by Dorothy Love
He wished now he had given her a different kind of present. Something small she could carry in her pocket as a reminder, that despite what she might think, he really was on her side.
SEVENTEEN
Ada grasped Wyatt’s shoulder as he lifted her out of the rig and set her on her feet. He touched the brim of his hat and picked up his leather pouch. “I’ll meet you back here when your errands are done.”
“Thank you.”
It was a Friday in late September. Ada had ridden into town with Wyatt, fighting the hard fist of anxiety forming in her stomach. During Homecoming Sunday at church last week, Carrie Daly had announced that, at long last, she was hanging up her widow’s weeds. She said Pastor Dennis’s sermon had reminded her of just how precious life was and that it wasn’t hers to waste. She intended to buy a new dress at Norah’s and rejoin the world.
Caught up in Carrie’s happiness, Ada had reiterated her offer to make a hat for her as a kind of coming out present. Then Bea Goldston, of all people, had chimed in with an order of her own. And now in the bottom of Ada’s reticule was a letter from the mayor’s wife, requesting a new hat.
Torn between elation that her business was catching on and dread at further displeasing Wyatt, Ada understood her own mother’s dilemma more than ever. Having a talent she was forced to hide, getting good news and having no one to share it with, must have made Elizabeth’s life lonelier than Ada had guessed.
She watched Wyatt push open the door to the bank and head inside. Her thoughts returned to their evening walk on the river. Something momentous had seemed about to happen between them. But weeks had passed since then, and he hadn’t mentioned it. Maybe she’d only imagined his feelings for her. Maybe he’d been caught up in the beauty of the evening and now had second thoughts. And she certainly hadn’t the courage to bring it up.
It’s probably better just to let things be. In her position, could she really afford to be waylaid by sentiment?
She gathered her bag and parasol and headed down the road toward the park. Mayor Scott and his wife, Molly, lived in the last house on the road, a low, redbrick structure shaded by a columned porch. Ada pushed open the gate and rang the bell.
A tall, broad-shouldered woman with iron-gray hair and eyes to match peered out. “Yes?”
“I’m Ada Wentworth.” Ada held out the letter she’d received the week before. “You asked me to call on my next trip to town. About your hat.”
“My . . . oh! Yes! Hats by Ada! Well, come on in. Sit a spell.”
Ada went in. The woman grabbed her hand and pumped it. “Pleased to meetcha! I’m Molly Scott. The mayor is down at the town hall doing whatever it is they do down there.”
She led Ada into a small sitting room furnished with a settee and a wing-backed chair upholstered in needlepoint. “Can I getcha anything? I made coffee this morning, but it’s prob’ly gone to sludge by now. I can start a fresh pot if you’re a mind to wait on it.”
“No, thank you.” Ada couldn’t help smiling at the woman’s enthusiasm. “I have quite a few errands to run this morning. Perhaps we should get right down to business.”
“Whatever you say.” Mrs. Scott retrieved a magazine from the table beside the chair and handed it to Ada. “Page thirty-seven.”
Ada flipped to a picture of a large hat with a fat pigeon perched on the wide brim. Two long pheasant feathers were tucked into the hatband. She stifled a laugh. It might be the latest thing, but it was hideous. “This is what you have in mind?”
“Exactly. I’ve already got the bird. My husband killed it accidentally, but he stuffed it for me on purpose. It’s on the back porch if you want to take a look.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Ada studied the picture. “This hat is made of felt. Is that the fabric you want?”
“You’d know better’n me. I reckon it’ll have to be sturdy to support the weight of the bird.”
Ada took out her notebook and pencil. “What color?”
“Brown. Same as the picture. And I want them pheasant feathers too. They add just the right touch, don’tcha think?”
“They’re certainly dramatic.” Ada made more notes. “I wonder if you’re open to another suggestion.”
“You mean a different hat?”
“Yes. In Boston last spring, I saw a lovely veiled hat with a satin brim that might be just the thing.” Quickly, she sketched the hat and handed it to Molly.
“That’s a handsome hat, all right, and I do appreciate the suggestion, but I’ve got my heart set on that bird. The mayor’s right proud of it. It’d break his heart clean in two if I changed my mind now.” She glanced at the photograph of the mayor that graced the fireplace mantel. “He’s had a hard time of it lately—needs some cheering up.”
“Oh?” Ada took out her tape measure.
Molly dropped heavily into her chair. “Coupla men on the town council want to clear out the coloreds down in Two Creeks. They say the black folks are hamperin’ the town’s ability to grow. The truth is, they want that good bottomland for themselves.”
“But surely they can’t just come in and take it, can they? What about property rights?”
Molly looked confused. “Most all the folks in Two Creeks are sharecroppers. They don’t have any say in what happens to land that don’t belong to them.”
“But if they’re thrown off their farms, where would they go?”
“That’s exactly the problem now, ain’t it? There’s enough poor folks in these parts without throwin’ a buncha the blacks off the land. Folks coming into Hickory Ridge on the train think what a prosperous little town we got goin’ here. And thanks to Wyatt Caldwell and his mill, we’re doin’ better’n most. But you go ten miles out of town and it’s a whole different kettle of fish. They’s people out there, black and white, just barely holdin’ on.”
Molly shook her head. “Me and the other women in my church circle do what we can, but it’s never enough. I just don’t see how it’s goin’ to help our town to clear out Two Creeks. My Hiram don’t understand it neither. That’s what’s been weighin’ heavy on his heart—and that’s why I got to get that hat. He likes for me to look nice. Seein’ me in that there bird hat will take his mind off ever’thing else.”
“No doubt,” Ada said. “Hold still while I measure your head.”
She jotted Molly’s hat size into her notebook. “That’s all I need for now.”
“You don’t want my stuffed bird?”
“Not just yet. I’ll come back for it when I’m ready to trim the hat.”
“How much do I owe you?”
“Two dollars now. Two when I deliver the finished hat.”
Molly whistled. “That’s a lot of money, but it don’t matter. Can’t put a price on my man’s happiness.” She took the money from a green vase on the mantel. “When do you reckon you’ll be finished?”
“Perhaps by the middle of October.” Ada tucked the money into her bag. “You’re in luck because I just received a shipment of supplies from Boston. I have a hat block in your size, so I won’t have to send away for anything before getting started.”
They went to the door.
“Charlie Blevins down at the mill, he’s real good with his hands,” Molly said. “He could make all the hat blocks you need. Save you the trouble of ordering ’em from back east.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Ada waved to Molly and retraced her steps, stopping first at the bank to open an account, then to the Gazette, where Patsy Greer greeted her with an open grin and handshake only slightly less powerful than Molly’s. Patsy plopped down behind the desk and picked up her spectacles. “What can I do for you? You need a bigger ad?”
“Actually, I’ve come to cancel it.” Ada set her parasol on the floor and perched on the chair opposite Patsy’s.
Patsy frowned. “I thought you liked it.”
“Oh, I do! It was exactly what I wanted. It’s just that”—she swallowed, willing the words to come—“my duties at Mrs. Wi
llis’s are taking more time than I anticipated, and I can’t take on any more hat orders right now.”
“That’s too bad. At church last Sunday, when Mrs. Scott was going on and on about her plans to buy a new hat, several more ladies said they wanted new hats too.”
“Maybe later on.” Ada laid a bill on the counter. “I believe this settles my account.”
“Sure. Just let me know when you want to start running it again.” Patsy stood. “Did you happen to see the story we ran on the Founders Day incident?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Hold on. I’ve got an extra around here someplace.” Patsy rummaged in the file cabinet and extracted a paper.
“Here you are.”
Ada read the headline, printed in large, bold type. “Quick Action Averts Double Drowning on Founders Day. Caldwell, Whiting Save Boys from Certain Death in Raging River.” She looked up. “Very dramatic.”
“Dad thought it was a little too dramatic, but it’s drama that sells papers.”
Ada scanned the rest of the page, skimming stories about farm prices, the upcoming market days, and changes in the Hickory Ridge railway schedule. A small story at the bottom of the page caught her eye. “Why I Love Founders Day, by James Boleyn, Age 10.”
“You’re letting children write for the paper now?”
Patsy grinned. “That was Bea Goldston’s idea. She thought the students might work harder at their lessons if they knew they might be published. Last spring she assigned this essay, and I picked the best one to run in the Founders Day issue. Bea isn’t the most pleasant woman in town, but give her some credit—this was a brilliant idea.” She bumped the file cabinet drawer closed with her hip. “I’m thinking of making it a regular feature when school opens again. It’ll give the students something to work for, and help sell papers too. Mrs. Boleyn bought ten copies of this issue to send to all their kin.”
She peered at Ada. “I haven’t known you very long, but I’m a pretty good judge of what people are thinking. And right now, I’d say you’ve got a new idea running around in your head.”
Ada nodded. “There’s a child at the orphanage who’s part colored and—”
“I know the one you mean. I saw you with her at Founders Day.”
“She’s very bright but barred from the school. Mrs. Lowell teaches her a bit, I think, but Sophie doesn’t have the same chances as the others. She loves telling stories. I’m wondering if you would—”
“Publish one of hers?” Patsy considered this. “I don’t see why not. If it meets my standards.”
“Thank you, Patsy. That would be wonderful for her.”
Patsy peered over her spectacles. “She’ll have to do the work, mind you. I can’t play favorites. Betsy Terwilliger is already up in arms because I didn’t pick her granddaughter’s essay.”
“Of course she’ll do the work.” Ada handed the paper back. “Now, I must go. Thank you for your help.”
She left the Gazette and continued down the street to Norah’s Fine Frocks to find Carrie Daly waiting for her. Today Carrie wore a simple gingham dress with a ruffled hem and a green felt spoon bonnet. Both had clearly seen better days, but the soft colors made Carrie look ten years younger.
“Oh, Ada, there you are!” She led Ada to a display by the window. “I thought I’d missed you.”
“I had some business at the newspaper office.” Ada dropped her bag onto a little settee and studied the dress on the mannequin in the window. “Is this the one you have in mind?”
Norah bustled in from her storeroom in the back and stopped dead still. Ada turned away and pretended to study a pink embroidered shawl in the window. Even though she was the one who had been wronged that day at the picnic, she felt embarrassed and awkward, and sorry for her angry retort.
Norah busied herself behind the counter, rearranging a display of gloves and parasols. Finally she caught Ada’s eye. “I owe you an apology, I reckon, for what I said on Founders Day. About Yankees. I didn’t mean it—not about you personally. You’re not a liar or a thief. I got caught up in the conversation and it slipped out.”
Ada nodded. “I’m sorry, too, for what I said.”
Norah’s face turned red. “Well. So. I’ve got to unpack some new merchandise in the back. Carrie, give a holler if you need anything. And remember, I can make a dress to order if you can’t find anything you like.”
“Thank you, Norah.” Carrie took a pale blue dress from the open clothes press beside the door. “I love this one, Ada. But Bea says I’m getting too long in the tooth for such frilly things. What do you think?”
“I think you should ignore Bea and get whatever makes you happy. This one looks fine to me. And I know just the hat to go with it.”
Quickly, she sketched a leghorn toque covered in filmy netting, with double streamers off the back. “I can trim it in the same color blue as the dress if you like.”
“It’s beautiful! How much?”
“My offer still stands, Carrie. I want to do this for you. No charge.”
“It’s sweet of you, but Bea says you’re practically destitute. Not to be nosy or anything, but can you afford to be so generous?”
She couldn’t. Not by a long shot. But a promise was a promise, and her pride was at stake. “It’ll be my contribution to your new beginning.”
“Well, if you’re sure.” Carrie smoothed the folds of the new dress, her eyes glowing.
“I’m sure.” Ada patted her friend’s arm. “Only please don’t let it get around town that I’m giving away hats. One day I’ll have to make a living from them.”
Carrie pressed a finger to her lips. “I won’t say a word! And thank you, Ada. I don’t know what else to say.”
Ada left Carrie to try on the dress and headed outside. The clock at the railway station read half past twelve when she spotted Wyatt emerging from the telegraph office. She waved and waited for him outside the mercantile. A whistle blew as a train chugged into the station.
“Train’s half an hour late today,” he observed, stepping up beside her. “You must have had a busy morning. I looked for you earlier, but you seemed to have disappeared. I wondered whether you’d struck out for home again on your own.”
She shook her head. She was wiser now and, besides, her old shoes didn’t have another seven miles in them. “I opened an account at the bank and met Carrie Daly at the dress shop.” She held his gaze. “And I canceled my ad in the Gazette.”
Despite her regret at losing her only means of advertising, she felt the weight of her long-festering guilt lifting from her shoulders. But there was more to tell him before she would feel truly free. She took a deep breath as if bracing for a plunge into icy water. “I need this job, but I care too much about your good opinion to lie to you.”
Briefly she described the orders she’d taken in rapid succession from Carrie, Bea, and Molly Scott. He listened, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
“I didn’t expect so many orders so soon,” she finished. “Everything has happened all at once.”
“Looks that way all right.” He tossed his packages into the rig.
She hurried on. “That night on the river I was going to tell you that I hadn’t yet canceled my ad, but we were interrupted when Lillian—”
His expression softened. At last he smiled. “I’ve been regretting that interruption ever since.”
Relief and happiness welled up inside her. “You aren’t angry with me?”
“I’m not thrilled about it, and I still think you’re biting off more than you can chew, but I’m willing to give it a try, see how it goes.”
“Thank you. You have no idea what this means to me.”
He nodded. “I’m hungry. How about some fried chicken?”
“If it’s all right with you, I’d like to stop at the mercantile first.”
“Fine. I’ll check with Nate at the bookshop. Sage had a good idea about that knotty pine. Nate’s going to take a lot of it off my hands. I’ll meet you
at Hattie’s in . . . half an hour?”
He loped across the street, dodging a buckboard. A skinny yellow dog trotted over to the post office and curled into a ball in the shade, eyeing Ada as she passed. She entered the mercantile, hoping that Jasper Pruitt’s clerk would be there to assist her, but it was the storekeeper himself who looked up from his work when the bell over his door jingled.
She nodded to him and headed to the back where the fabrics and sewing notions were kept. She gathered spools of thread, some ribbons, and a card of pearl buttons, happier than she had felt since her arrival. She couldn’t believe Wyatt had given his blessing to her enterprise. What had caused him to change his mind?
She needed more felt for Molly’s hat and reluctantly summoned Jasper to cut it from the heavy bolt of fabric on a shelf above her head. He spat a stream of tobacco juice into the spittoon beside the door and lumbered toward the back, shears in hand.
“How much you need?”
“One yard, please.”
He lifted the bolt, laid it on the cutting table, and proceeded to lop off a portion.
“Excuse me, Mr. Pruitt.” She rummaged in her bag. “I have a tape measure. I’ll just—”
“Are you accusing me of cheatin’ you, Yankee girl?” He squinted at her. Tobacco juice trickled from the corner of his mouth into his thick beard.
“Of course not! I’d think you’d want to measure too.”
“Been doing this since I was a boy. I know what a yard looks like.”
“Fine. I won’t argue with you.” She dropped her tape measure into her bag.
“What a relief. You Yankees think you know everything. You don’t know nothin’.” His hard, black gaze bore into her hers. “Especially about how things are down here. I’d watch myself if I were you.”
