Probably because the apartment was intended for servants. Anna pushed the bedroom door open. This room was even smaller than the sitting room, with the back left corner walled off into a closet. She stepped around the bed that she and Ma would have to share and opened the closet door. None of the rooms had electrical lighting. That made it difficult to see the small iron sink in the back corner. It had a pump to draw water. She tested the squeaky handle and with a few pumps cold, clear water gushed into the sink. Across from the sink, a rack had been nailed to the wall. Perhaps ten or twelve garments could be squeezed onto it.
“I hope it will suffice.” Brandon stood anxiously between the bed and the heavy chest of drawers. “I wish I could fit two beds into the room, but the man I hired to open up the place assured me the space was too small.”
“Yet someone added a sink.”
He nervously swiped at his face. “Sometime before the turn of the century. It was probably the height of luxury at the time.”
Anna couldn’t do more than nod at his attempted levity. She rubbed her arms. “It’s cold in here. I hope the pipe doesn’t freeze.”
Brandon reached around her and pushed the closet door completely open. The brush of his arm sent an unbidden yet pleasant sensation down her back.
“If it does,” he said, “let me know. I’ll hire someone to fix it. In fact, if anything breaks or doesn’t work—any problem at all—tell me.”
Though she kept her gaze locked on the clothes rack, she could feel him near.
He tipped her chin so she looked up into those stormy gray eyes. “I mean it, Anna. If you need anything, tell me. Anything at all.”
His touch stole her breath. They were alone. Ma faced the fire in the other room and could hear but not see them. Anna’s heart pounded wildly. Was he going to kiss her? Impossible. They’d barely been civil to each other these past two days. Yet he’d just touched her, and that touch made her knees tremble. What would it feel like to be kissed? What if she did it wrong? She’d read about it in novels, but no man had ever kissed her.
She let her lids drift almost shut, terribly conscious of how close his lips were to hers. Mere inches. And he smelled...well...masculine.
“Good.” He cleared his throat and stepped away. “I’m glad that’s cleared up.”
What had happened? Why hadn’t he kissed her? Her chin still burned where he’d touched it. She unconsciously rubbed the spot as she followed him into the sitting room. He stooped to talk to Ma in tones Anna couldn’t hear.
“Hendrick will bring our things over this afternoon,” Ma answered, her voice honey smooth.
Clearly she adored Brandon. Every gesture, every concession told Anna so. For whatever reason, this was where Ma wanted to settle, and she would apparently put up with a great deal of deprivation and discomfort to do so.
“Now give me a hug before you go,” Ma commanded.
“Ma,” Anna chided. “Mr. Landers is practically a stranger.”
“You know the saying: strangers are just friends we’ve yet to meet. Mr. Brandon and I have met, therefore we’re friends.”
A smile softened Brandon’s stern expression. Clearly he had a soft spot for Ma too. Most people did.
He bent obediently and gave her the required hug. “Please call me Brandon. Mister is a bit formal for friends, don’t you think?”
Ma laughed as she patted him on the back. “I’ll try. I hope you visit here often.” She winked at Anna. “Though I’m sure you’ll have plenty of time to chat with my Anna while she cleans your house.”
Anna stared at her mother. “You’ll be there too.”
“Now, I don’t see why that’s necessary. Mr. Brandon is a gentleman.”
So, that was it. Ma was matchmaking. Had her mother seen how close he’d come to kissing her? Heat rose into her cheeks, and Brandon couldn’t possibly mistake the redness for anything but a blush.
His stiff response left no doubt how he felt. “I’ll be busy with the bookstore. I’ll leave the house early and return late.” His glance flitted past her. “I suggest you finish your work by six o’clock. Set breakfast in the dining room. Supper can be left in the warming oven.” His tone made it perfectly clear that he saw her as his housekeeper and nothing more.
Then what had happened in the closet? Or had she been the only one to feel it? Apparently so. It was the same old story. She always fell for the wrong man, and she’d done it again.
Brandon donned his coat and hat. “You may start tomorrow, Miss Simmons.”
Anna nodded curtly. “Yes, sir, Mr. Landers.”
She’d never again make the mistake of liking him.
* * *
Brandon should never have brought Anna to the carriage house. She smelled of cinnamon, sweet yet sharp. Try as he might, he couldn’t get that scent out of his mind. That little episode in the closet washroom had only confirmed what he already knew.
He was attracted to her.
Add the very real complication that he’d also hired her to clean his house, and he’d have to work hard to avoid her.
He opened the door to the Cadillac and settled behind the wheel. The solution was clear. Hard labor would erase this ridiculous emotion, and he did have plenty of work to do. The storefront needed an overhaul before he could sell one book.
He put the automobile in gear and pulled away from the source of discomfort. A few hours in the shop would cast away this confusion.
Early to work and late returning home. If he kept to that schedule, their paths would seldom cross.
With a smile of satisfaction, he parked in front of his shop. First order of business would be finding a carpenter. He got out of the car and crossed the boardwalk to the front door. With a turn of the key and a push of the latch, the door opened.
The room looked no better today, but in the soft morning light, he could envision shelves of books and a sales counter of polished oak.
A carpenter could make that happen. Unfortunately, the man who’d outfitted the carriage-house apartment didn’t work with wood. He’d suggested a Mr. Lyle Hammond, who might be coaxed out of retirement at the right price. Unfortunately, money was the one thing Brandon lacked. He needed an inexpensive carpenter, such as a youth.
That pastor had said he could pass the word. No one knew a town’s inhabitants more than a minister. Maybe Brandon would take the man up on his offer—as long as the pastor steered clear of anyone named Simmons.
Brandon glanced across the street at the cheery little church. Its oak door and railing had been festooned with evergreens and bright red ribbons that fluttered in the icy breeze. No pretentious stained glass graced the front. Instead, an ordinary window looked out on the street. Brandon liked that homey feeling. A church that didn’t put on airs matched the minister who walked through town in a mackinaw coat. If Brandon wasn’t on such bad terms with God, he might be tempted to try the service one Sunday.
As if on cue, the easygoing pastor exited the church and headed directly across the street toward him. The man whistled, hands in pockets, until a Model T passed. Then he waved to the driver, calling out a cheery greeting. With a skip, he hopped up onto the boardwalk and strode toward Brandon’s shop. After another wave at a passerby, he bounded inside.
“Good morning,” Pastor Gabe said as he closed the door. “What a gorgeous day. Perfect for moving.”
Brandon stared. Did the man know everything that happened in this town?
“I wanted to thank you in person,” the pastor continued. “Ma Simmons is delighted that they can stay in your carriage house. She went on and on about how perfect it was.”
“Ma?” Brandon had to ask. “Are you married to one of her daughters?”
Gabe chuckled. “Anna’s her only daughter, but in a roundabout way I am related to Mrs. Simmons. My sister married her son Hendrick. W
e’re all one extended family. In fact, we offered the guest bedroom at the parsonage and my sister offered a room at the orphanage, but Ma insisted the Lord wanted them to live at your carriage house. She couldn’t be persuaded otherwise. That’s the way Ma is. Once she sets her mind on something, no one can talk her out of it.”
Brandon’s head spun. Sisters and brothers, parsonage and orphanage. It all muddled together. “How many family members are there?”
Gabe laughed. “I can see how confusing it would be. Why don’t you join us for dinner after Sunday worship? Then you can meet the whole clan.”
After worship? God wouldn’t want him in His house, not after what Brandon had done. “I’m busy.”
“Heading home for Christmas?”
Though agreeing would end the conversation, Brandon couldn’t lie. “This is home.” At least it was now.
“Then your family is coming here. Please, invite them too. The more the merrier.” The pastor chuckled and added as an afterthought, “Though I suppose I should give my wife, Felicity, an idea how many to expect.”
“I doubt my brother will visit.”
The minister’s brows drew together in puzzlement. “But Sunday is Christmas Eve. Surely you’ll get together for Christmas.”
The little hole in Brandon’s heart that had started to open when Gabe first mentioned family now expanded into a painful gap. “I haven’t celebrated Christmas since the war.”
His leg had begun to ache after so much standing, and he shifted to place more of his weight on the cane. Though Brandon thought he’d moved discreetly, the pastor noticed.
“Then I insist you join us. We would be honored to include a war hero at our table.”
Brandon’s composure wavered for a second before he regained control. The pastor didn’t know what had happened, and Brandon intended to keep it that way. “Thank you, no. I prefer to dine at home.”
After a moment of surprise, the pastor nodded. “Too bad. Ma Simmons will be disappointed. She talks of you constantly, like you’re family. And we could use help getting her into the house.”
That did not make sense. By Brandon’s count, at least two able-bodied men would be in attendance. “Isn’t her son coming?”
“Yes, but the parsonage has a lot of steps to climb. Many hands make light work. Won’t you reconsider?”
Brandon knew when he was being cajoled. Brutal honesty was the only way out. “I don’t attend church services.”
Pastor Gabe didn’t even flinch, as if he knew that Brandon had strayed from the straight and narrow. “Church attendance isn’t required, though you’re always welcome. We’re a family, sharing our joys and troubles, and our arms are always open. Come to worship if you wish. If not, you’re still invited to dinner.”
The pastor had effectively trapped Brandon. He fought his way out. “Christmas Eve is a time for family. You’ll be exchanging gifts.”
“Any gifts or tokens would be exchanged privately on Christmas Day. Sunday is for family.”
“I’m not part of your family,” Brandon pointed out.
“We’re all part of God’s family. You too.” Gabe grabbed the door handle. “We’d love to have you. Two o’clock.”
The man would not relent, but Brandon could be just as stubborn. Work came first, regardless of the day of the week or year. “I’ll be busy getting this shop ready. It has to open early in January, the sooner the better. You said you knew someone who could do some carpentry. Perhaps a youth who’s good with his hands?”
Gabe mused for a moment. “I think I know the perfect person. Come to dinner on Sunday, and I’ll introduce you.”
Brandon had been outmaneuvered. If he wanted help, he had to endure Sunday dinner. “Very well.”
“Wonderful. We’ll have a real celebration then.” After a parting grin, Pastor Gabe took off down the sidewalk whistling “Blest Be the Tie That Binds.”
Brandon shut the door on the hymn and the wily minister. He had no intention of celebrating on Christmas or ever. He didn’t deserve to be happy, not when his men had died.
* * *
Unfortunately, the main house had fared little better than the carriage house. First thing the next morning, Anna stood alone at the entrance to the imposing parlor and surveyed the massive task ahead of her. The brass and silver had tarnished to such an extent that she doubted she could bring back the shine even if she polished for a month. Dust coated everything. Dampness had seeped into the very fibers of the wool carpets, leaving the place with the moldy smell of a cellar.
“It’s impossible,” she murmured.
“What’s impossible?” Brandon’s question made her jump. He stood in the hallway leading toward the back of the house, impeccably dressed in a dark gray suit, overcoat already on and cane in hand.
She backed into the doorway. The solid plaster walls gave her a sense of protection. “I’m sorry. I thought you’d left for the day. I didn’t see your car.” At least he hadn’t mentioned the fact that she didn’t make him breakfast this morning. The car had been gone by the time she’d dressed.
“I returned to fetch a book.” He withdrew a slim volume from his coat pocket to prove the point. “Which reminds me, I promised to lend you Davis’s book. Follow me.”
Clearly he was accustomed to commanding people. As she hurried after him, she recalled Ma’s speculation about where he suffered his injury. “Were you an officer in the war?”
He stopped in his tracks. “My past is no concern of yours.”
His glare sent icy shivers down her back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just curious.”
As quickly as it had come, his anger dissipated. “Apology accepted. However, I would appreciate it if in the future you could contain your curiosity about my personal life.”
Anna swallowed hard. What had she said to set him off? She’d only asked if he was an officer. Maybe Ma was right about the injury. Maybe that’s why he didn’t want to talk about it.
“I will,” she promised.
“Thank you. Now let’s fetch Mr. Davis’s report from the library.”
His house had a library? Anna’s pulse quickened. Libraries contained hidden passages and secret rooms. Everything interesting happened in libraries.
He strode down the hallway, his steps strong and confident with barely a hint of the limp. She followed, eager to see the room. The library. The word alone invited intrigue.
Brandon stopped at the third closed door on the right. “Wait here.”
He ducked inside, and she barely saw the floor-to-ceiling books before the door shut behind him. Seconds later, he reappeared.
“Here it is.” He handed her the slender volume. It had less than a hundred and fifty pages, and a lot of those were illustrations.
The Tombs of Harmhabi and Touatânkhamanou. She read the title, no doubt incorrectly pronouncing the unfamiliar words. “I thought this was about King Tutankhamun.”
“It is.” He pointed to the last word in the title. “Mr. Davis simply spelled it differently than the reporters do.”
“Oh.” Somehow the volume wasn’t as exciting as the newspaper stories. She flipped to the title page and noticed the date of publication. “1912? Mr. Davis found the tomb ten years ago?”
“Actually, that’s when the report was published. His work came earlier.”
She couldn’t hide her bewilderment. “Then why didn’t he take the treasure?”
“Read it,” Brandon urged.
He was deliberately holding back, and she could tell by the teasing smile on his lips that he had a surprise in store for her.
“We can discuss it when you’re finished,” he added. “We’ll set aside an evening when you and your mother can come to the house for supper.”
It sounded almost like a date, with Ma as c
haperone.
She clutched the book tightly. “I’d like that. Maybe next week?”
His smile faded. “Perhaps. If the store’s ready. Speaking of which, I’d best get back so you can work.” Without further comment, he nodded farewell and departed into the wintry day.
Disappointed, she fingered the book. What had she said? One moment he wanted to talk over supper. The next he couldn’t make time.
She turned toward the desolate house and the hard work that awaited her. Only then did the realization hit. He only saw her as a housekeeper. The offer to talk was meant to appease her and nothing more.
Anger flushed through her. He didn’t care what she thought about the Egyptian excavations. If she wanted to gain his respect, she needed to make something of herself.
Tomorrow she’d take the train to Belvidere and apply at the cannery.
Chapter Five
Anna never took the train to Belvidere. Ma insisted they decorate the apartment for Christmas instead. Since her mother could barely walk, that left the work to Anna. She gathered pinecones and evergreen boughs, while Ma strung corn she’d popped over the fire. Branches of money plant added pearly white disks to the display. She stuck cloves into apples and hung them from old ribbons. Considering the decorations cost so little, Anna thought it looked pretty good.
“It’s not as nice as home, though,” she mused.
Ma looked up from her needlework. “This is home now.”
“Are you sure no one will mind that I cut off some pine branches?” No one of course referred to Brandon, on whose property they’d gathered the boughs and cones and dried flowers.
“Mr. Brandon gave his permission. He even unlocked the garage doors so you could get a saw.”
No matter how many times Ma reassured her, Anna still felt like a thief. They might live here, but only as guests.
Just walking into the garage portion of the carriage house had felt like an invasion of his privacy. As a child she’d often wondered what lay inside the thick stone walls. How disappointing to discover it contained the same things as every other outbuilding. In former days carriages must have been parked where he now kept his automobile. Along one wall stood a tool bench with dozens of old tools hanging from nails that had been pounded into a board attached to the plastered stone wall.
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