by Ann Shorey
“No doubt about it, my dear. My husband will pick them up at the end of the day.” She dropped her coin purse into her carryall. “It’s good to have a larger selection of kitchen goods here in Noble Springs. I’ve been needing a fluted pudding pan.”
Smiling, Faith watched her leave. New merchandise lined the shelves at the front of the room, where shoppers would be drawn to the displays. Hanging the farm implements on a wall hadn’t slowed sales over the past month. At least, not much. She knew a number of Grandpa’s former customers no longer patronized the store.
A rotund gentleman stepped toward her after Mrs. Holmes left. “Excuse me, little lady. I’m here to see Mr. Lindberg. He promised to place an order with me the next time I came through.” He removed his bowler hat and placed a scuffed leather case on the counter. A label pasted to the surface read “Henry Reed, Boston. World’s Finest Cookware.”
“I’m his granddaughter, Miss Lindberg. Are you Mr. Reed?”
He rocked back on his heels, a genial expression on his face. “My name is Roland Dunwoody. I’m Henry Reed’s representative in southern Missouri.” His vivid blue eyes scanned the room. “Where’s your grandfather?”
“He’s turned the store over to me. I’m authorized to order merchandise.”
“Well, bless me! Dress goods and laces, I suppose.”
“Everything, Mr. Dunwoody. I’ve been thinking of adding more cookware.” She pointed at the leather case. “Do you have illustrations of your products?”
“Everything,” he repeated in a wondering tone. “This is a first.” He unbuckled the case and passed her a booklet, open to a page covered with pictures of frying pans, sauce pans, and kettles, arranged in sets. “You won’t find better quality anywhere.”
“Please excuse the question, but if they’re so good, why hasn’t my grandfather ordered from you before? The cast iron we have in stock is from another source.”
He leaned forward, and for a moment she thought he was going to give her a fatherly pat on the shoulder. “I’m glad you asked. Until recently, travel within Missouri has been uncertain, as you can no doubt appreciate. Now that the war has ended, Mr. Reed has expanded his territory.”
Faith studied the illustrations again. Encouraged by the sale of tinware to Mrs. Holmes, she rested her index finger on the largest display. “We’ll take two of these sets.”
The salesman’s smile grew broader. “Excellent. You won’t be disappointed.” He flipped open an order book and scribbled the information on a blank page, then wrote a copy for her. “Our supply center is in Rolla. You should have your goods within two weeks, cash on delivery.”
She placed her copy of the order in the till as a reminder to have the money on hand when the new cookware arrived. “Good. I’ll look forward to adding these to our stock.”
He plopped his hat back on his egg-shaped head. “A pleasure meeting you. You’re much prettier than your grandfather.”
“You’re very kind.”
He bowed with a flourish and strode toward the door.
A woman approached the counter as he left. “I’d like ten yards of that green flowered calico you have on the shelf.”
“Splendid. And do you need buttons and ribbon for trim?” Faith took a pair of shears from under the counter and led her customer to the measuring table.
The bell over the door pealed. “Faith, I want you to read this.” Grandpa’s cane thudded across the floor. He held a sheet of paper in his free hand.
She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I’m busy right now, but I’ll be happy to look at it after supper.”
“It’ll only take you a minute.”
The woman took a step away from the table. “I don’t really have much time . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Faith brandished the shears. “Show me which of the flowered designs you want.” She shot an apologetic glance at Grandpa in time to catch an expression of hurt cross his face.
“When you have a moment to spare, I’ll be out back.” He turned toward the door, shoulders slumped.
“Excuse me a moment.” She placed a bolt of green fabric on the table, then hurried to her grandfather. Hand held out, she said, “What did you write?”
His eyes lit. “I remembered a story from when I was a boy. Thought you’d be interested.”
The page he gave her contained one long paragraph that filled the sheet from top to bottom.
I was sent to a poor mountain school kept by one Bobby Dolliehyde. Why he was named so, I cannot tell unless it was his penchant for hiding the boys and making dolls of the girls. I must have been a rather forward boy for my age, for I recollect . . .
Faith lowered the paper. “Grandpa, I love how you’ve started this story. May I please finish it at home this evening?” Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed her customer sidling toward the door.
“Ma’am? I’ll be right with you,” Faith called.
“Some other day. It was impulsive of me anyway. My husband wouldn’t have been happy to have me come home with more dress goods.”
Grandpa snatched the page from Faith’s hand. “You don’t know how long I worked on this, and you can’t take two minutes to read it. I don’t know why I bother.”
“I’ll take all the time in the world this evening. Just not while I’m busy.”
“We won’t be home until late, remember? Miss Saxon invited us to supper.” He banged his cane against the floor with more force than necessary on his way out.
Faith jammed her hands into her apron pockets and scuffed to one of the empty chairs next to the stove. Balancing her time in the store with Grandpa’s needs grew more difficult each week.
Dinner at the Saxons’ would be a welcome treat. Maybe she could coax a few words out of Curt. She knew he could talk a blue streak. She’d overheard him sharing stories with Grandpa about his experiences with horses prior to the war. But when she was around, he seldom spoke more than a sentence or two. He was friendly enough when they first became acquainted. She couldn’t imagine what she’d done to offend him.
Over the next hour, several patrons came and went. As she dropped coins in the cash drawer, she hoped today might turn out to be their best yet, in spite of losing the dress goods sale. So far, her new ideas hadn’t done much to lessen the mercantile’s struggles.
She was occupied with showing buttons to Reverend French’s wife when three men entered. They headed for the boot display, the scent of tobacco trailing behind them. Faith’s fingertips tingled. They looked like the same three men who had ridden past her on that rainy day several weeks ago. The tallest of them had his back to her as he examined a pair of black cavalry-style boots.
Faith dumped several buttons in a paper twist and thrust them at Clarissa French. “Thank you. I trust these will match your mother’s dress nicely.”
Clarissa stared at her, a startled expression on her face. “These are for my daughter. I told you that when I came in, and I’m not finished with my selection.”
“Forgive me.” She forced her attention back to the trays of buttons. “Now which color were you interested in?”
“It’s so hard to decide. You know how girls are. You must have spent time with your mother choosing dress goods for your graduation.”
Faith swallowed. “My mother passed when I was ten. Papa didn’t have much patience with fripperies.”
Clarissa looked stricken. “I had no idea. Of course, we know there’s just you and your grandfather now, but . . .” She dabbed at her eyes. “I’m sorry to bring up painful memories.”
The three men moved from the rack of boots toward the ready-made shirts. Faith squirmed inside, anxious to intercept them before they left. She gave the pastor’s wife what she hoped was a convincing smile.
“Let’s talk about your daughter. Did you say the dress would be white with lavender flowers? Here are some that would be perfect.” She showed her a tray filled with glossy white buttons painted with tiny purple dots.
“The very thing.
I will need a dozen.”
Faith completed the sale, then stepped from behind the counter. “Thank you. See you Sunday.” She patted Clarissa on one plump arm, then turned toward the three men.
Her heart beat faster as she approached them. “I noticed you’re interested in new boots. Ours are especially fine leather, direct from St. Louis.”
One of them frowned. “Ain’t there a man here to help us? What would you know about riding boots?”
The tall man turned slowly in her direction. “Give her a chance, Tolly.”
Faith took a step backward. “Royal Baxter?” Blood rushed to her head at the sight of his exotic olive skin and full lips. He was more striking than she remembered.
He removed his hat and studied her, a question in his dark eyes. “Do I know you, miss?”
“It’s been quite awhile. I’m Faith Lindberg. We met at a going-away rally when you left to enlist.” She gave him a wide smile. “You took my hair ribbon as a memento.”
Tolly snorted. “That where you got all them ribbons, Baxter? From little girls?”
The third man laughed. “He’s got a heap of ’em, for sure.”
Royal turned to Faith and shook his head. “I’m afraid you have the advantage over me. I don’t doubt you were present when I left, but there was a great crowd at the station. Forgive me.”
She wished she could disappear beneath the floorboards. He’d assured her he’d carry her ribbon next to his heart to keep him safe. He must have made the same promise to every girl he met.
Faith dug her nails into her palms and took a deep breath. “My apologies,” she said in her chilliest voice. “How could you be expected to remember something that happened so long ago?”
She turned to Tolly. “Now, what size do you wear?”
“Never mind. The ones I already got will do me just fine.”
Faith followed Rosemary into the kitchen. She glanced around the tidy room, with the sink under a window that looked out at her friend’s flourishing garden. The cookstove anchored the opposite wall. Drying herbs hung from hooks fastened to a rafter above the stove. “Your kitchen reminds me of ours when my mother was alive. It feels like a refuge.” She placed the soiled plates on the counter next to the washbasin. “I’ll wash the dishes, since you cooked. It’s only fair.”
“I cooked it, but you scarcely ate a bite.” A worried expression crossed Rosemary’s face. “I should have asked what you liked. I could have prepared something else.”
“Oh, my word! Please don’t think it was your cooking. The chicken was delectable. I’d never have thought to tuck thyme sprigs and cracked pepper under the skin.” She sighed. “I’m just preoccupied, I guess.”
“Problems at the store?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Faith filled the basin and swished the soap holder through hot water until a layer of suds appeared. Utensils rattled when she dropped them into the mixture and settled the plates on top. She bent to her task, scrubbing each plate and stacking them on the drain board.
“If you’re not careful, you’ll rub the pattern right off my dishes.” Rosemary laid her towel aside and touched Faith’s arm. “Sometimes it helps to talk things over with someone.” She drew a chair away from the worktable and turned another toward Faith. “Let’s sit a moment. Your grandfather is busy trying to win a game of chess. He won’t mind if you spend a little extra time with me.”
Faith smiled. “It’s good to see him so occupied. He’s been melancholy since my father and brother were killed.”
“He’s helping Curt too. The war changed him. I try to understand, but I miss his lively nature. Reverend French—” She shook her head. “Enough about us. Please, tell me what’s worrying you.”
“I’m not worried as much as humiliated.” Faith shared her feelings for Royal Baxter and the afternoon’s experience. “He had no idea who I was, and here I believed the memory of our meeting would bring him back to me after the war. I feel like such a fool.”
“How old were you when he left?”
“Sixteen.”
Rosemary took Faith’s hand. “And how old was he, do you think?”
“Twenty-three, twenty-four. Somewhere in there.”
“I saw many troops leave when the war began. They were always surrounded by young women waving handkerchiefs and weeping.” She increased her pressure on Faith’s hand. “Call your experience a girlish fancy and let it go. You have more important things to think about.”
Faith forced a smile. “Like these dirty dishes.”
She wished it were as easy to scrub Royal from her mind as it was to clean the dinner plates.
8
When the Lindbergs were ready to leave, Curt stood next to the front door, arms folded across his chest. “Please allow me to drive you home.”
Faith’s grandfather frowned at him. “I’ve traveled these streets for many a year. I’m perfectly capable.” He removed his hat from a peg.
“Yes, sir, but it’s going on full dark. You and Miss Faith would be safer in the buggy.”
Faith put a hand on her grandfather’s arm. “You’ve been quite content to accept rides to church. The distance is almost the same.”
“It won’t take long to hitch the horse,” Curt said. He took a few steps toward the rear of the house, then paused, waiting for the judge’s response.
“Well, Faith is probably tired. Might be good for her to ride.” Judge Lindberg dropped his hat over his bald spot and leaned on his cane.
Faith’s blue eyes met Curt’s. “Thank you. I appreciate your kind offer.”
He dared a smile in her direction. “No trouble.”
Once they settled in the buggy and started across town, Judge Lindberg’s head drooped forward. A sideways glance told Curt that he’d fallen asleep.
Faith’s soft voice reached him through the darkness. “Grandpa rises at daylight. It’s a struggle for him to stay awake much past seven.”
“I noticed he looked worn out.” He kept his attention on the reins. For some reason, the surrounding darkness untied his tongue. “Has he had more trouble with his memory since his fall?”
“Little things. Now that he’s not busy with the mercantile, the changes aren’t so apparent.” She sighed.
Curt guided his horse around the courthouse square and angled left on High Street. Lightning bugs flashed under the spreading limbs of a cherry tree in front of the Bennetts’ house.
“Your granddad told me he’s writing a memoir. Is that a fact?”
Her skirt rustled as she turned toward him. “Indeed he is.” Her voice carried an edge of impatience. “It’s good that he’s keeping busy, but I wish—”
“Wish what?” Faith’s grandfather sat up straight.
“That you had someone else to read your pages. I can’t pay proper attention when I’m busy in the store.”
“Why didn’t you say so? I won’t bother you anymore.”
Curt heard the anger in the judge’s response. “Well, here we are,” he said with false cheer. He reined the horse to a stop in front of the Lindbergs’ home, then hurried to assist his passengers from the buggy.
When Faith took his hand, a surge of warmth traveled up his arm. She was so small and helpless-looking. He wished he could stand between her and all danger, but how could he? He couldn’t control his own memories.
Curt carried a lantern to light his way from the stable to the back porch. Through the kitchen window he saw Rosemary seated at the table with a covered teapot in front of her. She smiled when he entered.
“I brewed some chamomile tea. Thought you might like something to help you sleep.” Two teacups rested in matching saucers next to the pot.
“Sounds good. Thanks.” Curt sank into a chair, heat from Faith’s hand fresh in his senses.
Rosemary filled their cups. “It was kind of you to take them home. I could see Judge Lindberg sinking by the end of the evening.” She grinned at him. “It saved the old gentleman’s pride to pretend it was Faith who was tired
.”
“He wasn’t pretending. Didn’t you notice her yawning?” Curt stirred honey into his cup, watching the sweet threads dissolve in the hot brew. “Wish I could spend more time with him. Miss Faith said something tonight that made me think she needs more help with her granddad than she lets on.”
“Why don’t we have a picnic on Sunday and invite the two of them?” Rosemary regarded him with a knowing look in her eyes. “You can’t go on claiming the judge is the only reason you spend time at their house.”
He tapped her shoulder. “Don’t start matchmaking. I’m better off single. Miss Faith wouldn’t want me if she knew about my . . . spells.”
Rosemary stood, hands on hips. “You’re certainly not the only man suffering from soldier’s heart. Others are struggling too, and many of them have wives. Faith is the dearest person I’ve ever met. She’d not be one to turn away from difficulties.”
“She’s your friend. If you want to ask them on a picnic, go ahead. Just don’t expect me to start wooing her.” He rose and drained his cup. “It’s late. Good night.”
On tiptoes, Rosemary kissed his cheek. “Sleep well. I’ll go to the mercantile tomorrow and extend our invitation.”
Shaking his head, Curt left the warm kitchen and climbed the stairs. Once Rosemary settled on an idea, there was no stopping her.
Using a broom, Faith pushed oiled sawdust toward the rear of the store, rolling yesterday’s dust away. As she passed the boot display, she stopped to straighten the disorder left by Royal Baxter’s cronies.
Given enough time, maybe she’d stop cringing at the memory of the blank look on Royal’s face when she introduced herself.
She brushed sweepings into a dustpan and dumped them in a bin in the alley. While standing in the shade of the mercantile, she peeked at the small building where Grandpa worked on his memoirs. The wounded look on his face when she’d blurted her frustration haunted her.
Squaring her shoulders, she marched across the path separating them and tapped on the door.
“Who is it?”
