Brides of Virginia

by Hake, Cathy Marie

  Rose scampered alongside and tried to reach the table first, but she didn’t quite manage. The Sears catalog lay open to the pages featuring sewing machines, and Garret leaned forward to study the selection. “What are you getting?”

  Rose slammed the book shut and stammered, “The, uh, moquette rug,” she barely choked out.

  “I see.” He folded his arms across his chest and drummed his fingers on the opposite upper arms. “I have moquette rugs. Just got in a nice selection. What color were you thinking of?”

  “Medium. It’s floral.” Rose reached up and loosened the suddenly too-tight collar band on her shirt. “I just want a yard of it to put by the sink.”

  “Medium isn’t much of a color. That’s one of the drawbacks of dealing with catalog purchases. You’re buying things sight unseen. You can choose exactly the hue that suits your fancy at my mercantile.”

  “I like being surprised.”

  “I see. Well, I need to be getting back to the store.”

  He picked up the envelope next to the catalog and offered, “Would you like me to post this since I’m going back to the store?”

  “I’d appreciate it.” Though I’d have been far happier if you’d never seen it. She smiled. “Thank you, Garret.”

  Without another word, he walked out of her house.

  Rose sank onto a chair and crumpled her apron and skirt in her fists. Oh no. Oh, I never wanted this to happen.

  Prentice came in. The door banged behind him. “Miss Rose, can I take my ha’mon’ca home now? It’s not a secret anymore.”

  “Huh? Oh. Yes.” She blinked at him and forced a smile. “Sure, honey. Go right on ahead. I want you to enjoy it.”

  “You gonna give away all this stuff, or are you baking with it?” Prentice wore a toothless smile as he tucked the harmonica in his shirt pocket. He helped himself to an apricot, twisted it in half, and ate the half without the pit. Juice slid down the edge of his hand.

  “There’s gracious plenty. I’ll probably share some, can some for the winter, and do a bit of baking. How does that sound?”

  “Could you dry some of these ‘cots again like you did last year? Daddy and me really liked them.”

  “Sure. Why don’t you help me when you come home from school tomorrow?”

  “‘Kay.” He licked the juice, then popped the other half of the apricot into his mouth and went to the dustbin, where he proceeded to spit out the pit. The sound it made when it hit the metal never ceased to make him smile.

  Rose grinned along with him. She’d taught him that perfectly horrid trick not long after Mary Ellen died. Prentice had been crying for days and had no appetite, so in an attempt to get him to calm down and try to eat, Rose demonstrated that vile stunt. He’d been entranced. She counted it a true miracle that the boy didn’t end up with a miserable bellyache that night, because he’d eaten a full dozen apricots.

  Rose looked at the bushels and didn’t feel her usual sense of contentment. Instead of representing God’s providence and a way to bless others, those bushels served as a reminder that Garret had picked each piece of fruit and shared a perfectly enjoyable afternoon with her. Then that catalog had spoiled it all.

  Garret had made marvelous changes at the mercantile and took the time to assure her he’d gladly order or carry any item she desired. He’d even looked at her catalog one afternoon and proven that with the shipping costs added on, the items she’d mail-ordered weren’t any better a bargain than what he kept conveniently on hand right there in Buttonhole.

  But she’d ordered that dumb rug from her catalog, and he’d found out. The rug was like almost everything else she ordered—just an excuse to send an envelope to Sears. Everyone in Buttonhole thought she was a woman of very modest means, and the poor condition of the mercantile in the past few years had given her ample reason to choose to do business by mail order.

  But now—Garret is sharp as can be, and I was careless. How could I have left the catalog open like that? To the sewing machines, of all things! I didn’t lie. I really did order a yard of that stupid carpeting—but the envelope is heavy and has two stamps on it, and the carpet will only be a dollar. Why didn’t I think of something else? I hope he’s too busy to notice the envelope is too thick for just one dollar, or he’s likely to figure out that I’m the Secret Giver.

  Chapter 10

  Good day,” Garret said, returning Mr. Sowell’s greeting. At least part of that statement was true. He’d felt quite free, taking his very first afternoon off since he’d come to town. The young Widow Orrick proved to be quite able to help out at the store, so he’d gone off to spend his time with Rose.

  They’d had a wonderful time in the yard, picking fruit. Prentice had scared away the birds with his awful harmonica playing, but Rose’s laughter had more than made up for the shrill notes. The envelope rested in his coat pocket, the slight weight of it taunting him. Everything had been fine until he’d seen that atrocious catalog—but Garret refused to let that darken his mood.

  He’d assessed Rose Masterson from the start and known she’d be a tough customer. He’d never met a more independent woman—she knew what she wanted, and nothing else would satisfy her. He could normally entice a customer to try something new or buy a little something different. It would really test his salesmanship to get the hardest customer to switch her allegiance from Sears to his emporium, and that person was Rose.

  Nonetheless, he liked the challenge.

  He nodded emphatically as he told himself that with time and patience he was going to prove his mercantile worthy of all of her patronage.

  “Well, as I live and breathe! It’s you, Mr. Diamond—out for a constitutional in the middle of a workday?”

  Garret turned toward Mrs. Patterson’s voice. She held a watering can, and the potted plants along her porch rail dripped down the railing, leaving a muddy streak. Finicky as Mrs. Patterson was, she’d undoubtedly wash the streak away. “Hello, Mrs. Patterson! Are you enjoying that new rocking chair?”

  “Absolutely.” She beamed and beckoned. “Come see how lovely it looks in our parlor.” As he walked up to the porch, he quelled a smile. She’d leaned over the railing and used the last little bit of water to rinse off the unsightly streak so her house would be picture-perfect.

  After he agreed the rocker she’d purchased looked far better in her home than in his store, Garret got a sinking feeling as Mrs. Patterson gave him a calculated smile. “It’s quite hot today. You must join Missy and me on the veranda for a glass of sweet tea.”

  He drank enough sweet tea to float the Spanish Armada. While Mrs. Patterson filled his glass yet again, Missy dutifully mouthed another oh-so-appropriate platitude about the weather. “Don’t you simply adore this breeze?”

  He nodded. “Very refreshing.”

  “The blossoms are setting nicely.” She smoothed her skirts needlessly. “Mama says we’ll have a bumper crop of tomatoes. Daddy says the Farmer’s Almanac predicted that, too.”

  “I suppose you’ll be busy canning them.”

  “Oh, Missy loves working in the kitchen, don’t you, dear?” Mrs. Patterson prompted.

  Missy nodded obediently and blotted the corner of her mouth with a spotless linen napkin.

  She is just what I should be looking for. Pretty. Gentle and poised, too. But Garret couldn’t help comparing her polished ways to Rose’s engaging exuberance. He hoped he wasn’t too abrupt when he took his leave.

  He saw Mrs. Sneedly on the street and asked about the children. “Hale as can be now, thanks to Rose. Thanks be to God, too!”

  “I’m glad to hear they’ve improved.”

  “So am I.” Mrs. Sneedly bobbed her head. “And since they’re so much better, Anna is able to fiddle around in the kitchen again. Why, she’s famous hereabouts for her carrot cake.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Absolutely. You mustn’t think I’m exaggerating just because she’s my daughter. Why, the parson’s wife herself suggested that Anna enter her carrot
cake in the county fair.”

  “That’s quite a compliment.”

  “You’ll have to come by and sample it for yourself.”

  Garret managed to bring the conversation to a close and wandered off. Any man would love a woman who could cook like Anna, and she was tame and biddable as could be. Her apron was always spotless, and he’d never seen her go out without a hat. She didn’t have Rose’s fire and zest for the simple things like using a blade of grass for a whistle. Life would be very predictable with Anna.

  I always thought I wanted an easygoing woman who’d be like her—she’d be proper and excellent at keeping the store neat as a pin. What’s the matter with me that there are a half-dozen suitable women in town, and the only one who appeals to me is stubborn, wild little Rose?

  He thought about going back to the store, but as he drew closer, he could see Cordelia through the window. Cordelia had a pair of stockings draped over her shoulder and was holding up one of the expensive, lace-edged Madame Mystique corset covers for a customer’s approval.

  That in itself was enough to make him hesitate about entering, but then he saw Lula Mae in there with Mrs. Blanchard. Not a day went by that those two women didn’t come into his store on some flimsy pretext or another. Lula Mae sang her daughter Patience’s praises, and Mrs. Blanchard made her daughter Constance sound like a paragon of every virtue known to man.

  The two mothers had practically used him as a tug-of-war rope after church last week, each asserting he ought to come to her home for Sunday supper. Bless her heart, Rose had breezed over and tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. “Hugo and Prentice look like they’re wilting with hunger, and I made that peach cobbler you all like so much. Are we ready to go now?”

  “I sure am, Miss Rose.”

  If he went in the mercantile now, those two mamas would start in on their matrimonial machinations again, and he refused to put himself in the middle of such nonsense. He’d like to choose his own wife, thank you very much. Quite frankly, at this moment, he’d had enough. He didn’t think he could endure one more conversation. He had some thinking to do. He cut to the back alley and headed down Elm Street to escape that encounter.

  Garret tried to think of a place he’d like to go. If he went to the diner, Mrs. Percopie would be sure to have her daughter serve him; then she’d give Hattie a break so she could sit a spell.

  Absently, Garret reached up and smoothed his hair. He could use a haircut, and the barbershop had to be safe. It was the town’s male bastion—a place where he could escape mothers and the countless tales of their daughters’ accomplishments. It would feel good to get a trim and a shave—to relax and not have to listen to the fluttering of Cupid’s wings.

  Garret walked into an empty shop. Mr. Busby gestured toward the chair. “Have a seat.”

  Garret eased onto the red leather seat, leaned back, and closed his eyes. Peace. Safety. He let out a sigh of unmitigated relief.

  Mr. Busby pulled the comb through Garret’s hair. “Same cut as the first time you came in?”

  “Yep.”

  Mr. Busby whistled a few notes through his teeth. Garret couldn’t help thinking he sounded a lot like Prentice on the harmonica. Snip. Snip. Comb. Snip.

  “So how are you liking Buttonhole?”

  “Great town. Glad I came.”

  The barber grunted his agreement. Snip. Snip. “Great place to settle down.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Next thing you know, you’ll be wanting to marry up.” Mr. Busby shifted and started snipping at a different place. “Got a handful of pretty gals, but none better than my niece. I’m sure you’ve met her—Missy. Missy Patterson.”

  “I saw her at church.” Garret didn’t want to say much. He could end up bald or butchered. He kept silent as Busby dropped endless, anvil-like “hints” that Missy would make a fine wife.

  “Ready for a shave, too?” Busby already had the razor in hand and had smacked it across the strop.

  Garret pulled off the towel and shook his head. “Not today. Thanks.” He paid for the haircut and walked out as fast as decorum permitted.

  Garret walked until he hit the edge of town. He didn’t want to talk to anyone now. His thoughts shifted to Rose Masterson, and suddenly there she was—a streak of dust on her cheek, a dirty cloth hanging out of her pocket, and Dutch-clean windows sparkling behind her as she pushed Old Hannah’s wheeled invalid chair into a shady spot.

  He ought to keep walking, but he couldn’t force himself to. Garret couldn’t take his eyes off Rose. Why would a woman with her warm, sensitive spirit purposefully conduct her business with a mail-order company located outside her own community instead of with someone she’d invited to dine at her very own table? Things didn’t add up.

  Why was the catalog open to sewing machines if she was buying carpeting? Rose didn’t sew much, or her clothes would be newer or in better condition. Lacey Norse positively coveted the sewing machine at the mercantile; Rose hadn’t paid more than fleeting attention to it. She’d just swish by it and head to Mr. Deeter’s post office window and mail a letter.

  Rose had no family. She’d once mentioned in conversation that she rarely corresponded with her old friends—they’d married and grown busy with children. Yet she mailed off something each week or so. The envelope he’d promised to mail for her was heavy—too heavy to contain a single dollar. Garret stared at her as realization dawned.

  Within minutes, Rose’s arms were full of lavender and pink sweet peas, and she set them on the frail old woman’s lap. Garret watched as Rose picked up a tendril of the pink flowers and pinned them around the lady’s sparse little bun. “Hannah, you look like an angel with a halo!”

  Garret cleared his throat. Both women looked up at him. He shook his head. “Ma’am, I beg to differ. You look like a queen.” He focused his attention on Rose. She’d frozen in place, her fingers still hovering over Old Hannah’s hair. She met his gaze, stepped away from the old woman, and wiped her hands on the sides of her dress.

  “You need to stop by the mercantile on your way home, Rose.”

  Rose wished that the bell over the mercantile door didn’t clang so loudly. The town didn’t have a bell for the church, but this one was noisy enough that they ought to wrestle it from Garret Diamond and stick it in the steeple! Her gaze darted about the emporium. No one was there. Mr. Deeter had already closed the post office.

  What am I doing here? I’m a modern woman. I don’t need a man to dictate my actions. I tend to my own matters. I have the right to order goods from anywhere I want, anytime I want. What business does Garret have, ordering me to make an appearance? I can’t believe I actually listened to him and came in here! I don’t owe him an explanation for what I buy from Sears and Roebuck.

  She made an impatient noise at her foolishness for obeying such a high-handed order and wheeled about to march out the door.

  “You’re not running away, are you?”

  She closed her eyes and muffled a moan.

  Garret climbed down from the ladder and dusted his hands as she slowly turned back around.

  Rose didn’t want to look him in the eye after she’d complied with his command, so she glanced up and saw the new banner he’d hung that advertised Calder’s Saponaceous Dentine. She said the first thing that came to mind. “Are you trying to sell that stuff or give small children nightmares? The teeth in that picture are enough to terrify them.”

  He folded his arms across his chest and stared at her steadily. “Your diversionary tactic isn’t going to work, Rose. You know exactly why you’re here.”

  His shoes made a solid sound on the beautifully polished floorboards as he closed the distance between them. He tilted her chin upward and said in a low tone, “I know who you are, Rose Masterson.”

  “Of course, I’m Rose Masterson.”

  He pulled an envelope from the pocket of his leather apron and tapped it in his palm. “This is heavy—far too heavy to hold one thin dollar for that moquette ru
g.”

  “I ordered other things, too. My personal expenditures are hardly your concern.”

  He pinched the thickness of the envelope and stared straight into her eyes. “That rug provided a very clever excuse for you to send an order off to Sears, but the time has come for you to admit that those other things you ordered aren’t for you. I strongly suspect this envelope’s order contains instructions for—”

  “I’m not going to stand here and listen to your cockeyed suppositions, Garret Diamond. When you gave me your word you’d mail that letter, I never dreamed you’d withhold it.”

  He ignored what she said and traced the two stamps with the blunt edge of his forefinger as he mused aloud, “I’ve been here long enough to see an interesting pattern. You mail off an order and get something from Sears. Just about the same time, something mysteriously arrives from the Secret Giver for someone in town.”

  Maddening man! Why doesn’t he tend to his own matters and leave me alone? She lifted her chin. “As often as I order things, you can scarcely consider that a pattern.”

  When Garret leaned forward, she could smell his bay rum. She’d already felt unbalanced—that heady scent only added to the way her senses whirled.

  “You, Rose Masterson, were in the mercantile when Cordelia mentioned her washboard needed to be tacked together again; then she received that washing machine.”

  “Several other people were in the store at that time, and I know for a fact that Hugo repaired the washboard very cleverly for her.”

  He gave a maddening shrug, then started tapping the envelope in his open palm yet again in a nerve-racking beat that matched the much-too-rapid beat of her heart. His voice dropped in volume and tone. “I wonder if Lacey Norse is going to get that new sewing machine she needs to start up her seamstress shop.”

  Rose’s eyes grew wide, and she felt a wave of heat wash over her, but she said nothing.