Groom by Design

by Christine Johnson

  “Get through to him by morning.” Father glanced one last time at the display. “Get everything he has on the first train out of New York. We’ll promise the customers new arrivals by the end of the week. It’ll build anticipation after the opening. Now, that’s the way to run a business.”

  Satisfied, Father headed upstairs to the office.

  Sam could hardly wait to tell Ruth. Now that Fox Dress Shop had staved off closure at the expense of his bank account, anything extra Ruth earned could go directly to her father’s medical treatment.

  “Whew, that was close.” Miss Harris ducked out from behind the backdrop before pulling it back across the display window. “I was adding a necklace to the female mannequin when your father showed up.”

  Sam tried to recall if Ruth had worn a necklace that night. Maybe. He wasn’t sure. He’d been too drawn to her stunning eyes and gentle manner.

  “Walk me home?” Without waiting for an answer, Miss Harris snaked her arm around Sam’s and flashed one of those sultry smiles that would have enticed him years ago.

  Today, it set Sam on edge. He wanted to talk to Ruth, not Miss Harris.

  “You still owe me lunch,” she said.

  Sam bit back his impatience. Ruth was still fuming. Maybe he should give her a little time to cool down. Meanwhile, he would come up with a plan of attack that Ruth couldn’t turn down. Maybe he’d place a call or two to some fashion contacts to tout Ruth’s designs and test the possibility of sending them to production. “All right.”

  Miss Harris widened her smile. “I understand there’s a cozy little place behind the drugstore.”

  Sam couldn’t swallow the bitter taste. He’d seen men duck into the speakeasy, but his carousing days were long over. They’d died with Lillian.

  “I don’t partake,” he said simply.

  “Oh. Fine. It was just a thought.” Any disappointment didn’t stop her from clinging close once they left the building.

  Cars chortled, wheezed and hummed past. One horse and wagon rumbled toward the feed store, a reminder of bygone years. The sidewalks were equally busy. Dresses in every hue of the rainbow dotted the boardwalks in front of the stores. He closed his eyes partway, and the scene jumbled into ever-moving colors, much like the old kaleidoscope.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Miss Harris said once they started for the restaurant.

  “I was just thinking about how pretty small towns are on a summer day.”

  Miss Harris wrinkled her nose. “They’re small. Absolutely nothing to do. Give me a city any day. You know what I mean. You’re a man of the city.”

  “I’m beginning to think I’m more of a small-town man at heart.”

  “You?” She playfully punched his side and then looked at him oddly. “What’s that?” She pulled something from his pocket.

  Sam recognized it at once. The contract for the head of alterations. “That’s private, Miss Harris.”

  “Private?” She pulled away and affected a look of shock. “Are you keeping secrets from your secretary, or is it your father you’re trying to avoid?”

  He grabbed for the paper, but she snatched it away and unfolded it.

  “Odd,” she mused. “It is the Hutton’s letterhead, but I don’t recall typing anything for you.”

  “You didn’t. Nor do I need to explain anything to you.” Sam had paid the typist at the local attorney’s office a healthy fee to type it quickly. “Please give it back.”

  “In a minute.” She proceeded to read the document. Not two sentences in, her brow knit. “I thought your father was sending for Miss Tinderhook.”

  Sam gritted his teeth. This woman had no right to read the document. “Miss Harris, it would do you well to remember I am your employer.”

  But the woman’s eyes widened, and her red lips formed a stunned circle even as the hand holding the contract dropped to her side. “Her? You’re hiring her? Didn’t you hear one word your father said?”

  “My decisions are not your concern, and they certainly are not your job.”

  Miss Harris jerked her head in that odd way some women did when trying to fight off disappointment. “You love her, don’t you?”

  Sam looked down the main street of this charming town. Until today, he wouldn’t have had the confidence to answer. Now he knew beyond a doubt. “Yes, I do.”

  Miss Harris went very still. “I didn’t want to say anything. It’s none of my business, really, but I can’t stand to see you fall victim to another woman like Lillian.”

  Miss Harris must have worked in the New York offices when his wife was still alive. They hadn’t inhabited the same social circles, but gossip ran rife in New York, fed by eager society columnists. Miss Harris had no doubt heard plenty.

  “Ruth is the opposite of my late wife.”

  “Perhaps in wealth.” Miss Harris set her hand on his arm.

  He shook it off. “In every way.”

  “Except ambition.” She sighed and examined her perfect manicure, handbag dangling from her wrist, the clasp slightly open. “Like I said, I didn’t want to tell you this. I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to.”

  “But?” Sam steeled his jaw. Nothing Miss Harris could say would change his mind. Ruth embodied perfection. Humble, lovely and compassionate. She was everything a man could ever want in a wife.

  To her credit, Miss Harris looked uncomfortable. She even cast her gaze downward before going on. “She’s been manipulating you.”

  “Impossible. I don’t know anyone less capable of deceit.”

  “I know it seems that way—”

  “Not seems. Is. Ruth Fox would never, ever manipulate me. I am the one who needs to beg her for forgiveness. I’ll do everything in my power to win her back.”

  “Didn’t you hear me?” Miss Harris shook her handbag at him like some self-righteous interfering matron. “That’s exactly what she wants you to do. You’ll fall right in her trap.”

  Sam crossed his arms. “Who told you this nonsense?” Miss Harris stayed out late most nights. If she was going where he feared she was, she could have heard almost anything—none of it true.

  “It doesn’t matter who told me.” She leveled her gaze at him. “What matters is that I know for a fact that she and her sisters plotted and planned to lure a wealthy man into marriage. You.”

  “They would never...” But even as he said it, he recalled how Ruth had tried to match him with Jen. Several times the sisters had tried to point out Ruth’s best features. He’d thought it sisterly love, but could it be more? The thought that Father might be right made Sam sick. Lillian’s bald statement flashed through his mind: I only married you for the money. But not Ruth. Impossible. “Why would they?”

  “For your inheritance,” she said. “For the money.”

  No words could have skewered him more cleanly. Lillian had deceived and manipulated him for her own purposes. She’d liked high living. Not so Ruth, but the need was even greater. Would she pretend to love him simply for the money?

  His gut told him no, but his head said she would do anything for her family.

  “I’m sorry.” This time when Miss Harris touched his arm, he didn’t shrug her off. “I hoped it wouldn’t come to this.”

  He felt sick. He’d given everything away for Ruth. For a lie.

  * * *

  Ruth did not join her sisters on the porch. Sobs and sniffles might help some people. In a crisis, Ruth needed to work. So when Doc Stevens suggested a warm compress might help, she went to the kitchen to prepare it.

  Naturally the stove had gone out. Wasn’t that just like her sisters? Minnie was supposed to keep the fire burning, but she and Jen had complained the stove generated too much heat in hot weather. So they’d conveniently forgot to add coal this afternoon, and the fire had died. That meant the water in the hot-w
ater tank was cold.

  “Selfish children,” she grumbled under her breath as she pumped water into a pan.

  After stirring the ashes, she found a few embers. By opening the dampers and encouraging a flame with a bit of newspaper, she was able to relight the stove. It would take long minutes for the fire to grow hot enough to warm the water.

  Most likely a mild stroke of apoplexy stemming from his weakened heart, Doc Stevens had said. Ruth’s father was fortunate it hadn’t been a severe one. If it had...

  “Selfish girls,” she said aloud. “Never thinking of anything but your own comfort.”

  “Don’t be too hard on Jen and Minnie. They already blame themselves.” Beatrice entered the kitchen, her steps so light that Ruth hadn’t heard her approach. She unhooked the pearl buttons on her lace gloves and slid them off. “What can I do to help?”

  Ruth shook her head. Beatrice had never done any of the heavy housework. By far the most beautiful of the sisters, she had been pampered with pretty dresses and few chores. After marrying Blake Kensington, she enjoyed the services of a housekeeper.

  Beatrice settled onto one of the kitchen chairs, looking completely out of place in her expensive dress and hat. “Are you certain?”

  “I’m just heating water for a compress.”

  Beatrice smoothed the soft cotton pad that Ruth had set on the table. “How does he look?”

  “Weak. Pale.” Ruth brushed away a tear that ran down her cheek. “I don’t like seeing him like this.”

  Beatrice looked at her hands. “Me, either, but he wants to see us. You know how deeply he cares for us. He would do anything to ensure our happiness.”

  Such as spend money intended for treatment on the dress shop. Ruth fought a wave of guilt. She bit her lip and eyed her sister. “Tell me you’re the one who paid the overdue loan payments.”

  Beatrice’s brow furrowed. “I told you I couldn’t.”

  Ruth clutched at dwindling hope that Daddy hadn’t done what she suspected he had. “Would Blake’s father have done it?”

  “You’re saying the loan was paid off?”

  “To date.”

  Beatrice took it in. “I can’t imagine he would have. Blake refused to ask his father. He said the mercantile is struggling, and with the new department store, business is only going to get worse.”

  Ruth fisted her hands. Their troubles always came back to Sam. “As if it wasn’t enough to put all of us out of business, he stressed Daddy with that horrid contract.”

  “Who? What contract?”

  “Sam Rothenburg.” Never had his name tasted so bitter. “He waited until the rest of us were busy packing up the dress shop and then called on Daddy and talked him into approving a contract that would make me the head of alterations at his store. Can you imagine the gall?”

  Beatrice’s brow puckered. “Giving you a department-head position is bad?”

  “I’d already turned it down.”

  “Why would you do that?” Beatrice prodded, her brow still knit. “The position must pay well.”

  Ruth hadn’t bothered to ask the wage. “It doesn’t matter how much it pays. I will not work with him.” She dipped a finger into the pan of water. Lukewarm.

  “Ah, I see.”

  “No, you don’t.” Ruth did not like the tone of her sister’s voice. “It’s a matter of principle.”

  Beatrice smiled. “Then you and Mr. Rothenburg have a romantic attachment.”

  “We have no such thing,” Ruth snapped. “I don’t want to talk about him. I don’t want to ever see him again. I’m done with Sam Rothenburg.”

  Thankfully, a slight scraping sound from upstairs stopped further questions. Beatrice rose. Ruth listened. Another scrape. That was a chair. Maybe the doctor had finished. She looked to her sister, who appeared worried.

  “Maybe Daddy’s condition has improved.” It might be wishful thinking, but Ruth had to shake away the memory of her father’s strangled gasping and ashen face.

  The floorboards above them creaked under heavy footsteps.

  Beatrice crossed the kitchen to stand by her side. Both watched the empty stairwell. Would it be Dr. Stevens or Mother? If the doctor, he’d done all he could. If Mother, Daddy might be asleep. If both, then hope was lost. Mother would never leave Daddy’s side unless he’d died.

  A tremor shimmied up Ruth’s spine. Beatrice slipped an arm around her waist. Ruth tried to will herself to remain calm. Mother didn’t need another hysterical daughter. Minnie produced enough histrionics for the entire family. Mother needed someone to help, to remain sensible in the face of calamity. Mother needed her.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. Please, Lord, save Daddy’s life.

  The footsteps stopped at the head of the stairway, and Ruth resisted the urge to rush to the foot of the stairs.

  Heavy steps descended the staircase.

  “Do you understand my instructions?” Doc Stevens said as he thumped down the last steps and entered the kitchen, black bag in hand. His gray hair still stuck up from when he’d removed his hat upon arrival. His rumpled gray suit looked as tired as he did.

  Mother, on the other hand, appeared unnaturally energized. “Warm compresses until the tightness eases. Aspirin for the pain. What else?”

  “Digitalis once per day, beginning this time tomorrow.”

  “That’s right.” Mother filled a glass with water and hurried back upstairs.

  Upon her departure, Doc Stevens glanced at Ruth. “Do you want me to write down my instructions?”

  “That’s not necessary. I understand.” She squeezed Beattie’s hand. “We understand.”

  Beatrice nodded. Slipping her arm from around Ruth, she extended gratitude to Doc Stevens. “We can’t thank you enough for coming so quickly.”

  “Fortunate I was in town. The Highbottoms called me out to the farm earlier.”

  “Anything serious?” Beatrice asked, filled with concern.

  “Little accident with the youngest. He’ll be fine in a day or two. Your father, on the other hand, needs rest.” Doc Stevens looked Ruth squarely in the eyes. “You’ll want to keep him from all stress. No disagreements or disputes, however mild. Do you understand?”

  Ruth felt the weight of the accusation. Doc Stevens wasn’t telling Sam to prevent any arguments. He didn’t look at Beatrice. He must have heard about her argument with Daddy and was placing the full responsibility on her. “I do.”

  “Good. His life might depend on it.” He plucked his hat from the table.

  Ruth trembled at the doctor’s words. Sam might have started the incident, but she had protested Daddy’s decision right before the seizure. In her anger, she hadn’t seen the signs that he was struggling. By the grace of God, he was still alive. “If we keep all stress away, will he live?”

  Doc looked at her. “It’s too early to tell. These seizures sometimes repeat themselves.”

  Ruth drew in a shaky breath.

  Doc’s bushy eyebrows eased as he gave her a gruff smile. “He stands a better chance if he makes it through the night.”

  A whole night. Never had the hours seemed so long.

  * * *

  The sun slipped below the trees, casting the porch of the boardinghouse in deep shadow. Still, Sam sat in the corner. He hadn’t eaten. He couldn’t even drink the glass of lemonade that Mrs. Tzerchanovic—Mrs. Terchie or Mrs. T., to the boarders—had brought out to him an hour ago. Miss Harris had kindly offered to postpone their supper at the restaurant.

  Sam could only think of how Ruth had deceived him. Wasn’t it true that those doing wrong tended to criticize that very flaw in others? That would explain why she’d lambasted him for not telling her his name and that he was opening a department store. She refused to listen to his explanation. When he managed to get one in, she dismis
sed it out of hand.

  Yet she had withheld the truth also. The sisters had played a game and put him at the center. His empty stomach churned at how he’d been duped.

  Over the next few hours, boarders came and went. Sam barely noticed them. A group played whist on the far side of the porch, but after dusk settled and the mosquitoes arrived, they headed into the parlor. Sam had never reacted to the annoying pest’s bites. Tonight he wished he did. Better a misery he could scratch than one buried deep inside.

  Father hadn’t arrived yet. Hopefully, he and Harry had taken rooms above the drugstore. With the speakeasy below, it was more Father’s kind of establishment than the squeaky-clean boardinghouse run by the stout Polish widow. Father would have balked at Mrs. Terchie’s insistence on thanking God before each meal.

  The stout proprietress pushed open the screen door and approached, empty tray in hand.

  “Now, Mr. Sam,” she scolded. “No food. No drink. You waste away.”

  “Missing one meal won’t kill me.” His voice sounded flat, hollow, even to his own ears. “I’m not good company tonight.”

  Instead of taking the hint, she settled in the chair next to his and said...nothing. The tray dangled from one hand and rested against the worn planks of the porch. Her head tilted back. She breathed in deeply. “This is my favorite time of day.”

  At least she didn’t ask what was bothering him. The hours and the weather, he could handle. “Because your day is almost over?”

  “Ah, no.” She chortled and slapped her leg with her free hand. “Still need to make sweet rolls for breakfast and tidy up here and there.”

  Sam had never thought of that. The woman was truly amazing. “Your day never ends.”

  “Wouldn’t want it any other way.” She sobered. “Since my Casimir passed, I don’t much like being alone.”

  “Your husband?”

  She nodded. “Good man. Godly man.” She crossed herself. “I’ll see him again one day.”