A Sentimental Journey Romance Collection

by Dianna Crawford

  Pastor Smith took his place at the pulpit. “Today’s scripture begins in Exodus two, beginning at verse six. ‘And when she had opened it, she saw the child: and, behold, the babe wept. And she had compassion on him, and said, This is one of the Hebrews’ children.’ ”

  Carefully, precisely, Paul moved the black silk ribbon marker in his Bible to that page. God’s will was clear to him.

  “Mr. Kincaid. What a surprise.” Rosemary wiped her hands on the hem of her apron and wondered why Paul Kincaid had come calling. They’d exchanged social pleasantries at church; stood side by side in the kitchen, serving the church Thanks-giving meal; and occasionally bumped into each other around town, but here he stood on her doorstep, hat in hand as a show of respect. The chilly breeze ruffled his thick, tawny hair. “Please, come in.”

  “Thank you. I’ll only be a minute.”

  She inched back as he stepped across the threshold. Though her daughter often had friends from the youth department come over, it had been years since a mature man had crossed the threshold. Between Mr. Kincaid’s impressive height and the spicy scent of his aftershave, she felt engulfed by his masculinity.

  “I came to ask about the dolls you had this morning at church.”

  “Mom,” Valerie called, “the chicken!”

  “Oh!” Rosemary cast Mr. Kincaid an apologetic look.

  “I didn’t mean to impose.”

  “Forgive me.” She waved toward the gleaming brass hooks on the wall as she started toward the kitchen. “Please, take off your coat. You’re welcome to stay for supper.”

  A moment later, she turned the golden brown pieces in the frying pan. These didn’t burn. Thank You, Lord!

  No footsteps sounded, but Mr. Kincaid appeared in the kitchen doorway. His Windsor double-breasted, charcoal wool suit accentuated his height and the width of his shoulders. “Something smells wonderful.”

  “Mom’s chicken. It’s the best.” Valerie sat at the table, mashing potatoes.

  “There’s plenty.” Rosemary turned down the heat. “You’re more than welcome to join us.”

  “Yeah.” Valerie bobbed her head. “Have a seat.”

  He smiled at Valerie. “I enjoyed your solo this morning—your voice is very expressive.”

  “Thanks.”

  As he reached to pull out a chair, Rosemary hastily suggested, “How about if you take the chair next to that one? Valerie’s ankle—”

  “It’s just a sprain. I was clumsy,” Valerie confessed wryly as Paul’s brows raised at the sight of the ice bag on her ankle.

  “I’m sure Mr. Kincaid has had his share of sprains, too.” Rosemary stirred the green beans, then set another place at the table. “I hope you don’t mind. We prefer to eat in here.”

  He looked around the kitchen, taking in the cheery yellow gingham curtains and white cabinets. His brow lifted as he spied the white ceramic canisters she’d brought from Denmark when she had come here as a bride.

  “Your kitchen’s cozy. I like it. Do you really keep barley and oatmeal in those?”

  The deep green lettering across the front proclaimed what each piece held. Mel, Sukker, Kaffe, Te, Salt—he could have guessed those. The other two should have been a mystery. “You speak Danish?”

  “Enough to get by.” A whimsical smile made him look years younger. “When I was growing up, our housekeeper kept treats in those two canisters.”

  Rosemary waved her tongs at the canister with Havregryn painted on it. “I do keep oatmeal in there.”

  He pointed toward Byg. “And the barley?”

  “Cookies.” Valerie laughed. “But you’re out of luck. I ate the last one yesterday.”

  He chuckled. “I’ve been unforgivably rude to pry. Had they been English, I wouldn’t have asked. For a moment, I became a boy again.”

  “It’s understandable.” Rosemary turned a chicken wing as the pan sizzled. “I keep only mint tea in the tea canister because the fragrance reminds me of my grandmother’s house.”

  When Valerie awkwardly tried to scrape the side of the bowl, he lifted it away from her. “You’re at a distinct disadvantage, trying to do this while seated.” He proceeded to continue mashing the potatoes, went to the icebox and added a splash of milk, and whipped them to a satisfying texture.

  “You know how to make potatoes?” Valerie’s voice held the surprise Rosemary felt.

  A grin lit his face. “My first father was Swedish and insisted Mom hire a topnotch cook. By staying in the kitchen, I got treats. While I was there, she put me to work.”

  Rosemary grimaced. “That’s a handsome suit. You don’t want to get food on it.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first or last time.”

  Five minutes later, the meal sat on the table. Rosemary didn’t know what to think. Paul Kincaid managed to act as if he were part of the family. It boggled her mind how he stepped in, decided what needed to be done, and set to work. After finishing the mashed potatoes, he’d sliced half a loaf of bread. Rosemary couldn’t recall the last time a man had asked the blessing at their table, and she gladly accepted his offer to say grace.

  Once they started eating, Paul looked at her intently. “Had I known you could cook this well, I might have come asking for dolls months ago!”

  She smiled. “Thank you. So you’re looking to buy a doll?”

  “I’d like several. I’d also like another slice of bread. I haven’t had homemade bread for nine years.”

  “Nine years!” Valerie hurriedly passed the basket to him.

  As he helped himself to a slice, he said, “Widowers don’t bother to bake. We buy those convenient, already-sliced loaves and make fools of ourselves over fond memories of cookies.”

  Rosemary shook her head. “I found your memory charming.”

  Paul pensively spread butter on the bread. “Your dolls are charming.”

  Rosemary figured he didn’t want to discuss having lost his spouse and the odd ways little things could trigger the memories and make the loss feel new all over again. How often had she felt that same way? She took his cue and asked, “Do you have a preference as to the size or hair coloring?”

  He shrugged. “A variety—blond, brunette, black-haired. More dark-haired ones, though. The size you had at church today looked perfect.”

  “Little girls tend to like dollies that look like them. Do you need plaits or short curls?”

  He chewed slowly, appreciatively, then swallowed. “A variety. It’ll allow me to be flexible.”

  “Oh. I just assumed they were for a niece or—”

  “Well, I do have two nieces; however, they’re close to Valerie’s age. I have several business associates, and I thought the dolls would be suitable gifts for their children. I’m willing to pay whatever you feel is fair.”

  “That’s very generous of you.” Rosemary dabbed the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “I’m more than happy to make them, but if you’re in a hurry, girls seem to love Raggedy Ann dolls.”

  “No, no. I want these all to be homemade. That personal touch is what makes them special. Each should be unique.”

  “When would you like them, and how many do you need?”

  He turned to Valerie. “Will you help your mom?”

  Valerie burst out laughing. “Me? Sew? Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Kincaid, but I’m hopeless if you put a needle in my hands.”

  “But you can sing. You can’t be good at everything.” He turned back to Rosemary. “I don’t want to pressure you, but I’d love a bunch of them as soon as is reasonable.”

  “How about a week and a half? I’ll have some done, and when you come get them, if you still want more, you can tell me. I’ll need to figure out what the cost is since I just used scraps to make the ones for the church nursery.” She picked up the platter and passed it to him. “Help yourself to more chicken.”

  “Thank you, I will.” He accepted the plate and forked a crispy thigh onto his plate. Paul said he traveled extensively, acquiring art for museums and private collecto
rs.

  “How do you manage to travel now?” Rosemary couldn’t fathom how he got around.

  “We’re not at war, Mom,” Valerie said. “We probably won’t be, either. The America First group is strong enough to hold us back.”

  “Even if we aren’t, Roosevelt declared us the ‘Arsenal of Democracy.’ “ Rosemary frowned at Paul. “Hasn’t that angered Hitler?”

  “America’s isolationist stance is crumbling.” He grimaced. “Entering Nazi-held countries is forbidden now.”

  Rosemary and Valerie exchanged a baffled look. “Then how do you manage?”

  “Sweden is neutral, and Germany needs its iron, so Swedes are the exception. My legal name is actually Lindhagen. Though my stepfather had me informally assume his last name, my citizenship was never altered.”

  Valerie tilted her head to the side. “So do I call you Mr. Kincaid or Mr. Lindhagen?”

  He smiled. “There’s less confusion if I go by Kincaid here in the States.”

  “How often do you go over there?” Valerie’s questions echoed what Rosemary wondered. At times, she’d rued Valerie’s curiosity and spunk. Today, those qualities were a blessing.

  “Quite frequently now. Many private collectors are discreetly selling off things in neutral countries because the Germans are claiming art as war bounty.”

  “I read it was bad in France.” Rosemary’s fingers tightened around her cup.

  “Hitler has a special task force called the Einsatzstab. They’re crating up everything they can get their hands on. The Rothschild family alone lost over five thousand works.” He paused. “It saddens me to buy family treasures, but on the other hand, I’d rather allow the owners to receive the money and have the artwork end up in a reputable museum.”

  He cleared his throat. “My apologies. I didn’t intend to spoil a pleasant meal with ugly politics.”

  “Not at all.” Rosemary lifted the bowl of potatoes and passed them his way. “Do you favor any particular style of art?”

  He set aside the bowl without taking more. “Though the Oriental art has been well received, I lean more toward the European works. Oils, watercolors, sketches, bronzes, icons—” He held both hands wide. “I like it all. Speaking of art, I noticed the picture in your living room as I came in.”

  Rosemary smiled. “The one of the little girl?”

  He nodded.

  “Mom loves that picture. Dad bought it for her when they went to Copenhagen,” Valerie said.

  Paul’s eyes lit up. “So it’s an original Aigens?”

  “Yes. You’re welcome to take a closer look.”

  He let out a throaty laugh. “Now there’s a quandary I don’t mind: having to choose between the company of two lovely ladies and a tasty meal, or gazing at a fine piece of art.” He winked at Valerie. “I’ll stay put. The painting will still be there after lunch.”

  To Rosemary’s delight, Valerie laughed. It was a rare sound these days. Her fiancé had gone to Canada, enlisted, and been killed in action. Grief still held Valerie in its grip, so moments like this when she found happiness were particularly precious.

  They spent the remainder of the meal in pleasant conversation, then Paul admired the painting before he left. As Rosemary washed the dishes, Valerie eased back into her chair. “It’s not fair.”

  “What’s not fair?” Rosemary looked over her shoulder at her daughter.

  “He makes better mashed potatoes than I do.”

  Rosemary moaned dramatically. “And you used my recipe!”

  Paul slipped behind the wheel of his Duesenberg and set his hat on the gray mohair seat next to him. He’d hoped to catch Rosemary Fulton right after church, but by the time he arranged a delivery of things to Mrs. Ainsley with Abel Nannington, Mrs. Fulton was gone. A sense of urgency drove him to the door of her stately old home. He hadn’t planned to go inside, but her warm smile and the mouthwatering aroma of fried chicken drew him in.

  Now he’d return to get the dolls. Last Sunday, Mrs. Fulton had seen him at church and invited him to come for supper on Friday. He’d promptly agreed.

  Mrs. Fulton was a widow, but with her daughter at home, there was nothing shady about a gentleman stopping by. He curled his hands around the steering wheel and started down the street.

  Truth of the matter was, he’d been watching Rosemary since June. Her nephew, Axel Christiansen, was one of Paul’s contacts in Denmark, and he’d requested the favor of knowing if his aunt and cousin were faring well on their own. Even if Axel hadn’t asked, Paul would have paid attention to Rosemary. The first time he met her, attraction sparked.

  Most women wore stylish full sleeves and French cuffs, but Rosemary wore a white silk blouse with a lace collar. Rich waves rippled her platinum blond hair, framing Delft blue eyes. He thought she looked like an Old Master’s painting come to life. Had he not been slated for a mission, he would have asked her to the church’s July Fourth picnic.

  Other than being home during the holidays, he’d been gone on “business” more often than not. Courting a woman under those circumstances rated impossible. Nonetheless, he’d jockeyed to be next to her to serve turkey at the church’s Thanksgiving dinner. He’d learned right away that she was blessed with the gift of works—Rosemary didn’t sing solos or chair committees. She was the woman who cooked meals for the new mothers of the congregation, weeded the church rose garden, and replaced the felt in the bottom of the offering plates when it looked worn. Her quiet grace and servant’s heart appealed to him.

  Only he’d just stepped onto a tightrope. He wanted to get to know her better—much better—but he couldn’t be completely honest with her. At least not yet. He hoped she’d forgive him when the time came for him to tell her the full truth.

  Chapter 2

  Isn’t she a charmer?”

  Rosemary smiled as Mr. Kincaid pulled the first doll from the wicker basket. “I’m glad you think so.”

  His large hand dwarfed the doll, and muslin legs flopped on either side of his wrist. He fingered the looping, dark brown yarn curls and grinned. “Some little girl is going to be lucky to get her.”

  “I made a dozen.” She watched as he fiddled with the ruffled apron and reached for another doll. “I didn’t know how many—”

  “At least one hundred.”

  His quick answer had her laughing. “I’m glad you like them, but seriously, Mr. Kincaid—”

  “It’s Paul, and I am serious.”

  Rosemary sank onto the brown-and-beige-striped chesterfield and blinked. “You really are sincere, aren’t you?”

  He pulled a few more dolls from the basket and stuck them on his forearm as if they were riding a toboggan. All of them leaned into his chest, but he added yet another. “I’ll break hearts if I don’t have enough.”

  “But one hundred?”

  He gave her a patient smile.

  “I never thought there were that many art dealers.”

  “There aren’t. It is a small circle, but as such, it’s good form for me to know about my associates’ families. It would be novel for me to give gifts for their daughters and granddaughters. A doting grandfather, seeing all of his granddaughters playing with the dolls I gave them, is more likely to think of me when a work of art becomes available. Surely you can see it’s good business.”

  “So you’ve given gifts before?”

  “You’d be amazed at some of the things I’ve given as gifts.” He flashed her a smile. “A couple of years ago, I had a collector strike a bargain with me, and the thing that motivated him was the Monopoly game he learned I was giving to my associates.”

  Laughter bubbled out of her.

  “Duncan yo-yos are great, too. They take up very little space in my attaché case.”

  “You can’t mean to carry dolls in your attaché case!”

  “Why not?” He rubbed his thumb over a mop of yarn hair. “Most will be in a crate, but I’ll keep a few with me. No one will think anything of it. Art dealers put a single etching inside a huge
container. I’ve carried containers the size of your wood box that held a carving smaller than my hand. In their own way, your dolls are each a work of art.”

  “That’s quite a compliment.”

  “An honest one.” He studied them. “No two are alike.”

  “You said you wanted them to be unique. I used four different patterns.”

  He slid the dolls onto the coffee table and added the last few. Tilting his head to the side, he pursed his lips. “This one—” He lifted the one with inky braids that had been her favorite of the bunch. White eyelet pantalets peeped from beneath a pink-and-white-striped seersucker dress. “Was she hard to make?”

  “Actually, she’s the easiest pattern of them all. The one in the blue plissé was the hardest.”

  His mouth twisted wryly. “Plissé?”

  “The light blue on your left.” Rosemary winced at the memory of having to restitch the seam at the top to catch all of the hair. She’d taken it out three times before it was right. “If you truly want lots of them, that model will slow me down. Of course, I can ask a few women to help me.”

  “No.” His chin came up. “I want them all by you. These are special, and I can give them with the assurance that you’ll make each one so she’ll hold together. I know they’ll be cherished, so they have to be well made.”

  “I suppose since your contacts are accustomed to quality art, they’ll be particular.” She looked at the rag babies. “I used everyday fabrics—organdy, gingham, calico. Should I be using silk or rayon?”

  “I’ve never had children, but it seems to me if a doll is dressed in silk, she’ll sit on a shelf instead of being played with. The endearing part of your dolls is they are made to be cuddled and dragged around.”

  “Valerie had one of those.” She smoothed her skirt and confessed, “As did I. Mine was dressed just like the one you chose.”