by Kelly, Carla
Henry should urge her to accept.
“If the parade and music performance don’t suit you, I’d be honored to escort you to the calico ball.”
But that kiss . . .
How could he maintain his distance and watch someone else court her? He’d figure it out, because he must.
“Thank you, Mr. James. I’ll consider your offer.”
“Very good.” The man’s relief was palpable. “Perhaps I’ll stop by next week. Here.”
“You may.” Her tone cooled. “I might as easily mail a letter in care of the station.”
His heart leapt. Isabella’s disinterest in James might mean . . .
Nothing had changed. Though no longer in danger with creditors, he could not support a household on his current income.
If and when his financial situation were secure, he must make his selection of bride with care. He needed a real home.
No matter how much he wanted Isabella to be the right kind of bride, she wasn’t.
When her handsome, flirtatious patient left the office, Isabella listened to his footfalls on the stairs. One, two, three . . .
Thank goodness she’d heeded that little voice inside her and not given in to Naomi’s pressure to confess her love to Henry. The past eight days had been horrid enough with her secret safely kept.
Ten, eleven, twelve.
Reasonably sure she and Henry were alone, she marched directly to him.
He looked up from his magazine, eyes widening briefly.
What did he think she’d do?
As if dealing with a boy who’d fallen asleep with his book, she eased The Dental Independent from his hands and laid it on the table.
“Would you care to explain,” she asked, unsure whether she’d laugh or cry, “what that was all about?”
He blinked. Had he any idea how clearly he gave himself away? Jealousy slanted his brows, quickly chased offstage by guilt’s rampage. Last, but not least, determination. “I promised I’d not leave you alone with a male patient.”
“You listened to every word exchanged.”
“Yes. I’m your . . .” He circled his hand, as if the motion would conjure the missing word.
“Paid protector, I believe I said.”
“Something like that.”
“What happened to us?” That question had spun ’round and ’round in her head like a housefly trapped indoors, buzzing at all hours through eight interminably long days and nights.
To be fair, the first few were spent floating on a sea of tranquility. Henry had kissed her!
And then shut her out. He hadn’t touched her, even with a friendly pat on the shoulder. He’d not offered his arm. She straightened, realizing he’d not so much as walked beside her.
He rose, as if towering over her made the question easier to address. “Nothing happened to us. We’re still professionals. We still work in this office.” He flung a hand toward the door through which her patient had passed. “Our names are still painted on the windows.”
How, precisely, had she fancied herself in love with this man?
This aggravating, self-centered, petrified man?
How, exactly, did a single kiss . . . in truth, that kiss had counted for at least two, if not three. How did three kisses, in the space of sixty seconds, terrify a man like Henry Merritt?
Finally! The question she’d danced around at two o’clock that morning, unable to identify.
She folded her arms and tipped her head up. “Please, Dr. Merritt, if you’d be so kind, do tell me how one little kiss brought you to your knees?”
“I, uh—” He splayed a hand over the precise location, anatomically speaking, of his heart. “I’m not—you didn’t—”
“Prior to that occasion, eight days ago . . .” One of her eyelids twitched. Once, twice, then picked up an annoying rhythm. “Eight.” She cleared her throat. Twitch. “Days.” Twitch, twitch. “Ago. Heretofore, I’d believed you a man with the constitutional fortitude of a bull elk.”
His brows straightened. Stupefied. “Pardon me, Isabella. Is a question hiding in there somewhere?”
Twitch. She should’ve smacked him. Or pushed him backward into his chair.
Did the man think she’d simper in the corner, waiting for him to come to his senses? Did he believe she’d turn down an offer of companionship from Mr. James because the man she wanted found himself unnerved by The Kiss?
All excellent questions, but she’d do well to stick with the first.
“You kissed me, eight days ago.”
He jerked his head to the right, as if he’d launched into a determined shake of the head, but instantly caught himself. He covered the brusque reaction by palming the back of his neck and massaging with force.
“And I kissed you back.” With tremendous effort, she managed to sound at peace. After all, they were finally talking—and the annoying twitching in her eyelid had ceased. She’d do well to remain civil.
“Prior to that sixty seconds of affection, you’d been a dear friend. We talked about all sorts of scientific matters, the weather, the challenges our patients face. After those sixty seconds, you’ve been a changed man.”
He opened his mouth. He honestly hadn’t a clue what to say.
“Oh, yes. Definitely a changed man. Since that fateful morning, you’ve barely offered me a hand into the wagon or down from that dangerously high seat—”
“My mother taught me better manners than that.”
She raised one brow and paused.
A little huff sounded. The fight left him.
“You’ve exercised great care to avoid touching me. Not intentionally, and certainly not unintentionally.”
“How might I intentionally refrain from touching you unintentionally?”
A chuckle escaped before she composed herself.
“I still make you laugh.” His pleasure faded, and the light in his eyes dimmed.
“Yes, you did.” She tried to sweep her heartache under the rug before he witnessed it.
“Maybe,” he whispered, “I ruminated everything you confided.”
She’d churned over everything as well. Wondered, hour upon hour, what she’d said to chase him away.
“Maybe,” he paused, “I startled, like a bird in the bush, and flew willy-nilly.” Sadness and regret shone in the warmth of his brown irises. “Maybe I realized the emotions in my heart had serious . . . uh, hmm.” He coughed. “Uh—feelings. Feelings connected.”
Had that kiss made him realize he loved her?
“Maybe I realized I’m not the man you want me to be. And need me to be.”
“Henry—”
“Maybe I realized that you’re a woman carrying a bushel of ache in her heart. And maybe I looked at the situation closely and fear I’m not equipped.”
Not equipped? “Henry.” Her corset seemed tight as her heart expanded an extra size.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“I’m a woman who believes kisses are a special thing. Like gold dollars, they’re not to be tossed away indiscriminately.”
His Adam’s apple slid down his throat and bobbed back up. Terror flickered over his expression.
“I say this, not as prelude to a marriage proposal—”
“Hey, I didn’t think—”
“—but as an explanation.” She spoke over his objection. “Yes, you and I are friends. We are dentists who work side by side at the same address. I comprehend that everything has changed between us, and yet nothing has changed.”
She’d barely completed her statement when he broke in. “Do you intend to accept James’s invitation? To the parade and music? Or the ball?”
“Why would I do that? The calico dress, petticoats, and unmentionables my mother ordered arrived yesterday by express.”
He blinked, utterly confused. Such a dear man.
“Do you know what matches the yards upon yards of calico I’ll wear to our calico ball?”
His confusion deepened. What adorable incertitude!
“Your undershirt, shirt, collar and cuffs, necktie, and sack suit. Your ensemble matches my costume.”
“Uh . . .”
How had Mother reduced this eloquent man to a single syllable?
“I may have described you in my letter, but only so Mother could order a shirt, sans collar and cuffs. I have firsthand knowledge of men in Almy, near your size, who need a new shirt.”
He dragged a hand over his face.
“Between you and me, no one will ever know if the suit remains in the crate, unworn.” She tiptoed a step closer to whisper, “It’s a handsome suit of clothes. Someone in Almy will appreciate it.”
He seemed to follow the conversation, yet confusion lingered.
Perhaps she could put him at ease. “My mother might have a one-track mind, but I assure you, her gift of an entire set of clothing—yes, unmentionables for you, also—is by no means an expectation of marriage.”
“Must I wear this?” Henry tried to keep all traces of panic from his voice.
The calico suit of clothes Isabella’s mother had commissioned lay across his lap. From the fine tailoring and the fabric’s superior heft and finish, she’d paid a premium fee for the three-piece suit, shirt, collar and cuffs, necktie . . . and drawers.
One week remained until Independence Day. He hadn’t the time or resources to come up with anything different to wear.
Isabella’s posture stiffened. Had he offended her?
“It’s nice. Very nice. I’ve never seen a man’s suit of clothes made from calico before.” One shift in the mines, and no one would know it had once been blue-green and flowered. Someone would be grateful for the sturdy construction and multiple layers.
“It is a calico ball.”
He nodded, his shoulders slumping. For this woman, he’d probably wear the blasted suit and express delight the whole time, if only she’d smile.
“And,” she said, her voice lowered to a whisper.
They sat in the parlor of the boardinghouse, and for the moment, they were alone. The widowed boardinghouse proprietor held her role as chaperone for proper young ladies in all seriousness—even if she were younger than Isabella.
“And?” He leaned nearer, his knee bumping hers.
“And Mother took great care to ensure your clothing matches mine.”
So she’d said, a couple weeks ago, when she’d mentioned the crate had arrived by express.
He fingered the polished, smooth cotton. In the fading light of the summertime sun, slanting through the west-facing windows, blinds, and lace curtains, the calico’s flowers and vines intertwined in a small, repeating pattern. The flowers appeared blue, the vines green, and the background colored a mixture of the two.
“They match.” He scrubbed his palm over his jaw, finding more stubble than he liked. He should’ve taken time to shave prior to calling on Isabella. “Guess that means your costume is this same . . . uh, print.”
“My skirt and bodice have this small floral,” she indicated the pattern on his shirt and necktie, “along the center front. The lapels of each are this plain sea green.” She touched the collar and cuffs of his getup.
He knew green. But he’d never seen the sea. Somehow that shade of sky blue didn’t seem right.
“The waterfall and center drapes incorporate the fine stripe of your trousers and coat.”
They two would look like peas in a pod, matching halves of a single whole.
Wearing this suit would announce, loud and long, to everybody in the entire county, the state of their romance.
He’d look like a Vanderbilt in this suit of clothes. Not like the simple man he was.
She assessed him long enough his cheeks heated. “You don’t like it.”
“Now, I didn’t exactly say that.” Would she put words in his mouth now? Tell him how he felt?
She giggled. She clapped her hand over her mouth, the chuckles soon impossible to contain.
“Oh, Henry. I’m so sorry.” Laughter spilled, bright and happy.
Relief eased in with her laughter. He’d escaped the embarrassment of wearing this laughing stock before everyone in the county.
“My mother seems—” she chuckled again—“unequaled in comprehending women’s fashions. But this?” She held up the sleeve of the coat. “Do not misunderstand. Mother’s dressmaker did superb work. But you’re a man of subdued tastes. Plain wool. No highly decorative cotton for you.”
He nodded. Plain wool for him. Plain brown or medium gray with a pale stripe. The two suits of clothes had done him plenty well for the past five years.
“You don’t have to wear it.”
“Thank you.”
“I don’t know what mother was thinking.”
In the week and a half since he’d begged off wearing the suit, a half dozen reminders had come calling. At least one had blown him ten miles off course.
First, Mrs. Roberts brought all five of her daughters into the office to see Isabella.
The matron had clucked her tongue, made comments about the expense of raising children, and asked for Dr. Pattison to send the bill to Mr. Roberts for payment.
Second, that sum due to Dr. Pattison haunted Henry as he prepared to join Isabella with the Hugheses and the Chandlers to attend the Independence Day Parade, basket dinner, speeches, reading of the Declaration of Independence, and ultimately, hear the whole afternoon regaled by patriotic music.
On the hot noontide of the Fourth of July, small children waved American flags. Some were carried on the shoulders of their fathers. Others ran beside parents, enjoying the festivities.
Ahead, an approaching marching band led the parade with the time-honored tune “Yankee Doodle Dandy.”
And he had Isabella on his arm, her white summertime bonnet upon her head, patriotic ribbons of red and blue matching the trim upon her smart suit jacket and skirt.
For the umpteenth time in the past week, he nearly lost the ability to breathe. If he did not change his course, he’d one day soon assume responsibility for this woman’s dressmaker bills.
Yes, her father had paid for every costume until now. With marriage, all bills transferred to a woman’s husband. No man with a grain of honor would allow his father-in-law to continue financial support.
He focused on the parade, the bright and cheery music, the flash of sunlight upon brass as the instruments swept past, carried by bright young men. The band represented two dozen sets of parents who had paid for music lessons and instruments.
How would he afford opportunities, as well as the necessities, of life?
Children squealed, clapping and cheering in their high voices.
Parents enjoyed them, for the most part.
Heady aromas of roasting meat filled the air. Street vendors strolled the parade route with carts, selling cold beer, roasted nuts, and shave-ice snowballs flavored with brightly colored syrups.
I want, Daddy, I want!
How had he never noticed how much husbands and fathers spent on such luxuries?
As the parade wound up and the crowd moved as one down the street and toward the park where the basket dinner would he held, their tidy group of six passed the soda water fountain with its doors wide open.
Not a single stool waited empty at the crowded bar. So many thirsty patrons on this hot afternoon.
“Daddy!” a child yelled behind Henry and Isabella. “I’m thirsty! I want a soda water.”
I want, I want, I want.
Street vendors had emptied their carts of beverages, sweets, and beers, and filled their pocketbooks with the money handed over by fathers.
Hadn’t Isabella said her father had been overly indulgent?
Would she expect to spoil their children? Provide every opportunity, every music lesson, dance lessons—something Henry had missed out on—medicines, new clothing every month . . .
Right before them, an elderly man, dressed plainly, sold three cherry tarts to a well-dressed man. The fellow handed one each to his wife and his twin sons. The boys’ g
rins revealed central incisors recently erupted, placing them within one year of their eighth birthday.
“Henry, are you well?” Isabella had been tugging on his arm, then she’d stopped.
The old man had pocketed his coin, nodded his thanks, and pushed his cart farther along the street.
The crowd had moved on, swarming around Henry and Isabella. Ahead, their friends turned back to see what delayed them.
“Henry?”
He swallowed, his mouth dry.
He swallowed again.
“Is it the heat?” She looked into the ice cream soda fountain. “Should we go in, out of the sun, sip a Coca-Cola?”
“No.” What ailed him couldn’t be fixed so easily.
He clung to the concern in her hazel eyes. She cared about him now.
But bottom line, he couldn’t afford a wife. Not on his current income.
Precisely why he’d not been courting anyone and had intentionally delayed attachments since he’d floundered everything with Lenora.
How had he allowed himself to be swept along in the day-to-day unintentional courtship of Dr. Isabella Pattison?
He’d never intended to plant expectations.
He’d never expected to fall in love.
Why allow the brisk river of courtship to wash him downstream, ever nearer the inevitable?
He must save himself, immediately, or he’d find himself precisely where he could not be.
“If not the heat, Henry, what is it?” Isabella shaded her eyes from the sun. At this angle, her white hat did little to protect her from the sun’s rays.
“I can’t do this.” Agony deepened the lines in his lean cheeks. His brown eyes were pools of conviction.
Her skin flushed hot from crown to toe. Beneath many layers of clothing, her temperature spiked.
He referred to something far more important than the ongoing Independence Day celebrations.
“I must go.” Henry paced four steps away, then turned, pacing back to her.
She’d pretend to misunderstand—until she locked herself in the oven of her boardinghouse room. She’d not dissolve into tears and hysterics in the middle of a celebration. Never would she be that woman who won what she wanted with tears.
