Groom by Design

by Christine Johnson

  Shea relaxed slightly, though he still looked wary. Sam couldn’t blame the man. His father was not known for kindness. Ruthlessness, yes. Compassion, no. But Sam wasn’t cut from the same cloth. For the first time in years, he was proud to admit he had some of his mother’s temperament in him.

  Playing the casual charmer would not work with a man of Shea’s caliber. Sam leaned forward slightly and looked the man in the eye. “I see no reason why both businesses can’t succeed.”

  The banker maintained unnerving calm. “Even if this sale doesn’t go through, the property’s owner still wants the payments brought to date.”

  Sam expected as much. “That’s why I’m asking how much is due.”

  “That is confidential information.”

  “Even to someone interested in paying off the sum?”

  Shea stared at him. “Now, why would you do that?”

  “My reasons are none of your concern. My ability to pay is. I can have my bank wire the funds to you this afternoon.”

  The banker’s eyebrows rose. “That’s a generous offer, especially since it counters that of your father. However, as you stated, your reasoning is none of my concern.” He opened one of the folders on the broad walnut desk. “I can’t reveal the details, but I can show you a payment schedule.” He pulled out a sheet of paper and folded over the top before placing it in front of Sam. The payment schedule included several rows of payments, which abruptly stopped well over a year ago. The total due was staggering. It would completely drain Sam’s savings, leaving him with nothing should Father disown him over this.

  Sam put his finger on the total. “Is this the final figure?”

  “Plus a two-percent penalty.”

  “On each payment or the total due?”

  Shea’s jaw tensed. “The bank will cover the penalty if the payments are brought current.”

  Even without the penalty, who could afford that sum? Certainly not Ruth’s family. If they had the money, they would have paid it already. He’d hoped Beatrice Kensington would come to their rescue, but she hadn’t. Why not her husband’s family? After all, the bank bore the Kensington name.

  “The eldest daughter married into local money, I understand.”

  Shea retrieved the payment schedule, placed it in the folder and slapped the folder shut. “I’ve already disclosed more than I should have, Mr. Rothenburg. If you have further questions, I suggest you speak with the principals involved.”

  Sam gritted his teeth. This was going nowhere. He’d come to the bank to find a solution. He wouldn’t leave unsuccessful. “Would Mr.—” Sam caught himself before revealing that he knew Vanderloo owned the property. “Would the property owner consider partial payment of the amount due?”

  Shea’s eyebrows drew together. “How much?”

  “Say, half.” That would leave Sam with enough in his personal account to survive several months if Father fired him.

  “I doubt that would be enough, even though your father’s offer is below market value. The owner is anxious to sell.”

  So Father was trying to get the property cheap. That didn’t surprise Sam, but it gave him another idea. “Suppose I offer full value for the property.” He could make enough off rent from the revamped dress shop to cover loan payments.

  “You want to buy the property?” Shea looked understandably stunned.

  “I’ll contribute the same half of the amount currently due as a down payment if the bank will lend me the balance.”

  Shea tapped his fingertips on the folder. Seconds passed. Sam’s chair squeaked as he settled back to wait out the verdict. If Shea meant to intimidate him into offering the full cost, it wouldn’t work. Sam was a patient man. For Ruth, he’d craft this deal. He could imagine her joy when she learned her family wouldn’t lose the dress shop. It would be worth every penny.

  “I can’t speak for either the owner or the bank board,” the banker said.

  “You can ask.”

  “I can,” Shea conceded.

  Sam rose. “Shall we shake on that? I am relying on your discretion to keep this transaction anonymous. No one must know that I’m involved.”

  Shea’s eyebrows rose at that. He started to say something, then shook his head and extended his hand. “All right, Mr. Rothenburg. I’ll ask the owner first and get back to you. If he approves, we will approach the bank board.”

  “Good, but I need the answer soon. Preferably today.” Before Father arrived.

  Shea’s lips thinned. “I understand.”

  Sam believed the man truly did. He shook the banker’s hand and hoped his offer would be enough to stop the sale.

  * * *

  This month, the Women’s Club met at Felicity Kensington Meeks’s house. The parsonage, though elegant by parsonage standards, showed the wear and tear of an eleven-year-old boy and an infant girl. Felicity greeted Ruth warmly and suggested she and Beatrice sit next to Mariah Meeks Simmons in the tight ring of chairs encircling the formal parlor.

  “You don’t need to stand when you speak,” Felicity added. “We’re a cozy group.”

  Indeed they were. In addition to their close proximity in the cramped room, the dozen women chattered so loudly in so many different conversations that Ruth’s ears rang.

  She gratefully sank into the chair beside her sister and accepted a cup of tea and a shortbread cookie from Mariah.

  “Try to relax,” Mariah said with a smile. “They might look fierce, but piranhas only live in jungle waters.”

  Ruth giggled, half at Mariah’s description and half from nerves. Her family’s future hinged on this meeting and a roomful of women predisposed to look down on her. If not for Beatrice, she would never have been invited to this exclusive club.

  The teacup jiggled on its saucer, and Ruth cautiously rested it on her lap. She ought to have refused the tea. Her hands shook too much, and she couldn’t drink a drop anyway.

  Across the room, Mrs. Vanderloo stared at Ruth while Eugenia Kensington criticized the flowers and shrubs around city hall, which apparently did not live up to her high standards. Sophie Grattan and her cohorts held court to Mrs. Kensington’s left while Mrs. Evans and those residing on the hill clustered to Mrs. Vanderloo’s right. Ruth noted that Anna Simmons, wed to Brandon Landers earlier that year and thus eligible to join the club, was not in attendance.

  That left Ruth as the only woman aside from Beatrice who wasn’t born to wealth, and every woman in the room knew it.

  “You’ll do fine,” Beatrice reassured her. “I’m right here, and my mother-in-law will support you, too. No one would dare speak against a Kensington.”

  Ruth drew in a shaky breath. She’d never been good at speaking in front of others. In school, her mind went blank whenever she had to stand in front of the class to recite or debate. If not for her written work, she would have failed. That was just for a grade. This could decide her family’s future. What if her thoughts fled when she was supposed to speak? Beatrice couldn’t leap to her rescue. Ruth hadn’t fully explained the new dressmaking idea to her. But they both knew how important this was. If Ruth hoped to save the dress shop, she must convince these women to bring their business to her.

  Mariah returned to her chair after serving tea to the last arrival. That was apparently the signal for Eugenia Kensington to begin the meeting. The diminutive yet powerful woman stood, and the room instantly quieted.

  “Good morning, ladies.” Mrs. Kensington swiveled to look each woman in the eye.

  For some, that might have been encouragement, but Ruth got only more nervous. While Mrs. Kensington talked about club business, Ruth fingered the clasp on her handbag. Inside that bag was the outline of her talk. If she could get it out without spilling the teacup perched on her knees, she could rehearse what she was supposed to say. The sentences that had rung so clear this m
orning now blew away on the breeze billowing the curtains.

  With great care, she eased the clasp open enough to slide her fingers into the bag. The teacup jiggled, and Ruth froze. No one had noticed. She allowed a single breath and resumed her search. She carried very little in her bag. No compact or comb. A couple of hatpins. A handkerchief. A few coins. And the speech. The tips of her fingers brushed against the paper. Aha! Without a sound, she slid it out.

  “Miss Fox?”

  “Oh!” Ruth started, and the teacup tilted. Horrified, she watched as liquid slopped over the edge onto the saucer. The whole thing started sliding off her knees. Ruth dropped the speech and somehow managed to catch the cup before it spilled all over Mariah.

  Mrs. Kensington frowned.

  “Why don’t I take this off your hands?” Mariah took the cup from Ruth. “It appears I gave you a mismatched cup and saucer.”

  The set looked perfectly matched to Ruth, but the ladies all smiled at Mariah’s breezy explanation. The orphanage director had touched many of these women’s lives, and they granted her great leniency. Unlike the rest of the privileged class, Mariah dressed plainly and practically. She spoke her mind with refreshing candor coupled with humor. Though Ruth didn’t cross paths with her often, she liked the woman immensely—even more so at this moment.

  Mariah turned to Ruth. “I understand your dress shop is going to be offering a new service.”

  By looking at Mariah, Ruth found the nerve to speak. “Yes, we are.”

  Mariah nodded encouragement, and the words flooded back into Ruth’s head.

  She dared look around the room like Mrs. Kensington had. “You all know how expensive new gowns can be.”

  Many of the women nodded, but Mrs. Vanderloo frowned. Never mind. Ruth couldn’t expect her business anyway. She’d focus on the others.

  “Your closets probably have several perfectly serviceable gowns that are simply out-of-date.” With each word, Ruth’s confidence grew. “Some of you may have seen the gown I wore to Friday’s dance at the Grange Hall.”

  Again, the women nodded, and Ruth recalled that Sam had overheard some women wondering how she could afford such a gown.

  “I didn’t buy it.”

  That brought a murmur from the ladies.

  “Nor did I borrow it.”

  The murmurs stopped, and puzzlement took over.

  “I made it.” Ruth let that sink in for a second. “From old dresses and scraps.” She hoped Mrs. Vanderloo didn’t figure out that it was her old dresses that had served as the foundation.

  “You did?” Felicity exclaimed. “I would never have known. It looked like it came straight from New York.”

  Ruth reveled in the praise. If Felicity liked her gown, others would buy into the idea. “Yet it cost me much less than a new gown.”

  That brought a chorus of interest.

  Ruth sealed the deal. “I can do that for you, too. Bring your old dresses to the dress shop, and I’ll sketch some designs. You choose whichever one you like, and I’ll make it for a fraction of the cost of a new gown. Why, when you consider the cost of shipping from New York, you’ll save a fortune.”

  Mariah nodded. “It makes perfect economic and practical sense. God intended us to be good stewards of the resources on this earth. Why throw away perfectly good dresses when they can be put to use? Moreover, we’ll be supporting a local business and helping out one of our own. I, for one, will stop by the shop tomorrow.”

  Her bold acceptance of Ruth’s plan led nearly all the women in the room to pledge their support. With each promised order, Ruth’s spirits rose. This would work. It would truly work, and she owed it all to Sam.

  Then Mrs. Vanderloo stood. “I hate to stick a pin in your idea, Miss Fox, but there’s no need to spend money on old dresses when we can get a new one at a very inexpensive price right here in Pearlman.”

  “Indeed we can,” Mrs. Kensington echoed, her chin held high.

  “This won’t take business away from the mercantile,” Ruth hastened to explain to Beatrice’s fearsome mother-in-law. “I will specialize in tea and ball gowns.”

  “Well, then. I suppose it’s all right,” Mrs. Kensington said.

  Mrs. Vanderloo shook her head. “I’m not talking about everyday dresses, either, though I’m not surprised the Foxes are making a last-ditch attempt to save their little dress shop.”

  Ruth choked back a very unseemly wish that she’d dropped her teacup on Mrs. Vanderloo’s lap.

  The woman looked at Ruth with absolute triumph. “You won’t have much business once the Hutton’s Department Store opens next door.”

  “Hutton’s?” She’d heard the name, of course. Hutton’s Department Stores were located in large cities, like Detroit and Chicago and New York. “In Pearlman?”

  The other women expressed equal astonishment.

  “Impossible,” Mrs. Kensington insisted. “Branford would have told me. As city councilman, he is privy to everything that goes on in town.”

  “He didn’t know this,” Mrs. Vanderloo said over the crescendo of female voices, most in disbelief and protest.

  Mariah put their thoughts most succinctly. “Pearlman is too small to support a store the size of a Hutton’s Department Store.”

  “Is it?” Mrs. Vanderloo looked terribly smug. “Then tell me why the vice president of the company has been in town the past two weeks working on the old carriage factory.”

  It didn’t take ten seconds for Ruth to put the pieces together. Mrs. Vanderloo could mean only one person. Sam. But what had she said about him? “Vice president of Hutton’s?”

  “Didn’t you recognize the Rothenburg name?” Mrs. Vanderloo smirked. “Or didn’t he tell you?”

  “But—” Ruth began before cutting herself off. Sam Roth. Sam Rothenburg.

  The room began to spin as the speculation escalated and the meeting came to a divisive end.

  “It can’t be,” she said weakly.

  The women were too busy exclaiming and chattering to hear or notice Ruth’s distress. Only Beatrice and Mariah stayed by her side.

  Beatrice hugged her around the shoulders. “Let’s go home now.”

  “But it can’t be. He wouldn’t...would he?”

  Mariah looked her straight in the eye. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. I suspect there’s a perfectly logical explanation. Most likely Mrs. Vanderloo misheard a bit of gossip.”

  Ruth hoped Mariah was right, but she couldn’t be certain. After all, Sam hadn’t told her his name right away. Jen had teased her over that point. At the time, Ruth thought she’d forgotten to ask, but maybe he hadn’t told her because he didn’t want to tell her. And when Jen pried it out of him, he’d given a last name of Roth. Then he’d befriended her. Why? Why deceive and mislead her into thinking he cared for her? Why kiss her? To woo the competition? To misdirect her attention while he built his empire under her nose?

  No wonder he’d insisted on paying for Mrs. Vanderloo’s replacement dresses. They probably didn’t cost him a thing. She bitterly recalled how quickly he’d come up with the catalogs. Oh, not from Hutton’s, of course, but what bachelor kept clothing catalogs on hand? What a fool she was! She’d been so blind, so willing to believe only those details that fit her plan. Never once did she consider the truth right in front of her.

  Ruth stood adrift in the middle of the room as the speculation swirled around her. Its current carried her downriver, and the roar of the rapids grew louder and louder.

  Sam had lied to her.

  That fact ripped the oars from her hands. She was helpless, unable to stop the coming disaster.

  Beatrice picked up Ruth’s handbag. “We’re going home now. Come with me, Ruth.” She wrapped her arm around Ruth’s waist and gently tugged her forward. “Come, dearest.”

 
The women’s looks of pity greeted Ruth like familiar old friends. For a brief, glorious moment, Ruth had thought she could soar, but she’d claimed too much, climbed too high, and now her family would suffer the fall.

  Felicity and Mariah cleared the way as Beatrice guided her out of the parlor.

  “I’m sure she’s wrong,” Felicity said. But her expression was grim.

  If true, the opening of a Hutton’s would strike a blow to the Kensingtons, for a department store would steal away a goodly amount of the mercantile’s business. But the impact they felt would not compare to what would happen to the dress shop. Mrs. Vanderloo was right about that. A department store would take all their business. They’d lose the shop. Daddy would have to leave the sanitarium. Her worst fears would come to pass.

  And she’d tried so hard. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. Why didn’t God listen to her? Why ignore her prayers now when they most needed help? She’d started to believe God had sent Sam into her life to rescue her family. How wrong she’d been.

  Ruth dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands. Once again, a man had used her for his own advantage. She...she...

  The awful words wanted to bubble to the surface, but a woman of faith should never even think such things. So she bit her tongue. But the thought still lingered.

  She hated Sam Rothenburg.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ruth stayed up late that night reading her Bible, but she couldn’t focus on the words. Instead, memories battled emotion, and any message the Word might have given her went unseen.

  When the lamp burned low and her sisters retired for the night, Ruth extinguished the flame to save precious oil. The darkness brought no relief. If anything, the memories became clearer.

  Eight years old, sitting on a hard oak chair in the doctor’s office during the heat of summer. He set the heavy spectacles on her nose and wrapped the bows around her ears. They pressed down until her head ached, but the marvels opened to her made the pain recede. She could see every medicine bottle on the shelves. The shifting mass of trees turned into individual leaves in every imaginable hue of green. She’d drunk in the world like a parched desert wanderer.