straw hat, then looked over the edge of her spectacles.

  “I seem to be stuck.” Rose shoved one basket into Mrs. Kiersty’s hands and the other into Garret’s. She twisted to the side, opened the door, and yanked in the portion of her brown paisley skirt that had gotten trapped. Yards of the fabric swept in. What was once probably a pretty gown now qualified as hopelessly bedraggled. It was clean as could be, but the triple row of golden ribbons encircling the hem had puckered, and the hem itself was frayed. Rose didn’t seem aware of those flaws. She smoothed the skirt and announced, “There’s quite a breeze kicking up.”

  “Peaches and apricots,” Mrs. Kiersty whispered in an oddly rough tone. Garret figured her voice still sounded faint and gravelly from her bout with quinsy. She intently inspected what lay under the basket’s blue-and-purple-checkered cloth.

  “Fresh from your trees, I presume,” Cordelia said as she came over.

  “Oh yes. I just picked them. You’ll never imagine what I found while I was picking them!”

  Garret felt the basket in his hands move at the same time he heard a small sound. He glanced down and didn’t need to imagine. He could see the answer for himself. “Kittens.”

  “Yes!” Rose lifted a calico bit of fluff and held it high for him to inspect. “Have you ever seen anything so adorable?”

  “Rose dear, you don’t bring wild little animals inside. Certainly, you don’t take them into the mercantile.” Mrs. Kiersty set aside the basket of fruit and snatched the kitten from her hands by the scruff of the neck. She dumped the mewling baby back into the basket and clucked her tongue. “It’s just not done.”

  Garret agreed—in principle. He just didn’t like the way the old biddy plowed in and took charge without regard to Rose’s feelings. “He is cute, Rose, but perhaps—”

  “Gotta be a she-cat.” Zeb sauntered over. “Calico cats are always females.”

  “Everyone’s saying the mice are particularly bad this year.” Cordelia Orrick picked up a bottle of bluing. Garret presumed she’d also need to buy all of the ingredients for making more laundry soap for her new laundry venture. She set it back down and came over to look at the kittens. He made a mental note to help her gather up all of the necessary chemicals—ammonia, salts of tartar, potash…just as soon as I coax Rose to take her furry little creatures back outside where they belong.

  It made perfect sense for a mercantile to have a mature cat that would prowl the premises at night to keep vermin away. A mouser was a valuable asset; a playful kitten that could tangle yarn, fall into storage bins, or streak out of nowhere and make customers stumble would be a disaster.

  Unfortunately, Rose seemed blissfully unaware that Mrs. Kiersty was right and the basket of kittens ought to go. Instead, she petted each kitten with just her forefinger as she told him, “Garret, I heard Tom Cat passed on, and I was sure you’d want one for your back porch to protect your merchandise. You get pick of the litter!”

  “You heard about old Tom Cat?”

  “Prentice told me. He was terribly upset.”

  Garret nodded. Just about every afternoon, he’d find Prentice sitting out on the back porch of the mercantile. The boy would have the tattered old tabby on his lap or lazing beside him. The visit never lasted more than ten minutes, but the day old Tom died and Garret saw Prentice’s face, he knew the cat had meant more to the boy than he’d realized. He’d knelt down to comfort Prentice, but the little guy had sobbed a name and ran away. He knew the little boy had gone to Rose for comfort.

  “Why don’t I let Prentice choose and keep my cat?” There. Nice solution. Diplomatic. Everyone ought to be satisfied.

  “Cats make Hugo sneeze and itch.” Rose smiled at him. “They can’t have one, but it’s kind of you to offer.”

  Garret couldn’t resist. He reached down and petted the calico. “He could keep one at your house.”

  Rose continued to smile. “I kept the runt.”

  “Isn’t that just like you?” Patience Evert simpered.

  Garret looked at the young woman and could see by her patently insincere smile that she’d not meant it in a complimentary way, but her mother gushed, “It is. Rose has a soft
spot in her heart for anything or anyone that’s … different.”

  “Why, thank you, Lula Mae.” Rose smiled at her.

  “Mama, isn’t the tabby cute?” Charity wiggled through the knot of people and scooped one of the pale orange ones out of the basket. She lifted it and giggled as he started to climb up her sleeve.

  “You’re ruining your dress,” Patience snapped.

  “Don’t let it near your collar.” Lula Mae flapped her hands fretfully. “His claws will shred the lace.”

  “And that’s Belgian lace,” Mrs. Kiersty whispered as she adjusted her spectacles and repinned her hat farther back on her head. She leaned in so she could see it better. “I remember that piece from when you made it for Patience. Pretty as a snowflake.”

  “And it was stylish back then,” Patience tacked on.

  Rose reached over and covered Charity’s hand with her own so they both stroked the kitten together. “Style may be fleeting, but beauty and grace are eternal.”

  “That’s what I taught my daughters, too.” Mrs. Kiersty bobbed her head so emphatically that Garret marveled her hat didn’t flip off and roll away. Surely that one hatpin wasn’t designed to withstand such a challenge. She glared pointedly at the basket, which held only one kitten now since Cordelia cupped the other tabby to herself and Zeb was tickling it with its own white-tipped tail. “But I taught them that animals belong outside.”

  Garret fished out the calico Rose had originally held out to him and set aside the empty basket. “These are fine little beasts.” I don’t want a cat.

  “Aren’t they?” Rose beamed at him.

  “Mama, could I keep this one?” Charity gave her mother a pleading look. “I’ll give up having a new dress.”

  Whoops. This little basket of trouble is cutting into my business. I need to get it out of here.

  “You don’t need a cat.” Her mother took the kitten from her. “You need a dress.”

  Whew.

  The tabby rubbed his head back and forth against Lula Mae. The woman melted faster than a chip of ice in the sun. “Aww. He is a precious little thing.”

  “Mr. Diamond, you were to choose first.” Cordelia Orrick looked like she’d burst into tears if he took the tabby she held.

  “I don’t need a cat. Why don’t you take that one? He certainly looks at home in your arms.”

  Cordelia perked up. “Oh, and since Rose found him in a peach tree and he’s this color, I’ll name him Mr. Peaches!”

  “And ours can be called Apricot—Cottie for short,” Charity decided.

  “Two down, one to go.” Zeb looked pointedly at the one in Garret’s hands.

  “I just said I didn’t want a cat. Why don’t you take him, Zeb?”

  Zeb held his hands out, palms upward. “Nuh-unh.”

  Garret raised his brows. “How about you, Mrs. Kiersty? Wouldn’t you enjoy this little ball of fur when you’re out in that handsome garden you’ve planted?”

  For a moment, her face lit up.

  Hurrah! Did it. That was easy enough.

  “I said no, and she lives and works at my boardinghouse.” Zeb’s words cut short Garret’s premature self-congratulations.

  “He’d dig up my garden anyway,” Mrs. Kiersty said with a sigh. “I used fish in the mulch.” Zeb took her arm and pulled her toward the door. They scurried out as if Garret would chase her down and slip the cat under her hat if she didn’t get away fast enough. The other two ladies who had been twittering behind their hands and the one by the sewing machine followed in their tracks.

  The little calico kitten started to purr loudly. The vibrations beneath Garret’s fingertips enticed him to continue stroking her.

  “I need to check in on Mrs. Kendricks, Garret. Remember when her son, Trevor, stopped in to buy embroidery floss for her? She’s still unwell. Even if you don’t want to give that kitten a home, could you keep her for an hour or so?”

  He cleared his throat and nodded.

  “Thank you.” Rose picked up the fruit basket, and Cordelia grabbed hold of her arm.

  “I’ll walk with you. You can stop in for a moment to see my new washer. It’s a Number Three Western Star!”

  They left, and Lula Mae clasped the tabby to her bodice. “Since Patience can’t decide on material, we’ll just take this baby home and settle him in.”

  The door closed, and Garret looked around the store. Empty. Completely empty. He’d had seven—no, eight—customers in here just moments ago. He lifted the calico kitten so they were nose to nose. It let out a tiny meow and continued to purr loudly.

  “Stop sounding so content. Everyone just left, and not a one of them bought a single thing.”

  Chapter 8

  Garret, I’m afraid I owe you an apology,” Rose said as she hurried up to the mercantile.

  Garret stopped sweeping the boardwalk and turned to face her. His brows knit. “I beg your pardon?”

  Rose laughed. “You have that backward. I was begging your pardon. I got busy with Mrs. Kendricks and lost track of the time. You’ve been stuck playing nanny for a kitten you don’t want.”

  He folded both hands on the end of the broom and extended his arms fully. The sleeve fabric pulled until the green-and-black-striped garters no longer left even the slightest ripple in the length. Other than the barber, who always looked awkward and silly as he swept, Rose couldn’t think of any other man she’d seen with a broom in his hands. Garret managed to make the broom look every bit as masculine a tool as a rifle or an ax.

  Rose batted away a ribbon from her hat that fluttered against her cheek. “I came to collect the kitten and hope you’ll accept an invitation to supper as restitution.”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “Yes, on what—what we’re having for supper. And if you’re making one of your scrumptious cobblers for dessert. Minding kittens isn’t without its dangers.”

  “Oh no!” Terrible images of what havoc the kitten must have wreaked in the store flashed before her eyes. “What did the kitty do?”

  “Nothing too terrible. Just kept me on my toes. She seems to like tight places.”

  “Tight places?” Rose echoed back the words and had a sick feeling inside.

  Garret shrugged and took a few last swipes with the broom. “She tried to hide behind the shovels and such. While I picked them up, she crept behind the brooms.”

  Rose groaned. She could picture it all vividly—shovels, hoes, and rakes tumbling down. “I’m ever so sorry, Garret.”

  “Her adventures tired her out. She took a nice nap.”

  Rose let out a small sigh of relief.

  “On the blankets. Scared Mrs. Blanchard out of a year’s growth, I’m afraid.”

  Dread laced her words. “Where is she now?”

  “Mrs. Blanchard or the kitten?”

  “Both.” That one word stuck in her throat and came out like she was being strangled.

  Garret opened the door and motioned her inside. She’d just begun to cross the threshold when he said, “Mrs. Blanchard is at home with a new bottle of smelling salts.”

  “Smelling salts?”

  “I’ll have to order more. They were quite effective.” He set the broom in the corner and wiped his hands on a damp dishcloth he had hanging from a wooden ring by the counter.

  Rose’s nose twitched. The mercantile used to smell mostly of dust. At the grand opening, she’d noticed a wonderful mingling of lemon and beeswax, pickles, new leather, and fresh apples and oranges. This morning, it had carried that same delicious mix of aromas. Now all she could smell was dill.

  Garret leaned his hips against the counter and rested his hands on either side of him. He looked utterly relaxed as he casually stated, “Pickle is upstairs in my bedroom.”

  “Pickle?” Rose’s head swiveled to the side. The three-gallon glass jar that usually rested on the far side of the counter was gone. The dill smell permeating the mercantile suddenly made sense. She covered her face with both hands and
burst out laughing.

  Ten minutes later, Garret handed her a dipper of water. She’d laughed herself right into a fit of hiccups. “I’m sorry. Hic. Truly I am, Garret. You know I’ll—hic—gladly reimburse you for the pick—hic—kle jar and the smelling s—hic—salts. I’ll stay and scrub your—hic—counter with soda. That ought to take a—hic—way some of the dill.”

  “Stop apologizing and tell me: If we bathe the kitten in soda, will it take the smell off her?”

  Rose choked on the water and barely kept from spewing it everywhere. “She didn’t just—hic—knock over the jar?”

  “I’m afraid not. She must’ve thought the pickle was a fish. When the jar fell, the brine washed right over the kitty. The only thing I could think of was that tomato juice is supposed to take care of skunk odor. I’d resigned myself to smashing a few dozen tomatoes in one of the galvanized tubs and dunking Pickle in it.”

  “Pickle and catsup?” Rose hiccuped and started laughing anew.

  Garret chuckled. “I wasn’t brave enough to do it on my own. I can just see that little scamp wiggling away and leaving a red streak all over the store.”

  Rose drew in a deep breath and spoke as rapidly as she could in hopes that she’d manage to say everything before she hiccupped again. “I’ll take her home and get her cleaned up. After you—hic—close the store, come over for supper. I’ll give you a choice: roast—hic—chicken or panfried pork chops.”

  He motioned her to take another sip of water. “What about my peach cobbler?”

  The water seemed to banish her affliction. She handed back the dipper. “I’ll bake two cobblers, and you can bring the second one back to have all to yourself. It’s the least I can do after what the kitten did.”

  Garret didn’t leave to fetch the cat. He set aside the dipper, folded his arms across his chest, and rocked from heel to toe and back again. “You can’t bathe the cat without me. I get to watch.”

  Rose bent to pick up the basket in which she’d brought the kitten. As she straightened, she caught the ornery twinkle in Garret’s eyes.