Chances

by Pamela Nowak

  Frank slammed his sketchbook and charcoal pencils on the dresser and snarled at the reflection in the mirror. “Spineless, cowardly little bastard,” he muttered. “No account little sissy. Be a man.” He growled his father’s words, crumpled the sketch into a ball, and threw it across the room.

  Stupid drawings would get him nowhere. If he wasn’t on his toes, Sarah Donovan would turn this job to ruin, too, and his father would be right. She’d signed up to take her primary operator test. He’d be out on the street, sure enough, and through no fault of his own, except that he’d let it happen. This time, he’d show some spine, prove he was a man.

  Empty ideas slid through his mind until one stuck. All he had to do was send off a few telegrams to Big John, hint around that any and all proposals would be entertained, for a certain sum, and use Sarah’s sine. Little Lark wouldn’t know what hit her. Big John would pass word around and she’d have more propositions than she could shake a stick at.

  Then it wouldn’t be no time until she was gone, bad luck along with her.

  * * * * *

  “What do you mean there’s not going to be a recitation this year?” Daniel asked, following his daughters up the stairs. Kate and Molly’s brown curls bobbed in excitement. They were so animated he could hardly get a word in edgewise.

  Molly jumped up and down, her black button-shoes tip-tapping on the upstairs hallway’s polished wood floor. A small oval portrait bounced, frame and all, against the wall.

  Kate frowned, censure in her hazel eyes. “Be careful, Molly.” She straightened her back and tried to look official, brushing off her blue calico dress for effect. “We’re going to put on a theatrical instead,” she announced.

  “A real live one,” Molly added.

  Daniel crossed his arms and bent to Molly’s level. “As opposed to what, a dead one?”

  Molly shattered into giggles while Kate rolled her eyes. “Papa, that truly wasn’t very funny. I’m not sure you’re very good at teasing.”

  Daniel frowned. There wasn’t much he was good at, when it came to the girls. He tended to either treat them like small adults, because it was easier, or push too far, like now, only to have Kate recognize, and call attention to, his over-effort. “Molly thought it was funny.”

  “Molly thinks everything is funny.”

  “Perhaps Molly has good taste.”

  “Perhaps she doesn’t.” Kate shooed Molly into their bedroom and eased the door shut. “We’ll be just a minute, Papa, and then we’ll tell you all about the play Miss Sarah is going to help us put on.”

  The door closed completely, leaving him to digest Kate’s words. So Sarah was going to direct a play. For years, Miss Clay had been presenting the same tried and true poetry recitation and now that Sarah was in the midst of it, they were going to do a play. He wondered how long it had taken her to convince Miss Clay and the group of mothers that they should let her refurbish the entire show.

  He should have put his foot down when Molly issued the invitation. But he’d been loath to protest, especially when he’d almost ruined all the progress he and Sarah had made that day. She just had so many newfangled ideas. Heaven only new what sort of child rearing notions she had.

  Reminding himself to stay objective, he knocked on the girls’ door. “Are you two ready in there?”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “Come in.”

  He opened the door and peered into their room. Their school dresses were hung, each on its own hook, just as he’d taught them. Shoes sat, paired up, in a straight row underneath their dresses. Kate was brushing out Molly’s brown curls.

  “So tell me about this theatrical,” he prompted, seating himself on the bed next to them.

  “Oh, it’s gonna be so much fun. Lots and lots better than those same old poems we always do.” Molly turned and smiled at him with excitement gleaming in her eyes. “Miss Sarah said so.”

  “Now, girls, there’s nothing wrong with poetry.” The words sprang more from loyalty than a sharp preference for odes and sonnets, and Daniel fought to keep his face serious. Kate and Molly needed to learn to appreciate fine literature.

  Kate nodded in agreement. “That’s what Miss Sarah said. She said poetry is special but that this year, we were going to do something different so we wouldn’t get tired of things. I think that makes sense.”

  “It seems to.”

  “Miss Sarah says we’re not gonna do a regular play, on account of most plays being for grown ups,” Molly added. “She says we’re gonna read a book and then act it out.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a good idea, Papa? That way we’re ‘killing two birds with one stone.’” Kate slid off the bed and placed the hairbrush on the dresser, then turned back to Daniel, waiting for his opinion.

  Daniel weighed the information, finding its logic more sound than he’d expected. “It certainly seems like a good idea. Did Miss Clay think so?”

  “Oh, Miss Clay is very pleased. She’s going to be in charge of refreshments and she’d got all sorts of fancy baked goods planned.” Kate winked at him knowingly.

  Daniel stood, waited for Molly to climb off the bed, and turned down the blankets. “So, Molly girl, what story are you going to read? A fairy tale?”

  She shook her head. “Oh, goodness no, Papa. We’re going to do a ‘piece of literature.’”

  “Miss Sarah has lent Miss Clay her copy of Little Women,” Kate explained.

  “Little Women, hmm? Why does that sound like something Miss Sarah would recommend?”

  Kate curled her bare toes and gazed at him as if he’d said something wrong. “My friend Dorothy said her sister read it and it’s a real good book about four sisters.”

  Daniel shrugged his shoulders. For the life of him, he couldn’t recall a thing about the book save for its popularity these last few years. “I imagine it must be then,” he agreed, pointing to the open bed. “Come on, let’s get you tucked in.”

  The girls crawled into their double bed and pulled up a worn scrap-quilt. Daniel bent to whisper a goodnight to each of them and kissed them on their cheeks, then turned and blew out the lamp. Pulling the door half shut behind him, he started down the stairs wondering what in the world Sarah had up her sleeve this time.

  * * * * *

  Near the end of the week, Sarah opened the door of the depot and rushed in. Between writing the script for the play, practicing for the primary op test, and work itself, she’d done nothing but rush all week. She should feel overwhelmed. Instead, invigoration filled her. She stomped her boots to shake off the morning’s wet snow and waved to Jim.

  “You got company, Sarah,” he called from his perch behind the ticket counter.

  Sarah glanced around the waiting room and spied two familiar brown heads. Kate and Molly sat on one of the padded leather seats, book in hand, intent on what they were reading. Goodness, they hadn’t even heard her come in. She hung her cloak on a hook and crossed the room to where they sat.

  “May I help you, ladies?” she asked.

  “Oh, Miss Sarah, we’ve been waiting for you.”

  “We’ve come on an errand for Miss Clay. She wanted you to have a list of the parents who have signed up to help with costumes and set construction so you can start on things as soon as Thanksgiving is over. She doesn’t have Papa’s name down but we think you ought to add it.”

  “Why, thank you, Kate. And Miss Clay let you out of school to bring this?”

  “Not ‘xactly.”

  “What Molly means is that it’s lunch time and we figured it would be better to catch you now, when you’re just coming to work, instead of later when you’re more busy.”

  “And does Miss Clay know you’ve left school to do this?”

  “Not—”

  “Lots of kids leave to take lunch at home. We don’t need to get permission just as long as we’re back in time.”

  Sarah nodded, accepting Kate’s explanation for the sidestepping it was, and watched Frank Bates leave the telegraph room and
saunter over to them. Leave it to Frank to add his two cents worth.

  “Figured it had to be you out here yakking,” he stated with cocky sureness. He gestured at the girls. “Them kids was in the office yammerin’ at me afore I sent ‘em out here. They ought to be in school, seems to me. You about ready? I got a pile of messages to deliver and I want to get ‘em done before the snow starts fallin’ again.”

  “I’m sure Kate and Molly offer their apologies for disturbing you, Frank.”

  “Yeah, yeah. You ready? Jim sure lets you get away with straying onto other activities during work hours, don’t he?”

  Sarah glanced at the girls. “Not now, Frank.”

  He stepped closer to her and lowered his voice. “Get them kids out of here and make ‘em stay out. You don’t wanna mess with me.” He stumbled back into the office, still muttering under his breath.

  Sarah shook her head and turned to Kate and Molly. “Never mind him,” she told them. “I have ten minutes before I’m officially on duty. Have you girls eaten? If not, come grab part of my sandwich before you go. Otherwise, your stomachs are liable to growl and Miss Clay will discover you didn’t go home for lunch after all.” She smiled at them, sealing their secret, and moved across the waiting room.

  They followed her into her office while Frank glared at them and puttered around collecting telegrams and stuffing them into envelopes. Jim offered a smile, shoved his glasses higher onto his face, and whistled his way back to the freight room.

  Sarah turned her attention to the girls, leaving her review of the logbook for later. “So, is that Little Women you were so involved in reading when I came in?” She handed each girl a half sandwich and gestured to the stools they’d sat on before.

  “It is.” Kate took a bite of the sandwich and settled herself on one stool while Molly clambered onto the other.

  “I thought Miss Clay was reading it to you in class.”

  “She is. We just got impatient. We checked our own copy out at the public library so we can read ahead.”

  “‘Cept Kate hogs it all the time.” Molly swung her legs back and forth against the legs of the stool, garnering another sharp glare from Frank and a look of reproach from her sister.

  “That’s only because I’m the better reader. It takes you too long.”

  Sarah grinned. “How do you find it, then?”

  “Oh, it’s very good. I can’t decide who I like best. I like Meg but I like Beth, too.”

  “I like Jo,” Molly announced between sandwich bites.

  Frank bundled his stack of messages with a leather strap and reached for his worn overshoes. He buckled them on and Sarah tried to ignore his too obvious eavesdropping.

  “I’ve always liked Jo, too,” she told the girls.

  “You’re lots like Jo.”

  “You are, Miss Sarah. You aren’t afraid of anything and you have lots of spunk.”

  She smiled at Molly’s observation. Spunk? She supposed it was a fair assessment, but not quite the way she would have chosen to describe herself.

  “Do you suppose Jo wants women to vote, too?” Molly continued.

  “I wouldn’t be half surprised, but I’m not going to tell you. That would be spoiling it. But I will tell you that Miss Alcott, the author of the book, is very much a supporter of women’s suffrage.”

  Kate stopped eating and grew wide-eyed. “Oh, my, is she a radical then?”

  Sarah laughed. “Goodness, I’d never have thought of her that way, but perhaps she is. The Alcott family was very supportive of the abolition movement in New England.”

  Frank shook his head with a grunt and began fussing with his wool plaid overcoat. He shuffled out of the office, turning at the door. “You mind what I said, Sarah Donovan. You’ve crossed the line, messin’ with me, and you’re gonna be mighty sorry you ever did.”

  Sarah looked up at him. “Don’t be so melodramatic, Frank.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn ya. I ain’t having no more bad luck and I ain’t gonna let you make me out no spineless coward. If you knew what was good for you, you’d have listened instead of flouting what I said. You just wasted the last chance I was offerin’.”

  He stared at her for a moment, intense anger pouring from his eyes, then turned and left her in stunned silence. The banging of the depot’s outer door punctuated his lingering words and Sarah shivered.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sarah stood outside the front window of Daniel’s coffin shop. Despite the “closed” sign on the front door, soft light poured out into the early evening darkness. If she was lucky, she’d catch his attention, get his commitment to help build the set for the play, and be on her way back home in no time. She peered through the glass.

  Within the glow of the lantern, Daniel hunkered beside a half-finished wooden casket. His dark brown hair shimmered in the lamplight. Jacket and vest were draped over a chair, and his white shirtsleeves were rolled high on his upper arms. Tools were scattered on the floor. Concentration filled his face, sharpening the angle of his jaw as he sighted along the top of one side. He bit his bottom lip, knitted his eyebrows, and frowned. His thigh muscles tensed as he crouched lower, then eased as he stood in a single fluid movement.

  Appreciation flowed through Sarah, warm in the early winter chill, and she stayed her hand. She’d knock in a minute.

  Daniel grasped a plane and shaved it across the edge of the coffin, biceps rock-solid with the effort. He slid the plane again and blew at the wood shavings. They drifted through the air, floating like golden leaves in an autumn wind.

  Sarah backed away from the window. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, after all. Some other father could chair the construction committee. It didn’t have to be Daniel.

  The door swung open and Daniel leaned out into the night. “Sarah?”

  Heat flowed into her face, and she shifted briefly, then masked her discomfort with a smile and stepped forward. “Hello, Daniel. I wanted to speak with you about the school program. Do you have a moment?”

  His shoulders lifted in a slight shrug and he nodded, then stepped back, gesturing her in. “I was working on a coffin.” He grinned at the obviousness of the comment, noticeably more at ease with her than he’d been a few weeks ago. “The room’s a mess.”

  He closed and locked the door, and she entered the shop. The mellow scent of fresh cedar filled the air, lingering in the warmth of the small Franklin stove.

  “Smells good in here. I thought coffins were made of plain old pine.”

  “Most. I usually keep one cedar in stock and a few families request something special. I don’t make too many at all, anymore. With the big companies back east and the new metal coffins, it’s easier to order them in. I just can’t seem to stop making them altogether, though. There’s something about working the wood that satisfies.” Contentment crossed his face and drifted away. “Let me move those.”

  Sarah glanced at the jacket and vest on the chair. Already, he was rolling down his shirtsleeves, following society’s rules. “No need,” she countered. She picked up the garments, sat down, and laid them across her lap.

  Daniel’s unsettling hazel eyes widened almost imperceptibly and his lips parted, then closed. “All right.” He fumbled in his pockets, pulling out gold cufflinks.

  Sarah felt another wave of warmth creep into her face at his discomfort, but she left his clothes on her lap anyway. “You can keep working,” she blurted out. “Please, don’t stop on my account.”

  He glanced at her and held her gaze. Then a grin burst onto his face and he shook his head. “You want the cufflinks over there, too?”

  You could just take off the shirt.

  Sarah snapped off the thought. “I don’t want to interrupt you. Just go on as you were and pay me no mind.”

  “You do bring out the worst in me, Sarah. You know that?”

  He inched the white sleeves back up his arms. The fine brown hairs on his forearms glistened in the golden lantern light. His gaze again centered on Sara
h and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

  She let the comment pass, enjoying his rare abandon too much to risk saying the wrong thing. She sat up straighter, purposely prim, and crossed her ankles daintily. His deliberate disregard of propriety was seductive, and she wondered if he realized it. She swallowed hard, unsure of his intent. Maybe he was just making a conscious effort not to be stuffy.

  “Did you have a nice Thanksgiving?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “Quiet, working the telegraph. Did you?”

  “Quiet, too. Mrs. Winifred cooked a turkey before she left on Wednesday. Among the three of us, we put together a decent meal.”

  Daniel stared at her for a moment longer, then reached to the floor for his sanding block, rose and slid it back and forth along the cedar. His muscles rippled in a myriad of patterns with each different movement. Sarah watched him, her heart pounding, as the scratch of sand paper against wood filled the shop.

  “So, are you going to tell me what you stopped by for, or is this it?”

  “Not originally.” Sarah warmed at the unbidden comment, and she fought for control, her mind in conflict over what she really wanted. Lord, she needed to state her business and get out of here. But all she could think about was Daniel and the passion lurking behind those piercing eyes, within his hard muscles.

  “And now?”

  Now I could watch you all night, waiting for you to grow hot enough to take off your shirt, hot enough to … “And now, I’ve had a chance to see a little more of what you do here.”

  “You ought to stop by when I’m laying out a body.”

  Only if it’s mine. “I think I’ll pass on the dead bodies.”

  “So, what did you want?”

  “I came to ask you if you would be in charge of building a stage for the school play.”

  “One more thing you’re getting me involved in?”

  “You’re the logical choice. Your girls attend the school, will likely be in the play, and you know how to build things. Besides, your daughters insisted I add your name to the list.”