He peered out the window and down the main street once more as horses passed quickly, sending up plumes of dust. From his vantage point he could see the mercantile, an ice cream parlor, a restaurant, the Occidental, and a laundry. He let out a sigh, realizing that what he missed most about home and the North End, he would not be able to find here. Nor did he hold out much hope that anyone would make his dreams come true and open an Italian restaurant for him to spend his time in, reveling in the sights and smells that were so familiar to him.
In the short time he’d been here, though, he had persuaded Tripp, the owner of the Occidental restaurant, to include some Italian cuisine in his weekly cosmopolitan menu where he routinely experimented with new cuisine, and he was looking forward to the time when Tripp would include an Italian dish of his choosing. He only hoped it wouldn’t be lasagna, because no lasagna in the world could be better than his mother’s.
His mother. He reached into his pocket and removed a leather billfold, opening it and pulling out a faded photograph of a smiling couple, she in white and he in a black suit, his mustache waxed and his dark, wavy hair combed back. He smiled and rubbed his thumb over the picture of his parents, his most ardent supporters who enabled him to attend school as soon as he was able and never stop until he was qualified to be a teacher on his own. Education was paramount to them and he nodded in gratitude, even if it was just a photograph, for their commitment to him.
The schoolhouse door slammed with a thud and he started, looking up toward the sound. He smiled at the cheerful face of Suzanne as she strode toward him, waving a newspaper in the air.
“It’s time, Mr. Tate,” she said, smiling as she set the newspaper down on the desk.
He looked at it, shoving both of his hands in his pockets as if it might leap up and bite him. “It is?”
Suzanne sighed, picking the newspaper back up and flipping through the pages. “If you want to find a bride in the time allotted by that ridiculous school committee—”
“My employers, you mean?” he cut in.
She snapped the newspaper shut and looked up at him. “Yes, your employers. I understand. I just think it’s an unfair expectation to give you after you’d already signed the contract. I imagine you could object under that fact alone.”
He nodded slightly in her direction. “I think we would both agree that it would be futile, and just wasting time. It appears to be the quickest thing to do, although I’d hoped I’d be able to choose a bride on my own—for the right reasons.”
“Love, you mean?” Suzanne said as she raised her eyebrows.
Michael picked up the picture of his parents and held it out to Suzanne. “These are my parents. They’ve been married for almost thirty years and are very much in love. That’s what I had hoped to have in my life, as well.”
Suzanne took the picture and was silent for a few moments. She looked back up at Michael and softly said, “It’s what we all want, isn’t it, Michael? That’s why this is especially unwelcome in such a hurry.” She handed the photograph back to him and her eyes brightened. “Remember, though, you know three couples who met that way—the wives being mail order brides—and to my mind, they look as happy to me as your parents do in that photograph.”
He had to admit, she had a point. The couples he’d met seemed as equally devoted to each other as he assumed his parents were in the beginning. They were kind to each other and seemed to greatly enjoy each other’s company. And what choice did he have, really? None, with this time frame he’d been given by the school board.
“I do appreciate your enthusiasm, Suzanne.” He tried to force a smile but wasn’t sure if it had worked. He had had a very nice life so far and was a generally happy person, and this felt very foreign.
She gave him a sympathetic smile and sat in the student desk opposite him. “We should get letters off quickly as you don’t have much time.”
“Do you have any suggestions? I don’t really know where to begin.” He dropped his head in his hands as his elbows rested on his desk.
“I was thinking with the short time, closer would be better. There are many advertisements back east, but it would take much longer for her to arrive.” She bent over the newspaper, her finger running down each column. “And maybe even write to two. Just to make sure.”
“Two?” he said, his eyebrows shooting up. “Are you certain that’s wise?”
“It increases your chances if one says no. Actually, you could write to several, but might run the risk of having an unintended harem.”
“Goodness, that wouldn’t do,” he said, tugging at his collar. Was it warm in here? His cheeks certainly were getting warmer.
Suzanne looked up and cocked her head. “Honestly, Michael, let’s just get it over with. Now, what is most important to you in a wife?”
He stood and turned toward the window. He’d never really thought about it before. Beauty? Intelligence? Sense of humor? “Even if I knew, how do you identify those things from an ad that ran only a few lines?”
“Ordinarily you would correspond for a bit, see if you were compatible, but you don’t have that luxury, I’m afraid.” She stood and walked to the window, her hand resting on his arm.
“I apologize. I don’t mean to be difficult, and I do appreciate your help. This is all just—I don’t even now the words to describe it. My parents would be horrified, and at some point I will need to take this stranger home to meet my family.”
“Let’s just presume that you will be as fortunate as the rest of the recent matches, and see how we do, all right? Just close your eyes and tell me the perfect woman for you, and I’ll see if I can find one.”
“I understand what you’re saying, but I’d rather just choose from those available. That would be easier.”
Suzanne nodded and began to read from the newspaper. They’d spent some time going over the advertisements from willing mail order brides and ultimately chose two—one from St. Louis, Margery, and Sally from Kansas City. Suzanne helped him write identical letters to both of them, stating his interest and asking a few more questions. Both ladies had indicated that they wanted to start over, had no family attachments and were willing to relocate just about anywhere. Their only criteria—both of them—were that their future husband be under thirty and employed. He was both of those things.
“That should do it,” Suzanne said as she folded the letters and placed them in envelopes, addressing each of them. “The post office collects outgoing mail from the mercantile, so I’ll take these with me and send them off.”
Michael sighed, not able to take his eyes off the letters she held in her hand—ones that would seal his fate. “Michael, this is for the best,” Suzanne said as she headed for the door.
Michael reached for her coat, helping her on with it and opening the door for her.
“I promise, everything will work out just fine,” she said as she smiled and turned toward the mercantile.
Michael closed the door slowly, rubbing the back of his neck as he shook his head and walked back toward his desk. Before she left, Suzanne had asked him to describe his perfect woman—perfect for him. He’d instantly known what he would have chosen, had he truly had a choice.
He sat back down at his desk, leaning back in his chair with his fingers laced, hands over his stomach, eyes closed. In his mind’s eye, he could see her—dark, curly hair, smooth, white skin and long eyelashes. He could hear her laugh—soft, but with gusto. He could see her eyes, wide open and searching for adventure. He could hear her voice—kind, yet firm. No, it was impossible to get that sort of sense about his new wife from some black and white letters in a newspaper. He’d just have to take his chances and hope for the best.
Chapter 9
Rose headed straight for the kitchen, knowing that Maria would know how to make this situation the least awkward it could be. Maria had been their housekeeper for as long as Rose could remember and had lived in Tombstone for—well, a long time, since before there was an Arizona Territory and where
they lived now was part of Mexico. She’d stayed after the war and had been a close friend of Rose’s mother’s—and was like a mother to her now.
As she walked into the kitchen, she smiled at the flurry of activity—her twin sisters, Saffron and Sage, aprons on and their hair braided and out of the way, giggled at Maria’s rapid-fire Spanish instructions. Rose’s eyes widened as the twins tossed small pinches of flour at each other as they rolled small bits of dough into round pieces and placed them on a colorful platter on the counter.
She looked quickly at Maria, her back to them as she stirred a wonderful-smelling pot on the wood stove. She raised an eyebrow at the twins and cleared her throat. Saffron quickly sat down, wiping the flour on her apron, her face was covered in white also. Sage sat down, too, but folded her arms over her chest, clearly not happy that the fun had ended.
They’d sat down just in time as Maria turned around to see Rose.
“Ah, Rosemary.” She wrapped Rose in a hug and narrowed her eyes at Saffron. “Saffron, explain to me why your face is white.”
Saffron’s eyebrows rose. She wiped hastily at her cheeks and pulled her hands away. Her face reddened as she gazed at her white palms and she looked to her twin with pleading eyes.
“We’re tired of making tortillas, Maria.” Sage waved her hand at the platter, piled high with little balls of dough. “There will be enough here for the whole town.”
Maria pulled a dishtowel from the counter and flapped it in the twins’ direction. “We have enough ready for the tortillas, but we still have to make them. Shoo for a bit. Out into the garden with you. I will need some onions next and you can take a break and get some from there.”
Rose knew there was no place that the twins would rather be than in the garden—or outside anywhere at all—and she wasn’t surprised that within seconds, the girls had run out the back door and were already halfway to their mother’s garden that Sage and Saffron had lovingly claimed, along with Clara, her new sister-in-law.
“Ah, dios mío,” Maria said as she looked after them. “When those two are together, there’s no way to know what will happen.”
She turned toward Rose and straightened her colorful apron. She reached up and pushed the hairpins in more tightly as they’d threatened to escape the thick, black bun in the back of her head made up of long braids. She eyed Rose thoughtfully and sat down at the kitchen table, patting the seat beside her. “You have that look in your eyes. Is everything okay? Is your father behaving himself?”
Rose brushed the flour off the chair and into her hand, dumping it in the pile on the table as she laughed, thankful that Maria had been with them for so long and understood her father and his gruff—but gentle—ways. Rose quickly explained her predicament and Maria sat back in her chair as she clapped her hands.
“Your father, my goodness.” Maria laughed and folded the dishtowel, setting it on the counter as she fell silent for a moment. “He has had a difficult few years, as you know. But I think we can make this a little more comfortable for you.”
Rose’s eyes lit and her heart tugged. Maria had been able to fix anything and everything—usually with food involved—and Rose was hopeful that this would be one of those times.
“If it would make it any easier, I’ve been preparing a fiesta for Nutmeg and Sam for tomorrow afternoon. As he’s new in town it wouldn’t be odd for him to be invited, along with Suzanne and James, if you’d like.”
“Oh, I’d forgotten,” Rose said. She’d been so involved with her plan that she hadn’t realized that the day had come for Nutmeg and Sam to come celebrate their new marriage with the family. Properly, anyway.
“Saffron and Sage haven’t forgotten.” Maria laughed and looked out the window at the twins gathering tomatoes. “They’ve been helping me for two days. I remember that Mrs. Allen liked Mexican food, so I’m making all of the family favorites.”
“Oh, Mrs. Allen is coming as well? She’s very nice.”
Maria turned back to the pot, picking up the spoon and stirring slowly. “Yes, she is very nice. And I think your father thinks so, too.”
Rose’s breath caught in her throat. “You don’t think—”
Setting the spoon down with a clatter, Maria turned quickly, her eyes twinkling as she said, “I think nothing. Nothing at all. I just like to have parties, so you invite your Mr. Tate and all will be well.”
“He’s not my Mr. Tate, Maria, he’s the teacher,” Rose said as Maria gently guided her out the door.
“All right, the teacher. Just invite him. Everything will be fine.” She winked at Rose and turned back into the kitchen. “And come back later this afternoon, after you clean up, and help me prepare. You are the best tamale maker in the house.”
The kitchen door swung shut and Rose stared at it for a while, wondering if Maria was right. A larger group of people might make it easier than trying to breathe while Mr. Tate was in private with her father in his library. She shuddered at that thought and hoped if she sent Ben into town with a dinner invitation for Mr. Tate that he wouldn’t have other plans.
“Not likely,” she said aloud, walking to her room. Mr. Tate hadn’t been in Tombstone very long and didn’t know many people, so Rose imagined that he would probably be free. She just hoped he agreed to come so she could start working in the classroom as soon as possible. She was sorry that the fiesta wasn’t this very night as she was eager to get back into the classroom.
She opened the door to her room and stepped inside, sitting in the red velvet wingback chair and unlacing her black and dusty boots. She caught a glimpse of herself in her vanity mirror and her jaw dropped, shocked at the amount of dirt that she’d not known had stuck to her face and been smeared into mud. She clamped her mouth shut and as she began to rinse her face in the washbasin, she laughed. What must Mr. Tate have thought of her? And Suzanne hadn’t mentioned anything, either. And Sage? Saffron? Maria? She hoped that she wouldn’t have to rely on any of them to tell her of anything truly critical.
She patted her face with the towel and hung it on the back of the chair. She looked in the mirror, making sure that all the mud was gone from her face and from behind her ears. In the reflection, her eyes landed on the bookshelf behind her. She turned and walked over to her prized possessions, stacked neatly in two rows. Her mother had always brought her books back from her travels with her father, and for her sixteenth birthday, her brother Hank had made these bookshelves for her.
She ran her hand lovingly over the spines and the well-worn covers. She’d read each book more than once and looked forward to reading them all again, wanting to spend as much time as she could in the different worlds inside. She noted the titles, although they were emblazoned in her memory. Pride and Prejudice, A Tale of Two Cities, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. She picked up the brass frame on her nightstand, her hand once again on the glass that covered her mother’s face.
“Thank you, Mother, for bringing the world to me through these books.” She set the frame down gently, wondering if she’d ever be able to see any of these places that she dreamt about, places that lived inside her imagination.
Her stomach fluttered at the thought of Mr. Tate coming to the fiesta tomorrow. She imagined he might be annoyed to have to go to so much trouble just for a volunteer. Although she’d only seen him a couple of times, he didn’t seem like the type to get flustered much, though, and he had said he liked to see new places.
There was nothing she could do now—if she wanted to volunteer at the schoolhouse, she’d have to live through her father’s inquisition of Mr. Tate. To try to forget about the forthcoming event, she flopped on her bed and reached under her pillow. She thought she had a few spare moments before Maria would expect her assistance in the kitchen, and her fingers wrapped around her very most prized possession, the leather cool to her touch.
She pulled the book out and leaned against the wall, opening to the first page for what she thought might be the twentieth time she’d read through from the beginning to the
end. No matter. She’d be happy to read it a hundred times more, and she sighed, starting once again at her chance to go—even in her imagination—to faraway places.
Chapter 10
Rose took a step back as she set the last vase of flowers on the table that had been set up on the patio for the buffet. Her mother had enjoyed parties just as much as Maria, and Rose nodded, knowing her mother would be pleased with the outcome today.
The entire family was excited that Meg and Sam would be visiting. Meg hadn’t been home much since she’d been married, and Rose, for one, looked forward to talking to her older sister about her new, exciting life.
The house had been a bustle of activity all day. Sage and Saffron had collected flowers and set them in bundles in the large kitchen of the ranch house. The youngest Archer sister, Pepper, had been tasked with chopping anything Maria needed and the second youngest, Tarragon, had helped Rose with the linens and table decorations.
Rose paused as the grandfather clock just inside the parlor doors rang a quarter to the hour. Guests would be arriving soon, and Rose moved the pitcher of lemonade from one side of the table to the other and stood back, looking at the table, wondering if this was how they set tables in England. Or France. Or even San Francisco.
No, they had tea in England, not lemonade, she remembered. This would also be probably the last time they would be having lemonade as fall had arrived and this last Indian summer day was a nice one to take advantage of being outside.
She wrung her hands for a moment, eager to see her sister and her new family, but nervous nonetheless about Mr. Tate’s impending discussion with her father. She’d heard ranch hands describe her father as tough, and she’d seen it herself a few times. She clasped her hands together for a moment in silent prayer that all would go well and her dream would be closer to coming true.
“Everything looks beautiful, Rose. Don’t worry.” Tara came onto the patio carrying a large platter, heavy with what looked like Maria’s wonderful enchiladas, something that she knew Mrs. Allen, Sam’s mother, was particularly fond of. “You’ve done a wonderful job of it.”
The Teacher's Mail Order Bride Page 4
