* * *
The Donovans had finished their supper and were waiting for Hope to eat the remainder of her meat and potatoes. Stewart placed his glass of wine on the table.
“I heard rumours of a theatre production in the city,” he informed his parents and sister. “I wish to introduce Hope to culture. Would you care to attend? It’ll be my treat, for assisting me with Hope.”
“I would love to attend the theatre,” Vicki responded enthusiastically.
“As would I,” Momma added.
“Well then. We’ll require five tickets,” Poppa responded.
* * *
Wearing their best Sunday attire, the Donovans stepped out of the buggy, eager to see the production. They were shown to private seats near the centre in the first balcony. The location was superb, but the area was cramped for the five people. Within the enclosed space, four chairs could sit comfortably to view the stage, but the fifth would be forced to sit behind.
“I’ll keep Hope on my lap,” Stewart offered. “If she becomes too fidgety, I’ll leave with her. I’d hate to disturb the people in the area around us.”
Once everyone in the party was comfortable in the blue velvet chairs and sipping drinks, he took the time to gaze around. His architect’s eye appreciated the spectacular interior of the building. A warm sensation filled his heart. He could sense Natasha’s presence. Welcome, love. My mind is drifting back to my classes, those very classes that focused on classical architecture. I became fascinated, listening to the professor. Look at the magnificent features of this room. Take note of the private boxes that circle the room, each with motifs of two young children playing, and a small candelabra with five lit lanterns to illuminate the area. I especially like the gold plating with white, perhaps marble framing, and then there is a young angelic child with gold wings between each box. It’s classic, yet elegant don’t you think? Allow your eyes to drift up to the large chandelier that is nothing shy of a work of art.
The lights went down. The curtain rose. Enjoy the performance, love. I’m able to feel your hand in mine.
Hope quickly became mesmerized by the colours and movement. During the break, he took his daughter for a short walk in the hallway where sketches of the actors lined the walls. Giddy, Hope chatted, fascinated by the masses of people. With the excitement and the late hour, she fell asleep during the second half of the performance. Pleased with the outing and her behaviour, Stewart bought symphony tickets for the season.
* * *
The anticipation of attending school had Hope excited. Eliza and Vicki took her shopping for new dresses and supplies. It wasn’t until she discovered her family wouldn’t be joining her at school that the tears appeared.
Stewart sat on her bed the night before her first day and comforted her until she eventually drifted off to sleep. She was still apprehensive about school in the morning as Aunt Vicki assisted her into her new blue dress. Stewart watched her nibble on her breakfast. Unable to leave his daughter in tears, he informed his father he would join him at work once Hope was settled at school. Willard reached for the lunch Eliza had prepared.
“Tardiness is unacceptable in the workforce, Stewart.”
“I’m not leaving Hope while she’s upset. I am the only single father in the crew. She’s my daughter, not Momma’s. My priority will always be Hope. If Hank is unable to understand that, I will seek employment elsewhere.”
“I will speak with Hank on your behalf.”
Once Willard and Vicki left, Stewart held Hope’s hand and walked her to the one-room schoolhouse. The teacher greeted them, showed Hope to a group of children, and advised Stewart to step out of the building. When he glanced back over his shoulder, a smile brightened his face. His preoccupied daughter hadn’t noticed him leave. A little more confident about her acceptance of the situation, Stewart walked home and rode his mare to the job site.
Willard was thirty feet from the crew, reviewing paperwork when he arrived. He approached his father.
“Am I still employed?”
“Indeed. I assured Hank this would not be a regular occurrence. Get to work, son.”
Chapter Eight
Two months later, Stewart left the crew at the site and rode his mare to the office for a meeting with Hank, his father, and the engineer. The day was breezy, but the gusts became stronger as he travelled. Eager to get to shelter, he urged the mare into a gallop. The blue morning sky turned into thick dark clouds. Strong gusts of wind blew from the east. The light rain grew heavier. Two miles from the office, the rain pelted down, prickling his skin. Stewart lowered himself to the horse’s neck. The rain pounded onto his back. The wind howled around him. The atmosphere grew heavier. It was midday, but he could swear dusk was approaching.
Lightning lit the sky for a brief moment before the thunder boomed. The interval between, the all important indication of the storm’s distance. “I’m a fool. I’m heading into this storm.” A chain of lightning struck straight ahead. Like her Aunt Vicki, Hope hated thunder storms. His heart pounded for his daughter.
“I should turn around and go to the school. That would be silly. Foolish, foolish thought. The storm is here. It’s possible the sun is shining brightly at the school house. Hope is enjoying her day.”
Thunder boomed and lightning flashing almost simultaneously. The deafening sound echoed, starling the horse. “I’m in the middle of the tempest.”
“You’re a good girl,” he soothed, rubbing the horse’s neck. “We’re close.”
Within a few hundred feet of the office, relief turned to panic. Smoke billowed from the fifteen hundred square foot one-level building. “It’s on fire! Poppa, Hank, and Thomas!”
“Whoa,” he ordered. Stewart flung himself from the horse and quickly looped the rein around a fence post. He ran toward the building. “Poppa!”
Nothing. There wasn’t a sound. “I lost Natasha. I can’t lose Poppa. Willard!” he bellowed.
He ran past the shed. “Three horses. They wouldn’t leave without their horses. They’re in the building.” He darted toward the smoky doorway. The heat from the fire shattered the windows. Flinching, he stepped to the opening, barely able to see a few feet ahead. The black smoke filled his lungs, strangling them. Choking, he coughed. Poppa is in here. Go in. Stewart turned his head inhaled the fresh, moist air deeply into his lungs and stepped inside. He knew the building well. He and Thomas spent hours inside, reviewing and adjusting calculations for accuracy. Four rooms. The front office, where the bookkeeper worked part-time, the meeting room where Hank sat with potential clients, Hank’s office, and then the warehouse where stock, supplies, and tools were kept. The men would be in one of the last two rooms.
Working his way forward, the thick smoke stung his eyes. Stewart rushed past the reception area toward the meeting room, heedless of the danger. Is there something on the floor? A piece of furniture? Perhaps nothing. It was hard, almost impossible to tell. He bent down. His fingers bumped against something soft. Not something, but someone. Unable to breathe, he couldn’t speak. Straining his eyes, they itched and watered in the smoky atmosphere.
Leaning even lower, his lips curled into a smile. Poppa’s face? First euphoria, and then fear strangled his heart. He gripped the man under the arms and began pulling him toward the door. None of the men were small framed. Willard was Stewart’s height but heavy with muscle from years of manual labour. Groaning with each small tug, he inched his burden toward the door. His muscles cramped. His chest burned. With another tug, his back spasmed. He lost his grip. I will not die in this building. Hope lost her momma. She will not lose me. She will not lose her papa. He gripped the man’s forearms and gave another heave. The motionless body moved a few more inches. With a quick glance behind more thick smoke clogged his view. Back pain threatened to cripple him. Ignoring it, he continued dragging the body.
Stewart cleared the door. Looking down, his father’s face was covered in soot, but it was indeed his poppa. Tears faced down his cheeks. Rain poun
ded on his smoky clothes. They were out, but they weren’t safe. Lightheaded and with a pounding heart, Stewart exhaled and shook his head to clear his eyes. Taking several deep breaths, he continued pulling his father through the mud out of the immediate danger. With Willard safe from the fire, Stewart laid his motionless body on the ground, rested his palms on his knees and breathed. Exhaustion urged his body to collapse. Turning his attention back to the building, fear twisted his gut. It had become an inferno. How could I live with myself if I don’t try to save the others? Returning to that death trap means leaving my father. But what if it was Poppa inside? A vision of Hope flashed before his eyes. Going back could mean leaving his daughter without a father. Glancing down, Poppa hadn’t moved. His eyes remained closed. Lightning lit the sky, followed by another vibrating crash of thunder. The earth beneath him shook. A voice penetrated his panicked thoughts. Am I hallucinating? Is someone trying to tell me something? There—another voice. It wasn’t familiar. He turned his head and saw three men, a team of horses and a covered wagon.
“We saw the smoke. Anyone else inside?”
“Two others…,” Stewart replied. He choked on his own words. Stewart coughed. Clean oxygen entered his lungs. He gagged and then began to cough uncontrollably.
“We’re not going in there,” one declared. “Not with any hope of coming out alive.” The man dropped to his knees, placing his head on Willard’s chest. “I feel a heartbeat. We need a doctor.”
Smoke strangled his lungs. Unable to speak, he pointed at his father, wanting him out of the pounding rain. They lifted Willard and carried him to a safe covered area and returned to move Stewart.
He crouched down beside Poppa and closed his eyes. Hearing the men’s conversation, the fire crew arrived. More men arrived from the neighbouring homes and farms. The horses were rescued and tied to the back of the wagon. Exhausted, he allowed sleep to overtake him.
Voices penetrated his oblivion—then hands touched him; lifted him. His eyelids weighed several pounds. He struggled to open his eyes briefly. Everything was white. Am I in heaven? No, I’m in a hospital? His eyes snapped closed.
“Poppa?” he moaned.
“It’s possible the man with him is his father?”
Stewart didn’t recognize the voice.
“Given the burn marks on his body, he needs something for the pain.”
His shoulder stung. That was quickly followed by blissful forgetfulness.
When he woke and opened his eyes, Vicki was holding his hand.
“Poppa?” he groaned.
“Shh. Momma is with Poppa. You saved his life, Stewart.”
“Hope?”
“Nanny is sitting with Hope.”
Content, he closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep.
* * *
“Take a look at my hand, Keegh.”
Keeghan turned her attention from the screen to her husband. His hand was completely discoloured.
“Was I squeezing it that hard?”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry! I was a bit spooked. Burning to death. How awful. Alexander, you have to warn me if a scene is going to get gory. I don’t like gross movies.”
He gave her a slight smile and then pointed toward the screen.
Chapter Nine
Stewart remained in the hospital overnight suffering from smoke inhalation and a cracked rib. Willard was hospitalized almost a week, but was released in time for Hank and Thomas’ funeral.
The day of the internment, Stewart woke after a strange dream. He had been working alongside Thomas, and then suddenly he was standing alone with a clipboard in his hand. Looking at the paper, it was a contract. On closer examination, he saw his own penmanship. The contact had his signature on the bottom, below the client signature. Then he saw Poppa instructing the crew. Something touched his shoulder. It didn’t startle him, but felt reassuring. His gaze shifted from the paper. Natasha stood by his side, smiling. ‘A possible future, love. It could be your future,’ she had informed him.
Stewart rose and dressed, still preoccupied with the dream.
* * *
The funeral was difficult, more so than he expected. The crew mourned the loss of their boss and a member of their team. But it was more than that. Because of that devastating fire, they were unemployed. These were young men, similar to himself. Most in their late twenties, a few in their early thirties. These men had young families. They were concerned, worried about their futures. Financially, Stewart didn’t need the employment, but he was intent on setting a good example for his daughter. The untimely deaths opened the market for a business opportunity. Something he could be proud of and put his name to. That vivid dream and Natasha’s voice resurfaced in his mind.
He discussed his dream and vision with his parents on their way home. Thrilled by their support, Willard agreed to mentor and guide him. Eliza and Vicki would assist by managing the books.
Telegrams were sent to the crew arranging for a meeting. Most of the crew agreed to work for him. A lawyer was contacted to prepare the necessary paperwork.
* * *
Their first contracts were small, but word spread throughout the area as their reputation for quality workmanship grew. Economic growth, together with Stewart’s vision and architectural innovation, brought more business. His company was awarded larger contracts. Although Stewart was dedicated to his new venture, his primary focus remained on his daughter. He insisted on family time, returning home for the evening meal and spending time with Hope before he put her to bed. During the summer months, Vicki’s beau joined them as they took Hope, her school chum Myrna, and Goldie to play.
* * *
Stewart appreciated everything his parents had done for him, but it was time he and Hope moved out of his childhood home. He would use the money from Natasha’s will to purchase land and build. Stewart began looking for a large country lot. Momma heard of a perfect piece of property.
“I have exciting news, Vicki,” he informed her while dining. “Poppa, Momma, and I, went to look at a piece of property today.”
“Property for your home?”
“Indeed. It’s perfect. There is an open meadow behind scattered trees on five acres. My only dilemma is the distance between the property and the school. It will take half an hour by horse. Too far for Hope to walk alone, especially in unpleasant weather. She has chums at school, so I will not consider transferring her to another. It is my hope you would consider moving in with us. I would need you to take Hope to school and pick her up at the end of her day, when I am unable to do so. I would appreciate your assistance raising Hope, especially while I’m at work.”
“Of course. I’d be delighted to help with Hope. I’d miss my niece if you move away.”
The lawyer was contacted, and Stewart purchased the land. He spent his evenings sketching a design for his house. Their home would be nestled behind a small forest of trees, with double pillars offering a welcome entrance to the two-storey stone building.
* * *
Once the construction was complete, he, Vicki, and Hope shopped for modern furniture, including two sofas and two chairs for the parlour, and a large wooden table with seating for eight for the dining area. Hope’s room was furnished with a four-poster bed, a large dresser, a nightstand, and a desk to place under her east window. The dresser was covered with family portraits of Stewart’s parents, her uncles, Aunt Vicki, and Nanny. Propped on her nightstand was a beautiful portrait of Stewart and Natasha on their wedding day beside a second portrait of Natasha holding Hope as an infant.
For Stewart’s room, located across the hall, they bought a large bed, two large dressers, a small table, and two comfortable armchairs for reading at night. Stewart kept a portrait of Natasha and a current portrait of Hope on his nightstand. On the other side of the stairs were two rooms—a bedroom for Vicki, and a guest room. Goldie would join them in their new home.
* * *
With words of praise circulated around the town and nearby city, Stewa
rt’s business flourished. His company was invited to bid for more profitable projects. Willard always enjoyed working with the crew but made no secret of his hatred for the bureaucracy of the business. Stewart found negotiations tedious, lacking the patience for the process and the time it took him away from his drawings. To achieve the success he was striving for, the company required a negotiator. Both Stewart and his father felt the business was too small to warrant a full-time hire for the role. Ideally, they required someone to assume the role of backup foreman when, on the odd occasion, the crew was required at two different sites.
After speaking with suppliers and retailers in the city, one name kept coming up. Gregory Carson, a hardworking young man from a well-respected family, was strongly recommended. Six years Stewart’s junior, Greg arrived promptly for the scheduled interview. His hazel eyes sparked with interest as he introduced himself. He brushed his wavy light brown hair back, adjusted his tie, and took the seat across from the father and son team. Both Stewart and Willard were impressed with Greg’s professionalism and enthusiasm during the interview.
“Greg. Would you mind giving us a minute?” Stewart stood, opened the office door, and waited until Mr. Carson stepped out. He closed the door. “Well, Poppa?”
“Personable, educated, and highly recommended. I think you’d be a fool to allow that gentleman to walk out.”
“Will he be content working under you as a member of the crew?”
Natasha's Diary Page 6
