Hearts

by Stef Ann Holm

  “Seven o’clock,” Jake said, his deep voice carrying over the road.

  “See you there.”

  Beer. Boxing. Poker. With vices such as those, there could hardly be a virtue to count. Mr. Bruiser fell into the Moose category. In light of that, she couldn’t explain her disappointment. Disappointment seldom cured her of her expectations. She knew better. Knew that there was no man out there for her. And yet why did the book have to go and talk about the attraction of a woman to a man? Even if that man was solely unsuited for her? The doctor called it sentimentality, and a lady who felt such a thing was of a weak constitution.

  She hated to think of herself as being that.

  As they passed a granite-faced office building, her suitcase hinges twanged, as if the springs were under too much pressure. Seconds later, the locks sprang free and a jumble of trophies scattered onto the boardwalk.

  Jake stopped, as did Truvy. They both stood still and stared at the diecast bronze, silver, and gold pieces shining and glittering under the December sunshine. Some were of the goddess Nike with engravings along their base; others were replicas of softballs and tennis rackets. Several basketballs. A torch and ribbon. They represented every statuette for outstanding sports achievement she’d won for St. Francis or while being enrolled at Gillette’s. The trophies signified a lot of hard work and years of practice, and they always graced the top of her dressing bureau.

  Jake Brewster gave her a sideways glance as if he didn’t know what to make of her all of a sudden. “What kind of a teacher are you?”

  “Girls’.” There was absolutely no point in explaining the trophies.

  A man named Bruiser was the epitome of manhood, defined by his male friends and things deemed manly. He probably scratched himself and would no more think about bringing a lady a box of candy than the man in the moon. If she were looking for a soulmate, it would never be him. Not in a hundred years. She desired a gentleman who wore his masculinity with honor—not muscles.

  She swept her gaze over his physique. Perfectly formed, honed with a sinewy grace, and a face that wasn’t at all unpleasing to look at. He was brash and flawed in manners. And yet . . . her pulse raced as she met his eyes. Her breath hitched in her throat. She had never thought her body would react to a man nicknamed Bruiser. She knew better than that. She had the advantage of the wisdom in The Science of Life.

  Jake’s eyes filled with admiration she didn’t want—because with it, she had learned, came bragging about their own athletic prowess, which men thought impressed sportswomen.

  She veiled her discomfort and began to gather the variety of statuettes without a word of explanation. Let him wonder.

  When he bent down on one knee to help, she shot him a glare that said she could do it. But he ignored her and picked up her trophy for all-around women’s tennis champion, looked at the inscription, then deposited it back into the trunk. Then with quiet precision, he examined her velvet walking shoes. There hadn’t been enough room in her other suitcase for the five pairs of new shoes, so they’d ended up with her trophies. She quickly put away her prizes and soon everything was safely stored back in her suitcase, the lock firmly in place. She tested it twice.

  Looking at her, he said, “The only athletic sport I mastered was belting a guy and posing in my shorts.”

  “You don’t say.” She couldn’t keep the sarcasm from her voice.

  Because Truvy Valentine knew a courtship disaster when she was staring at one.

  Jake Brewster was doing Tom Wolcott a favor by picking up Edwina’s schoolmarm friend at the station—even though he knew the favor was more of a ploy to couple him off with yet another woman. From the description he’d been given of Miss Valentine, Jake had envisioned a tall woman with a severe twist in her hair—and one so gangly her flat-chested figure wouldn’t fill out a corset.

  Although Miss Valentine wasn’t a stunner in the way a man would call a woman postcard pretty, she was a standout. The color of her cape, its rich hue of blue contrasting against the pale ivory of her skin, ignited his senses. Her hair was shiny brown, with a hint of burnished red to it when the sun caught one of the curls in just the right way. The brown of her eyes reminded him of toffee. Her nose wasn’t straight and pert at the end; it had a lot of character to its shape. And her mouth—those lips with their sugary peach color—was lush and full.

  “Yeah, I do say,” he said, countering her skepticism.

  Jake dragged air into his chest, expanding a fullness in his rib cage that showed off maximum pectoral definition and made his upper body look bigger. “I won the National Heavyweight Championship three years running, and at the World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago, I had top billing as ‘The Strongest Man on Earth.’ ” That always impressed the ladies. The usual reply expressed a desire for him to flex his biceps; something he happily obliged.

  In a tone that sounded like dull chalk over a slate, she suggested, “Let’s not dwell on accomplishments, Mr. Bruiser.”

  “Jake,” he countered with a frown.

  “Mr. Brewster.”

  His eyes narrowed. To hell with it.

  “If you don’t mind,” she said in a voice that was coolly impersonal, “I’d like to get to the Plunketts’ house. It’s freezing out here.”

  Her aloof manner got under his skin. So much so, he tossed aside civil politeness. “You wanted to carry the trophy suitcase. Go ahead, sweetheart. Just give me my beer.”

  Her brows raised, a momentary lift of trepidation. She didn’t seem the timid kind. “I don’t have it.”

  Now that he gazed at her hands, both were empty. “What do you mean you don’t have it?”

  Standing taller, with her chin high, she explained, “I dumped it out at the corner by the depot. I’m sure you know the one. You’ll need to go back and pick up the bottle. I don’t condone littering.”

  “You did what?”

  “I poured your Heinrich’s into a planter. I believe it was a blue spruce with a cranberry garland around the boughs.”

  He ripped out his next words. “Are you crazy?”

  “I was to walk through the town holding onto the bottle—yes. So I had no choice but to rectify the situation. I told you I didn’t want to carry it. A woman of my position—”

  But he wasn’t listening to her anymore. Without thought, he picked up both suitcases—contrary to what he’d offered—and started walking because if he didn’t do something, he’d just leave her there to fend for herself.

  She caught up with him, but didn’t speak. Wise move on her part. She must have seen his gritted teeth, the clench of his jaw. He ought to make her pay for that beer. Not that he needed the money. The whole thing was a matter of principle. You didn’t chuck a guy’s lager and then have the nerve to tell him to go back and pick up the empty.

  But Miss Valentine didn’t know that. How could she? She didn’t even know how to walk with an even stride. For somebody who obviously could whack a tennis ball and dunk a basketball good enough to win an award for it, her steps were short. As if each one pained her feet. What did she need five more pairs of shoes for? She couldn’t walk in the ones she had on.

  As they rounded the corner of Elm, Jake cursed himself for wasting his energy on trying to figure out why she found him so distasteful.

  He was likable, was not bad looking, and treated women well. His sense of humor was all right. He owned a successful business. And he knew the one thing that all women liked—making them feel protected when they were on his arm. Or in his arms. But when he’d tried to help Miss Valentine organize that trunk of hers, she’d shot him a glance that said she wanted to give him a right hook.

  She presented herself like a lady but carted around sports trophies. The pieces didn’t fit, but he didn’t have the inclination to put the puzzle together.

  The house came into view. The scrollwork on the eaves made the place seem like a dollhouse; ridges were decked out with tinsel and the porch had been trimmed with a kind of braided greenery and bunch
es of red berries. The lightning rod gleamed on the front gable; lashed to it was a large Santa Claus figure, his face transparent with an electric bulb glowing in his head. The Plunketts had tapped into electricity, one of the first homeowners here to do so, and Jake always got a kick out of seeing that lit-up Santa.

  Soft snow had been shoveled from the walk in neat piles to either side, the shallow banks melting under the late-afternoon sun.

  “This is it.” He opened the gate for her, let her pass through, then went up the steps with her and set down the suitcases at her feet.

  “Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Brewster.”

  “Yeah, yeah. No problem.” But she had been a problem.

  He left, telling himself he was glad to be rid of his responsibility for Miss Valentine.

  On his way to get his discarded bottle, he passed cozy homes with the smells of roasted meats and fresh-baked pies wafting from chimneys. Parlor windows were decorated by cheery lights. Children were being called in for supper. Families would be sitting at dining tables, talking about their days, sharing stories.

  A stab of yearning formed in his gut, but he shrugged it off. He didn’t need any of that kind of company. How could he miss something he’d never experienced? The closest people he had to brothers were Tom and, in a way, the boys over at the gym.

  Jake could take care of himself. He knew how to cook a thick steak to just the right rareness. He could sew a button on his shirt. Push a sweeper across his rug if he tracked in dirt.

  Yeah, Jake Brewster had everything he wanted. Everything he needed.

  The Wolcotts should quit their matchmaking attempts, because they hadn’t been successful in getting him to the altar. And they never would.

  At thirty-three, Jake had a lot of good bachelor years left in him. He had a great life, abundant women, plenty of money, and a solid business. He wasn’t about to mess it up with a wife.

  Again.

  Chapter

  2

  T he door to the Plunkett house opened and a heavyset woman filled the frame. She took one look at Truvy and burst into tears. Truvy didn’t know what to do when the woman put a hankie to her wet eyes and babbled, “My baby, my baby girl.”

  “Mrs. Plunkett? I’m Truvy Valentine.”

  “I know. I know.” She sobbed. “Do come in. My baby . . .”

  Gathering her trunks, Truvy followed Mrs. Plunkett into a parlor with gilt swag draperies. A heating stove in the corner gave off a glow of inviting warmth from behind the grate. The center table was nearly bare—only a black Edison phonograph.

  The rest of the area was encumbered with frivolous ornaments: glass birds, imposing volumes of books with gold engraving stacked on the organ shelf, and yarn—lots of yarn balls everywhere, in quarries of colors. The beginnings of an afghan were evident in the blocks of Roman stripes in various places around the room. Multicolored squares dotted the parlor as if Mrs. Plunkett had grown distracted while crocheting and left the finished squares wherever they landed.

  Mrs. Plunkett stood before her wearing a cap and delicate sacque that she must have tatted. She sniffled, looked Truvy up and down, then blew her nose. At least she was getting past her crying.

  “Well, I’m glad you arrived safe and sound. From the size of you, you need a nice hot supper,” Mrs. Plunkett said while dabbing her eyes. “You’re far too thin. Now my Hildegarde . . .” As soon as the name was spoken, fresh waterworks were turned on.

  Edwina had told Truvy about Hildegarde, a late bloomer from her class last year who had finally met the man of her heart. She’d gotten married less than two months ago and moved to New York with her new husband. From the overwrought emotional display, Truvy gathered that Mrs. Plunkett was still sentimental about her only daughter leaving the nest.

  “That would be nice.” Truvy set her suitcases down, hoping to draw the woman out of her tears. “I was told you’re an excellent cook.”

  A pause. A sniff. “Oh, really?” Her brows pitched upward on her high forehead and dimples appeared in her round cheeks. “I do put out a lovely meal. Ask anyone in the Amateur Ladies Avifauna Ornithologists or the Harmony Garden Club. They can tell you I bake the best chocolate cake. I made one for you. It’s my pr-pr-precious’s favorite.”

  At that, the dam burst once more.

  Having dealt with young girls and the trials and tribulations of their lives, Truvy went into her teacher’s mode, coaxing her voice into the gentlest and most effective of tones. “There, there, Mrs. Plunkett.You haven’t lost your daughter. Think of it this way: you’ve gained a son.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “A son? Why should I want one of those? Men are such a bother.”

  Once again, Mrs. Plunkett left her at a loss. But at least the change in topic to men pulled her out of her weeping. A small frown twisted her mouth, and Truvy wondered if she was thinking about Mr. Plunkett.

  “Well, have a seat, my dear, and I’ll bring you a fat slice of cake,” Mrs. Plunkett said, scurrying through the room at a surprising speed in view of her ample size. She disappeared.

  Truvy moved aside the afghan squares and sat, hands folded in her lap. The tick of a clock echoed through the parlor. She didn’t feel at ease in her temporary surroundings. She was used to the laughter and voices of young ladies in hallways, to the cheers from the St. Francis gymnasium.

  “Here we are,” Mrs. Plunkett said, bringing in a hefty piece of four layers slathered with chocolate icing. There was no way Truvy could eat it all, but she took the plate with a smile of thanks.

  “So,” the elder woman said, sitting across from Truvy on the organ bench, “you don’t have a gentleman caller back in Boise, do you?”

  The question threw Truvy, causing her to halt the progress of the fork in her gloved hand. “Ah . . . no.”

  “Thank the Lord for that, my dear. Let me tell you about men. They only ruin a woman’s life. Yes, indeed, they do. Why, I’ve been married to Mr. Plunkett for a good many years, and I ask you, what woman in her right mind would put up with a man of his temperament? Honestly, the things I bear.”

  Then she went into a soliloquy of every year of her marriage while Truvy ate as much cake as she could. Surrounded by the drowsy warmth of the stove and the long speech given by Mrs. Plunkett, Truvy grew tired. She was travel weary but concerned about Edwina. She wanted to deposit her things in her room and visit her school friend right away.

  “Would you be so kind as to show me to my room now, Mrs. Plunkett?” Truvy set the cake plate on the side table.

  “But you aren’t finished eating.”

  “I am. Thank you, it was delicious.”

  “Oh . . . well, if you want to see your room . . . it was my . . .”—the tears welled in her eyes—“. . . daughter’s.”

  Truvy hadn’t anticipated being uncomfortable occupying the space. She could see how upset Mrs. Plunkett was, but the woman had been the one to offer the use of the room at no charge while Truvy visited with Edwina. Edwina said Mrs. Plunkett had insisted because she was pining for the company of a young lady. But the elder woman was more than pining.

  Now Truvy was glad she’d instinctively withheld asking to stay longer. Clearly this was going to be too hard for Mrs. Plunkett. Truvy hoped Miss Pond would allow her to return to St. Francis in two weeks, as was originally planned.

  She went up the stairs behind Mrs. Plunkett and came to a room that was decorated entirely in pink chintz, from the chaise longue by the window to the canopy over the plush bed.

  “My darling loved pink.”

  Truvy couldn’t help thinking about her pink petticoats.

  “If you don’t mind, Mrs. Plunkett, right now I’d like to pay a call on Edwina. Could you—”

  “Of course I could unpack for you. My Hildegarde always let me pack and unpack her things for her. But she didn’t go anywhere very often. Just to see my mother in Scranton. And then . . . when she . . .”—the sobs came once more—“. . . went to New York with him.”

  “Oh, you need
n’t bother yourself with my trunks,” Truvy replied in a rush. “I don’t have much to unpack.” She had simply wanted Mrs. Plunkett to take her to Edwina’s house—which now seemed out of the question because Mrs. Plunkett was in the throes of a weeping fit once again. But Truvy didn’t want to delay her visit. “If you could tell me where Edwina lives, that would be helpful.”

  “Yes . . . of course.” She blew her nose into her handkerchief—a loud honk. “You two haven’t seen each other in a while. Her house is around the block and on the left. The pretty one with the decorated porch. I suppose I should show you.”

  “Please don’t trouble yourself. I think you should lie down and rest. It’s been a trying afternoon for you talking about your . . . daughter.”

  “My baby girl,” Mrs. Plunkett said with a sniff. “Yes . . . I need to lie down. I’m getting one of my headaches.”

  As she exited the house, Truvy was never more glad for a gulp of crisp, cold air.

  Truvy found out Edwina’s condition was nothing serious—a stiff back and swollen feet. She was heartily welcomed into the house by the Wolcotts amid a rush of apologies for their not meeting her at the train depot. Ushered into the parlor, Truvy was served refreshments, and immediately, the three of them fell into conversation.

  “I’m so happy you’re here, Truvy,” Edwina exclaimed. She sat in an upholstered parlor chair beside the fire, a great big dog at her feet. His name was Barkly and he was a bloodhound with so much skin, Truvy was at a loss over how he could even see. A cat called Honey Tiger rested in Edwina’s lap.

  “Your coming means a lot to Edwina.” Tom reclined on the arm of his wife’s cushioned chair and absently massaged her neck.

  “As it does to me,” Truvy replied.

  They asked her how her travel arrangements had been on the train and if she’d kept pleasant company during the journey. The subjects turned to the upcoming holiday and New Year and the names Edwina and Tom had decided on for the baby.