A Sentimental Journey Romance Collection

by Dianna Crawford

  “Do you want to keep her for yourself?”

  Shaking her head, Rosemary stood up. “I had my fun making her. Let some little girl enjoy her. Pardon me. I need to go check on supper.”

  He’d come to his feet the moment she rose. Paul’s impeccable manners made her feel special.

  “I’d like to help. What can I do?”

  “Nothing, really. I have a roast in the oven. I’ll just make some gravy.”

  He followed her into the kitchen and grabbed the hot pan holders from her, then opened the oven. “Is your brown gravy as good as that chicken gravy you made the last time I was here?”

  “Better,” Valerie said as she finished setting the table. “Would you like coffee or tea with your supper, Mr. Kincaid?”

  As meals went, it was plentiful, but that was all Rosemary remembered about the food. Seven years of widowhood had left her accustomed to living without a man, but she still felt the loss of masculine presence, strength, and support. Paul Kincaid filled her home with all of those qualities, and she couldn’t shake the sense of rightness and balance.

  He entertained them with tales about some of his travels. Humor and intelligence sparkled in his stories. Just as important, he proved to be an apt listener. Rich, deep laughter rolled out of him when Valerie told them about the crazy customer she’d had at the bank that afternoon.

  After taking a final sip of his after-dinner coffee, Paul methodically rolled up his sleeves, baring strong forearms. “I’ll wash the dishes.”

  “Oh, no.” Rosemary gasped. “That’s not necessary at all. Valerie and I—”

  “Valerie needs to rest her ankle. She’s been on her feet all day.”

  “Actually, I was sitting.” Valerie propped her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her palm. She looked thoroughly entertained by this turn of events.

  “Good. We want her to heal completely, don’t we?” Paul started running water in the sink and added Palmolive. As the bubbles started to pile up, he asked, “What time is it?”

  Rosemary glanced at the clock. “Just after seven.”

  “Great. The Tommy Dorsey Orchestra comes on now. How about if Valerie tunes in some music for us?”

  Valerie fiddled with the dials on the Zenith console. After a Nature’s Remedy ad, strains of Frank Sinatra singing “I’ll Never Smile Again” filled the air. Paul scrubbed dishes in time to the music and occasionally whistled a few bars.

  Rosemary rinsed and dried the dishes. Each time she stepped from the cupboard back to the sink, confusion crackled through her. Even when her husband was living, he’d not done dishes. The coziness of sharing such a mundane task was unmistakable but wholly innocent. It felt so good to have Paul there—in their kitchen, by her side. He just seemed to fit.

  Lord, don’t let me make a fool of myself. Occasional company for a business dealing—that’s what this is. Help me to guard my heart and tongue.

  His soapy hand brushed hers as he plunged the roasting pan into the rinse water. She shivered.

  “Chilly?” He swiped the dish towel from her. “Grab a sweater. We’re done in here, and we still need to firm up a schedule and costs.”

  Rosemary didn’t argue. She needed a moment to gather her wits.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Paul said as they walked into the living room after she donned her sweater. “The doll that was hard to make—forget making more of her. In fact, you can just stick to the one pattern that you said was the easiest if you’d like.”

  “I can still dress them differently and embroider different expressions on them.”

  “Great.” He stood in front of the Aigens painting again. “I’ve seen several of his paintings. He’s particularly good with children’s portraits. Do you have any idea who the little girl is?”

  “None at all.” Rosemary smiled. “There’s just something so sweet about the way she’s nestled into that window seat, looking at the bluebird.”

  “It’s unusual for him to paint a portrait in profile. It adds to the allure of the piece.” He turned around. “What kind of sewing machine do you have?”

  The change of topic took Rosemary by surprise. She stammered, “Singer.”

  “Is it a new electric one, or one of the old treadle ones?”

  “I have both.”

  He nodded. “I couldn’t imagine you making so many dolls with an old one. You’d wear yourself out. I’m assuming you’ve calculated the cost of material. What’s a fair price for the dolls?”

  She crossed the richly colored Aubusson carpet and opened the drop desk front of the antique oak secretary. Handing him the slip of paper, she said, “I made a list of the yardage and costs. I can get two dolls from a yard of muslin, so that’s four cents apiece. It depends on which fabrics you want for the clothing.”

  “I know what gingham is, but the rest of this …” He hitched his shoulder. “Plissé didn’t make sense to me, and neither do challis, batiste, or percale.” Studying the page, he mused, “It’s all in a similar range. A few pennies here or there don’t make much difference when you can get this many outfits per yard.”

  “Gingham is sixteen cents—the other is far less.”

  “Nine to eleven cents?” He chuckled. “I’m not going to quibble about a penny per doll, Mrs. Fulton. Put together whatever fabrics you think a little girl would like.”

  She’d carefully put everything on the ledger—the embroidery floss, yarn, thread, and cotton stuffing. It would cost about seven cents per doll.

  “You don’t have a figure here for your labor.” He looked at her expectantly.

  “I don’t know how to do that.” She lifted her hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I enjoy sewing. As a banker, my late husband provided well for us. Valerie and I live quite comfortably.”

  “How long does it take to make one doll?”

  “I’m not sure. I cut them out and sew them like a Ford production line.”

  His dark eyes glimmered. “The average man earns about two thousand dollars a year. I’ll pay you … fifty dollars a week.”

  “Mr. Kincaid! Minimum wage is thirty cents an hour for a man. That’s far too much, and I’m not sure I want to be chained to my sewing machine.”

  “You won’t be chained to your sewing machine. I’d want you to feel free to have luncheons with your friends and help out at the church and such. As for pay—you’re working as an artisan, so that’s worth more.”

  “I always heard artists were supposed to be starving.”

  He swept up an armload of her dolls. “But those artists don’t know me!”

  Paul adjusted the light and carefully wrapped the glittering ruby in a section of a handkerchief he’d torn off. He’d bought a dozen handkerchiefs Thursday at Nannington’s with the grand hope of needing to buy many, many more. Nannington had been busy relating how pleased old Mrs. Ainsley had been when she’d found the coat Paul bought for her at the bottom of the basket of yarn, but Paul wouldn’t chance buying more handkerchiefs there. No detail was too small to ignore.

  Tucking the wrapped gem into the doll’s head wasn’t all that easy, considering how small he’d made the opening and how wide his fingers were. Still, if he opened the seam any farther, it would mess up her yarn hair and draw attention to the stitching. After poking in a tiny wad of cotton batting over the gem, Paul pinched together the gaping inch and painstakingly sewed it back together.

  This was the last one. He’d been up all night finishing the task. Every poke of the needle felt awkward. Perhaps he could have Rosemary show him how to sew … maybe if he took a shirt that needed mending, that would provide a good excuse to spend more time with her. He’d been coming up with all sorts of reasons he should drop by. The initial attraction he’d felt for her had grown each time they were together.

  “Ouch.” Jerking back, he glowered at the drop of blood on his fingertip and knew he needed to concentrate on finishing with this batch without bleeding all over it. As he wiped away the blood, he couldn’t take his mind off o
f Rosemary. She’d worked hard to get the dolls done just in time.

  He’d set sail at noon today to obtain an Abildgaard oil for a private gallery. That provided his cover for the trip. Once done with that, as a Swede on business, Paul Lindhagen would slip over to Denmark.

  It was there Paul would drop off the dolls.

  He’d served in the navy and knew his knots. A figure-eight knot seemed to work well, but the thin thread might still slip through the weave of the fabric, so he repeated another figure eight, then snipped the thread.

  He picked her up and examined his handiwork. “Ah, sweetheart, I have big plans for you.”

  Chapter 3

  The voyage to Sweden was uneventful, and the small case of dolls didn’t raise any eyebrows. The same customs official examined Paul’s belongings on the next trip three weeks later. He opened the much larger crate of dolls and commented, “Someone must have liked your samples last time.”

  Paul accepted his stamped passport and nodded. “I’d like to see them do well. A widow makes the dolls.”

  He smiled as he thought of Rosemary. There hadn’t been any reason for him to see her other than to pick up the dolls, but he’d been drawn to her serenity and warmth. His working world was full of darkness; Rosemary was a beacon of light. During his time in Virginia, he found himself making excuses to go see her. He’d bought yarn and delivered some to old Mrs. Ainsley and dropped off the rest for Rosemary’s rag dolls. Twice, he went over for Sunday supper.

  Rosemary couldn’t bear to just sit at her table and allow him to fix the second meal. They’d enjoyed puttering around in the kitchen together and took a refreshing walk after cleaning up. They’d spoken about all sorts of things—surviving the loss of a beloved mate, current events, her antics of having learned to drive her husband’s old Pierce-Arrow. He took that opening and invited her to drive them both to a small art exhibit that weekend. Their date went smoothly. She happened to mention she hadn’t read Grapes of Wrath, so he used that as justification to stop by later in the week to lend her his copy.

  “Ahh.” The customs official drew out the sound and waggled his brow. “So the widow—she is pretty?”

  “Beautiful.” Paul shoved his papers into a coat pocket. “I’d like to take her a gift. Is there a jeweler you recommend?”

  Early the next morning with his Swedish passport that identified him as Herr Lindhagen, Paul boarded a small Swedish vessel bound for Denmark. Danish fishing vessels were out, but the Germans made their presence felt. Paul minded his own business and exchanged a few desultory comments with a Wehrmacht officer just before they reached shore. Lord, thank You for Your mercy and protection. Bless this trip, Father. Let it be successful so we can rescue innocents in Your name.

  Not long thereafter, Paul delivered the crate to Axel, just as he had the first. They stood in the backroom of Christiansen Enterprises in Copenhagen and exchanged all but ten of the dolls for a watercolor and two antique miniatures. Those miniatures would provide Paul’s raison d’être for being in Holland. The Germans had invaded and were starting to round up Dutch Jews. Greedy Nazi officials looted each country of art. Surely these pieces would allow Paul access to the “right” people.

  He already had contacts in Germany, Holland, and France—some because of his previous trips, but others courtesy of his friend “Wild Bill” Donovan. If Bill weren’t so incredibly patriotic and bright, he’d be downright unnerving. He’d approved the concept of the dolls, though. In fact, he’d managed to slip Paul several reichsmarks and loose gems to put inside them.

  A small, highly secret cell of people had formed and resolved to do their utmost to ransom the Jewish children. Paul played a pivotal role. The booming gray market in fine art provided an ideal cover.

  If Germans looked at his papers and searched his luggage, they were welcome to confiscate the art pieces he would be dealing. The dolls would hide in plain sight.

  Axel boxed his share of the dolls into two smaller crates. “I’ll make a receipt for these just as I did the last time. That way, it’ll be on a manifest so you can deliver more in person or have them shipped with us. We’ve already showed the import was established, and I’ll be able to point out that with the effort going toward agriculture and munitions, the poor children won’t receive toys if my business doesn’t import them.”

  “Good.” Paul glanced around and asked softly in Swedish, “How many children do you think your network can smuggle?”

  “Several families in our church have already taken in children. Can you bring film?”

  “Here.” Paul pulled three rolls from his suitcase. He’d brought them with the expectation that they’d be used in forging identity papers. Denmark was starting to form an underground and would require far more than those three rolls as time passed. “Next trip, I’ll bring more. Anything else you need?”

  “I want my sister to go back to America. She refuses and says her place is here with me and our grandmother. Could you talk sense into both of them? Aunt Rosemary has more than enough room to put them up.”

  Someone entered the warehouse. Paul hadn’t heard any footsteps, but the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He stuck out his hand. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Christiansen. I’d be happy to see those watercolors.”

  Axel shook his hand. “It’s very exciting news.” He turned and gave an excellent imitation of surprise. “Herr Torwald! What can I do for you this fine day?”

  The pinch-faced man approached. He lowered his voice, “I saw the American come here. I came to beg a favor.”

  “I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” Paul said in flawless Swedish. “But I won’t take offense that you mistook me for one of them. I couldn’t resist buying a new overcoat the last time I went to New York.”

  Herr Torwald grabbed the sleeve of Paul’s suit. “I have a nephew. He’s eight.”

  “You must be proud.” Paul shrugged away and pretended not to understand the request to smuggle the boy out of Denmark. He sensed this was a trap. “But I am confused by your request. I don’t paint portraits—I am an art dealer.”

  “Mr. Lindhagen knows my Aunt Rosemary in America. She told him about the watercolors in my grandmother’s home.” Axel beamed. “He’s going to come examine them.”

  Paul held up a hand. “Now, don’t get too excited, Mr. Christiansen. They might not be anything at all. I wouldn’t want you to be disappointed.”

  “Oh, but they’re from the same set.” Axel bobbed his head. “Aunt Rosemary has the winter field. My mother had the summer scene, and when she came back, my sister brought it along. Spring and autumn were still on the wall, and Grams hung summer back between them.”

  “America’s National Gallery of Art is due to open in March. It would be quite a feather in my cap to buy—”

  “Americans,” Herr Torwald spat. “They think they can buy anything. And you Swedes—you’re growing fat, living off both sides of this war.” He glowered, then slowly shuffled off.

  Axel cleared his throat. “My apologies, Herr Lindhagen. Desperation leads people to grasp at straws. Shall we go? You must stay to supper. Grams is a wonderful cook.”

  “I’d be honored.”

  They walked out of the warehouse, and Axel locked the doors. “I’m able to offer you a ride. The Germans allow me to keep a vehicle since my business helps provide well for the region.” He got into the car and muttered under his breath, “I want my sister out of here. This place is overrun with spies.”

  “You threw him off with the talk about the pictures. If you have watercolors and paper, I’ll do a quick set to back up your story.”

  Axel cast him a sly smile. “I was telling the truth. You’re about to stumble onto a treasure.”

  Paul shook his head in disbelief and chuckled. He took a deep breath. “Actually, I already found a treasure. I wanted to tell you: I’ve started courting your aunt and intend to marry her.”

  “There you are.” Rosemary walked into the living room and waved toward the basket. A se
nse of sadness swamped her. How quickly she’d come to anticipate Paul’s visits! His intelligent conversation, witty insights, and warmth lingered after his visits. She didn’t want this to be the end of their times together, but nothing was more pathetic than a lonely widow chasing after a man. She pasted on a perky smile. “That’s the last of the dolls.”

  Paul let out a crack of a laugh, but it died quickly. “I hope that was an April Fool’s joke.”

  “You said you wanted one hundred dolls.” Slowly sitting by the basket, she lifted one and smoothed its sunny yellow skirt.

  “That was just the first order.” Paul sat down and gave her a patient look. “Those little rag babies are the rage. If anything, I need more, faster.”

  “Surely you can’t have that many associates!”

  “I have a special associate.” He leaned forward. “Axel Christiansen.”

  “Axel!” Rosemary nearly dropped the doll. “You know my nephew?”

  “I do.” Paul patted the striped cushion of the chesterfield in silent invitation.

  Rosemary hastened to his side and pled as she took a seat, “How do you know him? I can’t believe this!”

  “Since he’s in the import-export business, he’s been of help to me at times in following proper protocol. I’ve found him to be well informed about all of the increasingly stringent rules.”

  “Yes, that sounds like Axel. How is he? Is he well? I haven’t seen him in almost five years! Letters—they don’t come through well anymore.”

  “Yes, he’s well. I have letters for you from him, from your niece, and one from your mother.” He drew an envelope from the inside pocket of his suit coat.

  “Oh, Paul! You can’t know how much this means to me!”

  He slipped the crinkled envelope into her hands. “Please don’t wait to read them. Axel told me how he and his sister lived with you.”

  She bobbed her head and tore the envelope in her haste. “Yes. They’re such good children.” She let out a nervous laugh. “I guess they’re not children anymore. Axel went back to take care of the family business after my papa died….”