Ruth was always amazed that anyone wanted to fly those rickety-looking contraptions, but the flight school drew a continuous flow of students from April through November. “Can’t it wait? I’ll only be a few minutes.” To emphasize the point, Ruth fetched her handbag and hat from the back room.
When she returned, Jen had a smug smile on her face. “Fifteen minutes. I’ll give you fifteen minutes.”
Ruth had the distinct impression that her sister planned some mischief, but Jen didn’t say another word.
“All right,” Ruth agreed. “Fifteen minutes.”
She pushed out the door, only to find herself once again face-to-face with Sam Roth.
“Miss Fox.”
Was she correct that the color had drained from his face the moment he saw her? He must have heard what Jen said to Mrs. Lawrence. “I can explain.”
“Explain what?”
“Oh, um...” Oh, dear. He hadn’t heard that Jen had blamed him for the problems with Mrs. Vanderloo. She felt that irritating blush heat her cheeks. “I need to explain something.”
“I gather that.”
She fidgeted with the clasp of her handbag. How exactly could she put this so he wouldn’t get angry with Jen? “My sisters are fiercely protective of the family.”
“Understandable.”
She watched Mr. Devlin skid his Model T to a halt in front of the newspaper offices across the street. He hopped out and raced into the office as if he had breaking news to rush to the presses. Oh, dear, was foreclosure fit news to print? Would she wake in the morning to see her family name in the headlines of the Pearlman Prognosticator?
“Miss Fox? Miss Fox?” The way Sam repeated her name, he must have said it several times.
“I’m sorry. I...well, I’m a bit distracted.”
“Perhaps we’d better step into the shade.” He motioned to the shadows along the buildings.
“No. I’m all right.” She pulled her thoughts to the less pressing matter at hand. Sam would understand. He would forgive. Unlike the Vanderloos. She forced a smile. “Apparently Jen heard that one of my clients said I was incompetent—” she choked on the word “—because I’d ruined her dresses, and Jen...well, Jen said that it wasn’t my fault. I’m sure she didn’t mean to put all the blame on you.” She held her breath, waiting for him to explode in anger.
Instead, he laughed. “Is that all?”
She blinked at his reaction. “But it’s not fair.”
“It’s true.” Oh, his smile could warm the coldest winter day. “I did cause the problem.”
“But Jen didn’t know you offered to pay for the dresses, because...because—” She ducked her head rather than face him.
“Because you still think you need to buy them.” He tipped her chin. “Look at me, Ruth Fox. You don’t need to spend a penny. I want to do this. Please allow me this gift.”
A thousand emotions boiled within her. The feel of his hand as he cupped her chin. The concern in his eyes. The compassion. The generosity. Not only did he forgive Jen, but he also wanted to pay for the dresses. Ruth had never met anyone so willing to help a stranger. He couldn’t possibly know how desperate their financial situation was and how much this gift meant to them. Maybe once Mrs. Vanderloo saw the dresses, she’d be appeased, and her husband would either grant them a little more time or call off the property sale entirely.
“How can I ever thank you?” she choked out.
“You just did.”
She drew in her breath at the warmth of his brown eyes. Cocoa-brown, comforting as a cake just out of the oven. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Though he had removed his hand from her chin, she still felt the connection as strongly as if they’d been stitched together by invisible thread.
“You might also agree to save me a dance on Friday,” he added.
The air left Ruth’s lungs in a whoosh. This Friday’s dance was supposed to be Jen’s opportunity. Not hers. Jen could win over a man. Ruth only drove them away. Dance with Sam? In front of the entire town? She might be able to create a passable gown, but she couldn’t dance. Not one clumsy step.
Still, around Sam she could almost believe anything was possible.
“Just one,” he said. Oh, that smile promised such joy.
Dare she? Beatrice said that great risk brought great joy. She bit her lip and nodded.
Sam grinned. “Good. We’ll whirl across the floor like professionals.”
Oh, dear. She should tell him she couldn’t dance, but he was already walking away. Maybe she’d get sick before Friday.
Chapter Eight
With the display case back in place the following afternoon and the first merchandise due to arrive at the end of the week, Sam felt confident the store would open on time. At the moment, the odor of fresh paint and varnish permeated the air, but large electrical fans circulated the fumes out the upper windows and brought the fresh air in. By the grand opening the store would smell fresh and new.
From his vantage point on the mezzanine, he could see the whole floor take shape. Women’s clothing up front. Menswear farther back. Children’s clothing to the left. Accessories in the center. Household items in the rear. The shelves and racks and display cases were in place, except toward the back, where workmen were still plastering the walls.
Sam tapped his fingertips on the railing. The plastering should have been finished before he arrived, but nothing could be done about it now. The men did work quickly once set on a task, but the plaster had to dry before it could be painted. He figured the last of the painting wouldn’t be done before Monday.
To stay on schedule, he’d have to unpack some of the merchandise before the last of the painting. Risky, but he saw no alternative. Once the clothing went on display, the huge space would come to life. Color and texture. Glittering metal against sumptuous softness.
As the workers finished up for the day, Sam closed his eyes and imagined Ruth dressed in one of the stunning new gowns he’d ordered. Pale blue chiffon would bring out her eyes. A rhinestone necklace would sparkle like drops of dew on a morning lily. He’d lead her onto the dance floor, and within a few steps the shyness would melt away. Then everyone would see her God-given beauty.
“Mr. Rothenburg?” Miss Harris called out from behind him. “A long-distance call from your father just came in.”
Sam groaned. The old man was checking up on him again. Sam was tempted to tell Miss Harris to inform Father that he was busy, but he didn’t want to put her through the man’s wrath.
“I’ll be right there.” Sam took one last survey of his store and returned to the office.
Miss Harris shot him a sympathetic look and pulled her handbag from the desk drawer. “I can wait until you’re done.”
Like everyone else, she’d put in a long day.
“No need to stay.” Sam preferred to keep this telephone call private anyway.
She looked relieved and hurried out before he changed his mind.
Sam took a deep breath before facing yet another demanding conversation. Maybe Ruth had a point in going without a phone in the dress shop. She didn’t have to deal with long-distance management. Father wanted the store ready yesterday. Someone must have told him the plastering was running late. He ran through the likely snitches. Miss Harris, perhaps, but she’d been loyal to him during this whole start-up. The floor manager was Father’s man, but so were the work crews. Anyone might have reported the progress delays.
He took his time settling into the chair before picking up the receiver. “Father. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“What’s taking you so long?”
Sam took a deep breath and shrugged off the implied insult. “The store is on schedule for an August third opening.”
“That’s not what I meant. I expected a report on t
he property next door by the end of the day Monday. It’s Wednesday. Afternoon.”
Sam gritted his teeth as he reordered his thoughts. Saying one word about the dress shop felt like betrayal. If Ruth knew his father wanted to purchase the property, she’d think Sam had befriended her only to gain the upper hand in a real-estate transaction. That wasn’t true. He’d never intended to steal away her store. Its demise might be an unwelcome result of Hutton’s opening next door, but he wasn’t to blame. Or was he?
“Well?” Father demanded. “Did you do anything, or do I have to send Harry out there to finish the job?”
Anger flared deep inside. Father had always pitted him against Harry. Sam’s younger brother was more like Father in temperament—decisive, unemotional, ruthless. Sam took after his mother, a fact that Father never hesitated to point out.
“I have things under control.” Sam kept his words measured so he wouldn’t betray the emotion behind them.
“Your brother should have been born first,” Father snapped. “He would have assessed the property the same day and negotiated directly with the owner. Instead, I had to step in and discover the bank is holding up the transaction. No doubt they want a cut, and for what? Standing in the way of progress, that’s what. Who ever heard of such a convoluted way to do business?”
“I don’t understand what you’re talking about. The bank holds the note, don’t they?”
Nothing came across the line in reply, and Sam hoped they’d lost the connection.
Father growled, “Apparently, you haven’t done a thing. If you had, you’d know about the bank arrangement.”
“This might come as news to you, but I’m trying to get a store open on time.”
Father ignored Sam’s excuse. “The bank is acting as agent for the owner, for a cut of the interest. If the buyer defaults—and he’s already in default—the property reverts to the owner.”
Sam felt sick. If what Father said was true, then Ruth’s family had already lost the dress shop. Only they didn’t know it.
“Then there’s nothing to be done,” Sam murmured as he envisioned Ruth learning the terrible news, closing the shop and watching Father raze the building. He gripped the telephone receiver so tightly that his fingers ached.
“There’s plenty to be done,” Father snapped. “That incompetent banker gave the buyer until the end of the month to pay up.” Over the line, Sam heard his father slam down his fist. “Ridiculous, small-town way to do business, if you ask me.”
Relief washed over Sam. Fox Dress Shop could still be saved, if the Foxes could come up with the money. But that was the problem. If they’d had the money, the payments wouldn’t be delinquent. Why hadn’t the oldest sister stepped in? That diamond ring and string of pearls around her neck would go a long way toward paying off the loan. The one thing Sam had observed about the Fox sisters was their closeness. When one fell into trouble, the others leaped to support her. If Beatrice hadn’t acted, then she must not know. Perhaps none of them knew. Their parents were away, their father in the hospital. Ruth might be completely oblivious to the looming disaster.
“What do you expect me to do?” he asked his father even as he settled on a completely different course of action.
“Find out who the owner is. The bank won’t tell me, but the owner’s name is bound to be on the deed. Get his name to me right away. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, but...” Sam struggled to come up with something that would both deflate his father’s interest in the property and buy him time to warn the Foxes. “It’s a small lot, hardly worth the trouble.”
“It’s a dress shop next door. Competition must be eliminated.”
Father’s thirst for commercial domination had never sounded so wrong. Sam swallowed the bile rising in his throat.
“It’s a tiny shop in a small town. They’re no competition.”
“You getting soft on me, boy?” Static crackled on the line, but Sam still understood every word. “This is business.”
“Business.” Sam echoed the hollow excuse for reprehensible behavior. Why had he never considered the consequences that Hutton’s brought to a neighborhood or town? If Father progressed on this course, and every indicator said he would, then Ruth’s family would suffer. According to what Father said, the only way the Foxes could keep the shop was to bring the delinquent payments current. Judging by their paltry number of customers, business was stagnant. The family couldn’t save their shop without help. The moment this call ended, Sam would find that help.
“I want the owner’s name tomorrow,” Father insisted, finally drawing to a close. “Today, if possible. I expect you to get it right this time, or I’ll send someone who can.”
Without another word, the line clicked dead.
* * *
“I don’t know what to do,” Ruth admitted to Beatrice.
After closing the shop for the day, she’d joined her older sister and the children at the park. On this hot evening, they’d gratefully claimed a shaded bench. After throwing bits of stale bread to the ducks and chasing pigeons, the children had finally settled down. Tillie set up a tiny tea set, and little Branford fell asleep. The boy’s long lashes brushed his hot cheeks as he slept with arms thrown wide, completely trusting his mother’s care.
Ruth sighed. “If only I could know that kind of peace, but I can hardly sleep an hour or two before waking and worrying about what’s happening.”
“What is happening?” Beatrice’s fine voile skirts spread out in a pastel pink cloud as she leaned to her right to clasp Ruth’s hand. “Have you received news about Daddy?”
“No, that’s not it.”
“Then what has you so distressed? Surely it’s not that nice Mr. Roth.”
“No. Not him.” Ruth hesitated. Beattie had enough troubles of her own, but Ruth could think of no other way to get the money to pay off the loan. “I had a meeting with Mr. Shea Monday morning.”
Worry flickered across Beattie’s face. “At the bank?”
Ruth nodded. “They sent a letter to the house requesting a meeting.” She took a deep breath before plunging ahead. “Apparently the man who holds the note on the dress shop received an offer to purchase the property.”
“I don’t understand.” Beatrice’s brow creased. “Isn’t the mortgage with the bank?”
“Apparently the bank is only facilitating the loan. If we can’t find the money to bring the payments current, we could lose the dress shop.” She didn’t want to explain the ins and outs of the situation when the bottom line would do. Thanks to the bank’s generous offer, they had to make only the back payments.
Beatrice looked down at her hands. “You want me to help.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t think of anyone else who could loan us the money.” Ruth bit her lip.
“But I thought Daddy had money set aside.”
“All gone.”
“How?” Beatrice’s eyes grew wide.
“The medical treatments. Fewer customers.” Ruth couldn’t bear to mention her mother’s mismanagement of the accounts. At this point it made little difference. “I’m afraid we’re broke.”
Beatrice stared at Ruth a long moment before shakily looking away. A hand rose to her throat. “Poor Daddy.”
That was the worst of it. “I’m afraid he might have to leave the sanitarium.”
“Thus Jen’s plan.”
“Thus Jen’s plan. It’s pie in the sky, but that shows how desperate we are. If we lose the dress shop, I don’t know what we’ll do.”
“Oh, Ruth.” Beatrice’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. “Have you told Mother and Daddy?”
Ruth shook her head. “Daddy isn’t supposed to have any stress.”
Beatrice sighed. “This news would certainly be stressful.”
“I don’t know what to do. I�
�ve gotten to the point that I’m actually considering Jen’s idea, but how could it possibly succeed? Marry into wealth? Impossible.”
“Not quite impossible.” Beatrice clasped Ruth’s hands. “Mr. Roth is quite taken with you.”
Ruth yanked her hands away. “I wish everyone would stop assuming he is interested in me. Jen would suit him better. She’s lively and vivacious.”
“But he likes you. I could see it in his eyes, in the way he watched you and looked after you.”
Impossible. Men simply were not attracted to her. Never had been. Never would be. Especially men like Sam. “But I wear glasses.”
Beattie laughed. “What difference does that make? Any man worth having will see beyond the surface to your inner beauty.”
Ruth cringed at the familiar platitude. Experience had taught her otherwise. The pretty girls got beaus. The pretty girls drew attention. Plain girls sat on the sideline. She jutted out her chin. “I’ve accepted my place in life. God gave me skill with the needle so I could help my family.”
“Is that what you truly believe?”
Ruth could not admit that she longed for a husband and family of her own. “I’m content.”
“Oh, Ruth. You deserve so much more than being content. You deserve love.”
“I have my family’s love, and that’s enough for me.”
“But a husband...and children.” Beatrice gazed at Tillie, who was arranging the cups and saucers in a perfect, precious circle. “You can’t imagine the joy.”
And the pain. That was the part Beatrice was leaving out. Ruth knew Blake Kensington, had known him as long as Beatrice. For a moment she almost let slip her deepest secret, how Blake had cruelly used her to get to Beatrice, but revealing that would only open raw wounds.
So she squeezed Beattie’s hand. “They’re wonderful children.”
At that, Tillie looked to her mother. “Aw right?”
Beatrice smiled. “You’ve set it up perfectly.” She knelt on the blanket and lifted a jar of lemonade from their basket. She then poured some of the cool liquid into the pretty little porcelain teapot. “Tillie, dear, will you serve the tea for us?”
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