“What’s a hope chest for?”
“For young ladies—” her father frowned “—to put in the doohickeys that they’ll need as young brides. You know, tablecloths and—”
“Young bride!” Her mouth flew open; she couldn’t help it. “Daddy, I’m only thirteen. Are you trying to marry me off already? I wanted a new baseball mitt. And you know that. Now you and Mom give me a hope chest?” She glanced down the flat front of her blouse. “Hopeless chest is more like it.” Did her father smile or was the frown still gracing his forehead? “Wait a minute. Is this some sort of joke?” She broke into a huge grin. Of course. That was it. Her father enjoyed a good joke every now and then. Always teasing. “You got me the mitt, right, and you’re just teasing me with this hopie thing?”
He shook his head, his face and ears pink with humiliation.
Playing the part of negotiator as always, her aunt pressed a smaller gift into Victoria’s hands. “Maybe this will help, honey. I hope you like it.” The smooth skin of Aunt Charlotte’s face filled with a smile promising good things to come.
Victoria tucked a strand of her blond hair behind her ear and then opened the box. “What is it, Auntie?”
“Dear girl, why, it’s a music box. See the tiny dancer on top? Wind it up and watch the ballerina spin around.”
First a hope chest. Now a music box—with a ballerina. Ugh. Even though she liked to dance, baseball was her first love and they all knew it. Did no one else care or understand what she wanted?
*
The curtain rose and Victoria’s attention switched right away to the dancers. To Phillipe. She stared nowhere but at the stage. “Oh, look.” She sighed aloud, not meaning to distract. Then fingered her lips, admonishing herself. “Sorry.”
Flo leaned closer, her pearlized opera glasses still aimed at the stage. “See there?” Her lips had flattened. Her face a frown. “He seems much older than his pictures. But he certainly knows how to dance. Here, take a peek.” She offered the set of glasses they were to share in order to see the dancers up close.
Victoria accepted the glasses. When she looked through them, she couldn’t believe her eyes. No! He was an old man. With little effort, she looked closer, seeing the difference. Those weren’t laugh lines, they were canals. Why, he appeared to be Phillipe’s father instead of the young, handsome Phillipe Mandrin from magazine covers. Maybe even his grandfather.
Bubble burst. A huge rush of air escaped her lips. So much for the dreamy Frenchman.
A nudge from the right caught her off guard. “Are you all right?”
She didn’t bother to look at the man responsible for her sore toe and soiled tilt hat. “Fine, thank you.”
Victoria bobbed away from the warm shoulder to see around the head in front of her. A much older woman without manners, merely a huge, feathered hat that flopped each time the woman nudged her husband, which was often. And why not? Phillipe was closer to the woman’s age than Flo’s and Victoria’s. Wriggling closer to Florence, Victoria stared at the dancers. Gracious Mandrin. Without meaning to, she murmured, “Nothing but an old man.”
“But are you enjoying the dance?” the deep voice whispered.
“Shh. Let’s not interrupt the show.”
He didn’t say another word the entire time, and Victoria, shamed by her behavior, avoided him altogether. A man who had probably just returned from war, and she had the audacity to correct him. After all, she’d been the one interrupting the show. Well, she’d apologize as soon as the lights came back up.
*
Joe had known lieutenants with less authority. No one had to tell him twice to shut up. He hoped he wouldn’t be facing Helga the Hun when the lights went up. He’d seen enough of her in Europe. A smile fanned his face. To be fair, there had been plenty of beautiful fräuleins, as they were called, but that one farmer’s daughter, Helga Rudman, had been enough to frighten the Yanks all the way back home. They should have signed her up to fight. Whew! He chuckled to himself remembering her outspoken, aggressive behavior.
Trying hard to make out this girl’s profile through the darkness, Joe could see only shining eyes, glittering eyes, beautiful pale blue eyes. Her gaze glued itself to the stage. She tucked a light curl behind her ear, and that motion struck a chord with him. A strangely familiar chord. Like seeing the girl next door.
Spinning around the stage, the dancers amazed him, as well. If he’d been born in a different time, a different place, with different feet, he would have loved to be a ballroom dancer, at least for fun, but he’d become an engineer. And thank goodness, all things considered with his two size-twelve left feet.
An hour later, the lights came up in the auditorium. Applause roared through the audience. What a marvelous show to come home to. Joe’s hands burned from the length of the applause, but he knew how blessed he was to have come home alive instead of in a wooden coffin, to have had this experience that so many of his friends wouldn’t ever know. Jimmy and John Drake, twins. Both killed, one on either side of him. Tears welled behind his lids and he shut them…tight. Squeezed out the memory of the brothers being hastily buried in an unmarked grave so no one would desecrate their bodies.
As he turned to leave, he lifted the program from the seat, and not paying attention, rammed into the back of the girl next door. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’ve been more than a bit of a nuisance tonight.”
“Not to worry.” Her voice carried over her shoulder, cheerful in spite of all she’d endured at his expense. She would probably get out and away from him as quickly as possible.
And then she glanced back.
His mouth nearly unhinged. That was why she looked familiar. “I guess I’ll always be saying I’m sorry to you, won’t I?”
Her large eyes widened. “Well, if it isn’t Joseph Huntington. Miss Davies’s Dance School. All grown up.” Then her eyes narrowed. “Or is that Sergeant Huntington?”
He groaned. “And I stepped on your foot…again.”
*
Miss Davies’s Dance and Etiquette School for Young Ladies and Gentlemen. Joey had promptly stomped all over Victoria’s feet until her toes must have throbbed. How could she be expected to run the bases with broken toes? He might have been two years older, but being older hadn’t made him a better dancer. And she had let him know what a klutz he was.
“Watch out with those big clompers!” she complained over the music.
“Sorry, Vickie.”
“And don’t call me Vickie! Only my teammates call me Vickie.”
“Here, here, here, Miss Banks.” Miss Davies, her hankie fluttering nervously, had quickly arrived from behind them like the cavalry sent to save Joey. “Young lady, you shall refer to Joseph as Master Huntington, not Joey. Is that understood? And we shall not reprimand the young man in front of his peers, now, shall we?” She shook the gray springs on her head and peered over large, round glasses that rested on the end of her nose. “Not at all.” Her ample self trembled with the indignation she no doubt tried to hide for the sake of propriety. Joey hadn’t seen her that upset before. He had been embarrassed enough without Miss Davies drawing attention to them.
Victoria’s face blazed at being corrected. Wasn’t she being corrected in front of her peers? Joey had thought it best to say nothing about that. Miss Davies was off his back for a while, and he didn’t want her to home in on him again.
Victoria, on the other hand, had plenty to say. “Of course, Miss Davies. Whatever you say, ma’am. I don’t know what came over me.” Then the pale blue eyes met Joey’s gaze. “And my apologies, Master Huntington.”
Joey’s face grew warmer and warmer still as, behind Miss Davies’s sturdy back, Victoria shot an eagle eye at him—full of daggers. The nasty old mutt at the corner hadn’t given him worse.
Then, when no one was looking, she leaned in and whispered in his ear, “Just wait until you get up to bat tomorrow. I’m going to knock your head clean off your shoulders.” And she nearly did.
*
Then she’d turned into the most beautiful girl in her class. Soft blond hair, big eyes that told you whether or not you were in her good graces.
And then the graduation dance when he’d proven he wasn’t in them. Ugh.
But now here she stood, holding her gloved hand out like the lady she’d grown into. Joe barely brushed it, not wanting her to snatch it back and embarrass both of them. She lowered her voice. “It’s been what? Five or six years?”
“Well, Victoria. I’d ask you what you’ve been doing, but that would take longer than we have standing here.” He glanced around his shoulder. “I think these lovely folks would like to exit.” And so would I. If he didn’t get away soon, their past might come into the open once again. No, sir, not on your life. The last time had ended so badly; no need for a repeat of that performance. He refused to apologize again and again…even seven years later.
“Oh, of course. I’m terribly sorry.” She started forward, planting her feet solidly on the walkway. “Yes, I’m sure they would like to leave.”
He reached for her elbow to steady her steps. “Are you all right?”
She continued to wobble but politely removed her arm from his grasp. “Thank you. Just a bit dizzy for a second. I guess because the floor slopes here.”
Her hint of a smile lit his heart, but he choked it down. Then swallowed hard again as if he couldn’t get rid of the lump. She had grown into an absolute beauty. Still, her attitude told him she remembered the animosity she’d had for him all those years ago. And there was no reason to assume the feelings had changed. Why should he care, anyway? Life had moved on…for both of them.
Once they arrived in the lobby, Flo faced them. “Who’s your friend, Victoria?”
“Flo, this is Joseph Huntington. You remember him, don’t you? He was two years ahead of us in school.” Then Victoria peered up through long black lashes. “And furthermore—”
“Oh, yes,” Flo stammered. “You two have a history.” She put a hand to her mouth, and her face fanned pink. “I am so sorry I brought it up.”
“Nice to meet you again, Miss Collinger.” No need to go into the stormy details. He glanced at Victoria. “Yes, we have quite a history. Only I’d thought that now that we’re adults…”
Again her attitude surfaced. “Oh, trust me. I don’t give you a thought. Stepping on my feet was the least of our problems.”
“I wasn’t referring to the times I stepped on your feet.” Now it was his turn for his face to warm at her inference.
“Nice to see you, Mr. Huntington.” Florence offered dainty, gloved fingers. Her gaze didn’t falter like her words.
“Please call me Joe.” He swallowed hard. Don’t say another word. Stay a gentleman. Or…wasn’t that what got him into trouble in the first place with Dru Carraway?
Joe put away any negative recollections and offered to hail a cab for the ladies. Anything to make his departure; those wide eyes and full lips were drawing him in deeper, like a bucket in the bottom of a well. And he’d been down that well, getting nothing but scrapes and bruises. No reason to open the scab and bleed again.
“Thank you, but Florence’s brother is picking us up.” Victoria immediately looked toward the door leading to the street; then she murmured with cold, calculated politeness, “Well, quite the surprise meeting you, Joseph. Hope you enjoyed the show as much as we did. Sorry if we inconvenienced you in any way. I certainly don’t ever want to put anyone out.” The old anger seemed to wash over her anew as if she couldn’t help herself. My, but the girl could hold a grudge. And to this day she had not heard his side of what had happened at the dance. Didn’t seem to want to.
He reached for her hand as the woman with the feathered hat pressed past him. “Not an inconvenience at all. Not in the slightest. Nice to have seen you again.” He examined the crystal-blue eyes again for any sign of compassion, but met nothing…only a dead-on stare. Scram, buddy boy. “Safe trip home, ladies.”
So, little Vickie Banks lived in Lansing now. Apparently no longer a pitcher. She seemed to have changed in so many ways. And in other ways, she was the same immovable, never-wrong, independent female.
At least they wouldn’t accidentally run into each other now that he was home. Lansing was enough of a distance that their paths needn’t cross. With that thought in mind, he struggled to figure out why he couldn’t look away as those long legs climbed into a waiting auto.
Chapter 2
Joe pulled an old used-to-be-white handkerchief from his pocket and swatted at the sweat on his forehead. Would his loan application become just another entry in one of the many dusty ledgers lining the banker’s bookshelves? “Mr. Flannigan, I can’t very well run a construction company out of my garage. If I don’t get the loan from you, there isn’t much chance of launching my business. I have enough money to develop the business but not enough for a building.”
“You simply do not have a solid plan.” Flannigan shoved a pile of papers from one side of his desk to the other, exposing one sad pile. Pointing, he said, “Look at all of these. Applications from returning soldiers ready to start over. I can’t loan you money in these times when you aren’t a proven commodity. Veteran or not, you need to prove yourself first.”
“Three years in the army isn’t proof enough? And a degree in engineering? I’m willing to use my entire savings along with the loan.”
“Prove yourself by working in town a year or two. Then we could talk again. How about Wysse and Sons? I hear they’re looking, and that seems a proper fit with your ability. Why would Howell need another construction company?”
“Mr. Flannigan, I respectfully disagree. Wysse and Sons is fast becoming a business without a leader. Old Mr. Wysse is barely taking on any new clients, and Wallace and Stephen don’t want the business. They’ve stayed this long in order to please their father, but Stephen has plans to leave Howell and who knows what Wallace will do? He’s a fly-by-night. Always was when we were in school. And from what I’ve heard, he’s the same now.”
“Well, there you have it, then. Wait until Mr. Wysse decides to sell and—”
“He’ll never sell. He keeps hoping his sons will change their minds. Mr. Flannigan, I’m not about to beg you for a loan, but I certainly wish you’d give me the chance to show my mettle.”
“Working awhile for Wysse first would let me see how serious you are.” He wasn’t without heart; Joe thought he recognized a hint of compassion in the man’s eyes, but how could he convince Flannigan to take a chance on him? Perhaps the bank had experienced hard times since the war, as well.
“I don’t intend to work for them. I have my father’s house…my house that I can put up as collateral. I’m not asking for an unsecured loan. This company will help our town to grow. Provide jobs for the men who’ve returned from the war. Wysse has only hired one man. A new janitor. And he’s not building houses, only commercial buildings. Please, Mr. Flannigan, if you only understood the construction business. Men returning will be taking on families, they’ll need houses to move into. Don’t you agree? And I’m more than capable of turning out some of the nicest little bungalows you’ll ever see. Just what a fellow returning home would be looking for.”
“Not at this time, young fella,” he said as he tapped the pile of applications as if to remind Joe that he wasn’t the only veteran wanting a loan.
Flannigan rose to his feet, extended his hand and ended the negotiations. The hope drained from Joe, through his tingling fingers of the handshake to the wobbling of his feet as he did an about-face from Flannigan’s desk. He cleared his throat and turned back. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate you taking the time to see me.”
“In another year or two, Joseph. You could do worse than working for Wysse. He’s a good egg.”
“But, sir. The need is now. Those of us in construction are already accepting that there’s a housing shortage. So many men returning, nowhere to live. The moment is ripe for construction businesses. A bunch of sweet little bungalows where the men can
raise families. Solid two-bedroom, one-bath places with a one-car garage to call their own. You couldn’t ask for a more sure thing. In two years another company will have taken advantage and there won’t be the strong need any longer.”
The banker waved his hand, dismissing Joe’s comment. “Not now, Joseph. Prove yourself. Prove yourself.” Flannigan turned back to his desk and lifted the phone to his ear. Joe squinted at the picture on the wall above Flannigan’s head. Flannigan and Wysse shaking hands in front of a building project?
Flannigan’s gaze rose and followed Joe’s. His fingers quickly spun over the numbers on the phone, ending any further discussion.
*
“Can anyone tell me who Isadora Duncan is?” Victoria took in the room of questioning faces before her—her oldest class of dancers—modern dancers and very good. “Well? I expected you to read the biography I gave you. Did anyone do that?” She waited with a smile. “Anyone at all?”
Minnie Carlton stepped forward, a frown planted firmly on her fourteen-year-old face. “My mother said I can’t read about people like her. She took the paper, ripped it up and threw it away, Miss Banks. I’m sorry. I would have at least given it back to you, but Mother was very emphatic that your biography of Miss Duncan not be in our home.”
Smile gone, Victoria practiced her well-intentioned speech. “I certainly don’t want to overstep my bounds where your parents are concerned. That’s never been my plan.” She gazed around at the others. “Did anyone here learn about Isadora Duncan, considered to be the mother of modern dance?”
All gazes but one fell to the floor. She’d known it was a risk to introduce such a controversial figure, but after all, Duncan led the way to modern dance, eccentric life or not. And her job was to teach these girls all she could about dance. A few discussions on manners and trying to be understanding of others didn’t hurt, either. And Victoria tried her best to sneak in a few life lessons on compassion.
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