by AlLee, Jennifer L. ; Breidenbach, Angela; Franklin, Darlene
Mr. Hudgins cast a sly glance. “I believe we are, although I’ve been abandoned.”
“Would you hang my quilt?”
Stroking his golden mustache, Mr. Hudgins scanned the room.
When he didn’t move, Sarah’s ire rose. “If you’re going to wear the state fair uniform, they may expect labor from you.”
“At your service, Miss Richmond.” Grant’s friend bowed low. “I reckon you’re right, ma’am. If I were a worker here, I sure would be workin’ to get paid.”
If he were a worker? When he straightened, Sarah narrowed her eyes at him.
Lee strode to the wall and grabbed a sturdier-looking ladder.
Denise giggled. “He’s adorable, don’t you think?”
“Right now Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum aren’t exactly on my good list.” She crossed her arms. Something was strange about those two, a kind of Alice in Wonderland conundrum she’d unravel.
Lee returned, unfolded the ladder, and took the quilt from Sarah’s arms. “Ladies, do ya mind holdin’ the ladder?”
With wide doe eyes, Denise gazed up at him. “I don’t mind.”
Sarah stifled a groan. While Denise might be there to find a husband, she definitely was not. And she wasn’t about to join the coterie of ladies who gawked at the two men wherever they went. She had better things to do. But at the moment, she couldn’t remember what they were.
She rubbed her arms. Grant Bentley had just saved her life. She’d have joined Arnold in heaven or been severely injured if he hadn’t caught her.
Her heart had hardened after Arnold’s death. Now, despite his harsh words, Grant Bentley stirred emotions she’d crammed, like bits of stuffing, into each flower she’d appliquéd on the quilt. Flowers that couldn’t completely cover the pattern underneath. The hopes and dreams and colors beloved by a young woman hoping to marry and begin her life.
Grant paced in front of the Home Arts Pavilion. Why had he lost his temper with Miss Richmond? She could’ve been killed. Like Mother. He closed his eyes, recalling his mother taking the steeplechase jumps in their fields, unaccompanied. She’d been training to impress Father’s New York society friends. Following her on his pony, Grant got to her too late. He found her crumpled on the ground, arms and legs askew like one of his sister’s rag dolls. Then he’d screamed for his father.
A trickle of sweat ran down the back of his neck. Grant swiped it off. From somewhere nearby the faint music of a Southern spiritual rose up. He strolled in the direction of the a cappella singers. He recognized some of the Detroit African Methodist Evangelical church members. The choir stood, singing on risers that would be used for performances once visitors were allowed on the fairgrounds.
As they practiced “Give Me Jesus,” a thousand chills swept over Grant. Mother had loved the hymn. He blinked back moisture in his eyes. The chorus repeated and rose, drawing more people closer. When they finished, the onlookers clapped.
The director turned. “We give all the glory to Jesus, friends.”
The choir members stepped down from the stands and streamed out toward the main fairgrounds, some clapping each other on the back. A few of the quilting-bee ladies waved shyly at Grant, and he waved back, winking at Mary, who baked the best pies on God’s green earth.
Nearby, a trio of men unleashed a barrage of profanity. Luckily, the church members had moved out of earshot. A rant of cussing like that in the state of Michigan could land you in jail, and surely these men knew it. When the men removed their slouch hats and quarter-turned toward the home arts building, Grant recognized the two miscreant brothers from the cafeteria. The taller one elbowed the other.
Grant stepped back and pulled his cap low, wanting to see where they went. A bad feeling grew in his gut.
When the three passed, Grant overheard the older brother cajoling the other two. “You two chicken? She’s the fair’s greatest prize.”
What young lady did they speak of?
“She’s got this”—the scarred brother made exaggerated curving motions—“going on and more.”
Grant picked up some trash from the ground, tossed it in a nearby basket, and followed the men.
“Fresh as country cream. Unspoiled, if you know what I mean.”
“So you want me to keep an eye on her?” The other man, whom Grant hadn’t met, pulled a jackknife from his pocket and began cleaning his filthy fingernails.
“Me and little brother want to find a place where we can spend some time alone with that pretty quilting-bee lady.”
They had to be speaking of Sarah. Who else matched her description?
Confronting the men would do no good. He had no proof. But he could make sure someone followed Sarah. And warn her to never be alone on the grounds.
Thank You, Lord, for letting me overhear this. My temper got the better of me, but You used it for good, just as You promise in Your Word to use all things for our benefit.
From here on out, he’d be spending much more time with Miss Richmond. And he’d have to trust God with that, too.
Ten minutes into the process, Lee still awkwardly tried to even out the quilt.
Sarah cupped her hands around her mouth. “A little more to the left.”
Shouldn’t the Southern gentleman be more adroit with such a chore? And why weren’t Lee and Grant out doing whatever chores the fair workmen did?
Movement near the front of the pavilion caught Sarah’s eye. Mamie DuBeau whispered to another well-dressed woman, behind her lace-gloved hand. Even if Sarah lost to this privileged woman, perhaps she’d garner a purchaser. Miss DuBeau claimed if hers won, her father would have it displayed at his flagship store in Detroit along with the second- and third-place quilts. If she was a runner-up, perhaps someone at DuBeau’s would buy the quilt.
Thankfully, Miss DuBeau remained at the front of the building. Mr. Hudgins finally descended the ladder.
“Why did you and Mr. Bentley come here this morning?”
His mouth flapped open like brook trout, and he stared past her.
Grant Bentley, his face red, strode toward them. He leaned in and whispered something to his friend.
Lee’s eyes widened. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely, but I don’t think she saw me.”
“Who are you talking about?” Denise, like Sarah, was unaccustomed to people whispering to one another. It wasn’t polite.
Lee shoved his hands in his pockets. “Mamie DuBeau is here.”
Sarah frowned. Why should they care?
Moving slowly toward them, chattering with a plain woman dressed in a dun-colored walking suit, Miss DuBeau held center court. Not everyone could afford to bring in their own help, which the wealthy young woman had. But after all, wasn’t this what Mr. Bentley and Lee were being paid for?
Grant glanced up and scowled. He clambered up the ladder.
With a toss and a few tugs, he positioned her quilt overhead. Beside her, several women moved closer and gasped.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Gorgeous.”
Even though she could detect Miss DuBeau’s heavy scent nearby, a thrill of pleasure shot through Sarah. But when she turned and caught the malicious look the well-to-do young lady shot her way, her enthusiasm deflated.
“How did you appliqué those tulips over the rings without them puffing out too much?” Mamie’s friend inquired.
“And how long did it take?” an older woman with a heavy Polish accent asked.
Miss DuBeau narrowed her eyes. “That had to have been hundreds of hours. There’s no way you could’ve done that by yourself.”
“Five years …” and two wishes for marriage dashed and an extra pair of spectacles because her eyes had worsened from all the close work.
“Well then, I think that disqualifies you.” Mamie smirked, her green eyes glittering.
“What do you mean?” Sarah clasped her collar, suddenly feeling a choking sensation.
“I believe the guidelines state the quilt must have been compl
eted within a year.”
“And you would know that how, Mamie?” Grant’s voice rang out behind her.
She turned to see his eyes shooting daggers at the beauty.
“Why, Grant Bentley, I know a great many things that might surprise you. Such as why you’re at this fair.”
Chapter 5
When Mamie finally slunk off to her own table, Grant exhaled the breath he’d been holding. Sarah watched him, chewing her lower lip. It was an adorable sight and a sharp contrast to Miss DuBeau’s prissy behavior.
“I can’t believe Mamie is here.” Grant’s gut clenched.
“You ain’t just whistlin’ ‘Dixie,’ brother.” Lee feigned to wipe sweat from his brow.
“At least Heinrich isn’t.” Thank You, God.
“Yet.” A rare scowl altered Lee’s fine features. “But where she is, trouble is close behind.”
A growl emerged from Grant’s throat before he realized what he was doing. Trouble was named Heinrich Stollen, who seemed to lurk at every turn. No matter what engineering society meeting they attended, he always found a seat near them. Stollen would question them on their progress on engines that he, too, was developing.
“How do you know Miss DuBeau?” Miss Drefs brushed at some imaginary wrinkles in her gown.
Miss Richmond wore an expression Grant hadn’t seen in a while. Could it be? Once, at a party, Jonetta’s face had gone into a pucker of jealousy when she’d been introduced to his sister’s close friend, a sweet girl he’d known since childhood.
“She’s engaged to our competitor.” There, Grant offered the truth.
Miss Richmond’s face relaxed. “Competitor?”
“We’re engineers. Inventors working on refining small engines.”
“Inventors? Engineers?” Miss Richmond looked like she’d swallowed a peach pit. “No wonder.”
Denise laughed. “We’d been chatting earlier about how we just couldn’t believe you two fellows looked like groundskeepers.”
Grant unfastened the top six buttons of his coverall. Beneath, a tailored, superfine navy suit hugged the white linen shirt. “Since we’ve no pressing business today, how about you ladies come to lunch with us?”
“I spied a splendid spot in the central park area, ya’ll.” Lee directed his comment to Denise.
When Miss Richmond simply stared at him, Grant placed his hand over his heart. “I understand your reticence. I apologize for my earlier behavior. It won’t happen again.”
Her pretty face pinked up as she fought a smile. “All is forgiven. But in future, please be more direct with me.”
“With us,” Denise added.
Lee ran his thumb over his lower lip. “I suppose we should confess we’ve got a basket loaded with food from your aunt.”
Sarah gave an exaggerated sigh. “All blue ribbon quality, too; she told me several times last night as she prepared it. I wondered what she was up to.”
“A challenge to keep up with her accomplishments, Miss Richmond.”
“Did ya wonder if she was sendin’ that to Franklin and us for our dinner tonight?”
With a melodic laugh, Sarah shook her head. “All I knew was I surely couldn’t bring that on my bicycle. So Denise and I were going together to the cafeteria.”
Grant raised his hand. “Please, spare me worry and don’t enter that establishment again, Miss Richmond. With those woods surrounding the cafeteria, and some criminally minded men finding it a favorite, please avoid that eatery.”
Sarah blinked up at him. “Mr. Bentley, thank you for your concern. I give you leave to call me Sarah. After all, you’ve saved my life.”
“And please, call me Grant.” He grinned. “Sounds much better than other names I’ve been called.”
Lee stifled a chuckle. “Crazy Yankee being my favorite.”
Two hours later, still reclined on a blanket in the park, they sipped lemonade, nibbled on banana bread, and continued to share all kinds of information, as if they were long-lost friends. When a breeze stirred the gently falling maple leaves and chilled the air, the young women shivered.
“Sorry all the tables were taken, ladies, or I’d have wrapped that blanket around you.”
“Makes a right good barrier between us and the ground though.” Lee gazed at Miss Drefs like a lovesick puppy.
She giggled like a teenager instead of a young woman in her twenties.
Sarah lifted her napkin to her lips and gently wiped biscuit crumbs away. “Do you think Miss DuBeau is correct about the one-year policy?”
He laughed. “Mamie would make up any new rule and get her father’s cronies to add it if she could get away with it.”
Lee tapped two fingers against his forehead. “Best get yourself a copy of the original guidelines.”
“What’s she doing at the Home Arts Pavilion, anyway?” He feared Mamie and her fiancé were there spying on him and Lee. “Is she a judge?”
Sarah and Denise exchanged a long glance.
Don’t tell me. It couldn’t be. But Grant couldn’t help asking, “She’s entered a quilt?”
“Yes,” Sarah and Denise agreed.
Lee choked on his lemonade, and Grant gave him a moment before he whacked him a few times on the back. Lee waved him off.
“Which quilt did she claim was hers?”
Sarah dipped her chin. “Claim? Do you mean you don’t think—”
“I’d be certain Mamie could no sooner fashion a quilt as she could build a bridge.”
Other than the chattering of chipmunks and sounds of leaves rustling, silence settled over the group. A train horn in the distance announced its arrival at the fairgrounds.
“You have to enter your own quilt or represent the quilter.” Denise pulled her straw boater lower and adjusted the red ribbons on it.
Sarah gently touched Grant’s sleeve, sending a frisson of electricity through him. “Did you see that American album quilt, the one highest overhead?”
“I believe it’s one the ladies quilting bee at the Detroit African American Evangelical church sewed.”
“What?” Sarah’s gasp caused several passersby to gawk at them.
Lee scratched his head. “I reckon that’s the one where each lady was stitchin’ a different kind of big block.”
“All heavily embroidered. I even sent to New York for some of the silk thread. We use that in our—” He caught himself before saying balloons.
Lee stacked his dishes. “Our shed along the Detroit waterfront is near the church.”
“It’s our office—not a shed,” Grant grumbled. “Our laboratory.” Truthfully, it was little more than a small warehouse. Why did he suddenly care what Sarah thought of his workplace? Why did he want her to approve? He was beginning to care too much about her.
His friend rolled his eyes, and Denise laughed.
“Lee and I often stop by the AME church.”
“On Thursdays they do quilt tops.” Lee winked. “And bring sweet potato pie. Or pecan.”
“And we’re not hesitant to bring in supplies for certain pies, if the ladies are willing.” Grant patted his girth for emphasis. He’d missed the ladies’ pies, but Mrs. Swanson had given the churchwomen a run for their money with her baking.
“With Grant’s engineering eye for detail, I’m reckonin’ he would know if that’s our church ladies’ quilt.”
“It is.”
Both Denise and Sarah gaped at him. After running the tip of her tongue over her lower lip, which did something strange to Grant’s insides, Sarah exhaled a sigh of satisfaction. “Which means Mamie’s submission is disqualified.”
“Yes’m.” Lee grabbed another chicken leg and gnawed.
“He’s an endless pit.” But Grant, too, grabbed another piece of chicken, savoring Mrs. Swanson’s fine cooking.
“Whoever marries these two fellas better know how to cook.” Denise flipped open the top of the nearly empty hamper.
Grant grinned. The notion of one day finding a wife didn’t hurt so much any
more. His brittle heart was softening.
“Sarah, if you and Denise are available this afternoon, can we take you on a tour of the grounds?”
“Oh no.” Denise pulled a watch fob up on the chatelaine attached to her sweater. “We best get moving. We’re late.”
Sarah shot up. “Can you clean up and take the basket for us?”
“Yes’m.” Lee saluted.
“Thanks. We have to return to our duties.” Sarah linked her arm through Denise’s, and they strode off.
Grant bent and picked up the plates, scraping all the remnants onto one plate he emptied into a nearby trash container. He’d grown up on a fashionable Hudson River estate, yet an Upper Peninsula farm girl had just ordered him to do chores for her. Again.
The funny thing was, he’d be happy to do just about anything she asked him to do. Especially if, someday, God allowed him to be rewarded by her warm hugs and kisses. And more. He better rein in those thoughts.
“What are you grinnin’ about?” Lee arched one brow.
Mimicking his friend’s and his own mother’s heavy accent, Grant said, “I ’spect ya’ll reckon ya know already.”
“Yes, sir, I ’spect I do.” Lee gave a little salute.
The two worked together, thoroughly cleaning up the area. They were accustomed to forming an efficient team, putting everything back in order each night wherever they were. Despite his easygoing veneer, Lee was compulsive about ensuring all was in its place. He surprised Grant by tossing the last biscuit at him.
When Grant dodged the projectile, a beagle with huge eyes trotted up.
“Mr. Box, what are you doing here?” Grant patted the dog’s head.
Lila held the dog’s leash tight. Mrs. Swanson scurried up behind her daughter and glared at them. “Are you wasting my good food?”
“No, ma’am.” Lee wiped crumbs from his mouth.
“Mama, it wasn’t wasted. See?” Lila pointed to Mr. Box, who contentedly ate the biscuit.
“Well, at least give us back the hamper to bring home.”
Would she be disappointed it was practically empty? Were the Swanson’s having hard times? He, Lee, and Uncle Franklin had helped bring in a good harvest with Seth.
