If things were different, she might have been disturbed, insulted. But if she were to talk to someone in confidence about Duncan, her words wouldn’t be complimentary either.
And yet they planned to marry in a few months’ time.
Am I truly going to chain myself, my entire future, to a man I don’t love and can’t respect?
Heart starting to race, she said, “Duncan, I believe it’s time you take me home.”
He looked at her. “What about our reservation at—”
“No. I’d rather go home.”
Duncan glanced at the actress. “I . . . You’ll have to excuse us, Miss Chevrolet. Miss Anderson seems to be unwell.”
Not unwell. Unsettled. Unhappy. In need of a way out.
Preston
May 1895
Preston Chandler stepped from the train car onto the Boise station platform. Once out of the way of other departing passengers, he stopped and looked around. It felt slightly strange to stand on solid ground. He’d grown used to the rocking and swaying of the car, and it took him a short while to feel his land legs again. Once he did, he collected his bag and hired a hack to take him from the railroad station to the hotel.
“How long will you be with us?” the desk clerk inquired as he looked at Preston’s signature in the guest register.
“I’m not sure. Four or five days, I believe.”
“Very good, sir.”
Preston suppressed a grin. He was still getting used to the small courtesies extended to a man of means.
The clerk held out his room key. “Do you require assistance with your luggage, sir?”
“No. Thank you. I can manage. But I am hungry. Any recommendations on where I should eat?”
“Yes, sir.” The clerk glanced around, then leaned forward, adding in a low voice, “Breakfast is all right in the hotel restaurant, but you’re better off elsewhere for dinner.”
“Good to know. Appreciate it.”
The clerk gave the names of a couple of restaurants, followed by easy instructions on how to find them both. Preston thanked him again before heading up the stairs to the second floor. He found his room at the far end of a long hallway. It was clean and spacious with a comfortable bed. Everything was altogether better than the many rooms he’d stayed in throughout his life.
After a quick wash, he put on a clean shirt and headed out again. One of the recommended restaurants was only a few blocks away. An easy walk, and he was ready for a bit of exercise.
As he left the hotel, a trolley car rolled noisily past him, the tracks running down the center of the street. Businessmen in suits and vests, cowboys in Levi’s and boots, women in long skirts and big hats rode the trolley and strolled along the sidewalks. Large buildings made of stone boasted of Boise’s promise.
From his research, he knew that what was now the capital city of Idaho had been established over thirty years before as a lowly supply town for the gold and silver mines in the mountains to the north and south. Now, with most of the mines played out—or at least long past their prime—it was Boise City that thrived while the gold-rush towns dwindled to mere ghosts. If things didn’t work out for Preston as planned, maybe he would come back to Boise for a new start.
He gave himself a mental shake. He had no intention of failing. His circumstances had changed for the better, and he meant for that to continue.
Seeing the restaurant sign, he paused on the sidewalk, then crossed the street, avoiding several wagons going in opposite directions. One day, he was certain, a man would have to dodge motor carriages instead of horse and buggies, but that time hadn’t arrived yet.
Delicious scents greeted him as he entered the restaurant. He was shown to a small square table covered with a pristine white tablecloth. Gas lamps on the walls bathed the large room in a golden glow, the light reflecting off the table service and china plates.
He scanned the menu the waiter handed him, then ordered the fried trout with Creole sauce and julienne potatoes. “I’ll have some of the Edam cheese and water crackers while I wait. And coffee too.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll bring them at once.” The waiter walked away.
Preston looked toward the window and the busy street beyond. First thing tomorrow he would pay a visit to the Boise City National Bank and make certain the transfer of his funds had been completed. He’d seen the three-story Romanesque bank structure with its sandstone facade on his way from the railroad station to the hotel, so he wouldn’t need to ask for directions. Afterward, he would drop into the office of his recently retained lawyer, a man who’d been recommended to him by a trusted friend. Once done with the final legalities of his inheritance, he would be free to explore a little more of Boise before heading north into the mountains.
Liam's Journal
Jacob was too sick to go see Destination: North Star in the theater when it released, but I managed to get a copy to play for him at home. His bed was in the living room by then. No way could he climb the stairs, and it made it easier for the nurses who came to tend him 24/7 and the guests who dropped by to be with him for short bits of time.
But that night, when we watched my new movie, it was just the family: Mom, Dad, Jacob, and me. When the film was over, everybody said the things they were supposed to say. Exciting movie. Lots of action. Funny in the right spots.
After Mom and Dad went to bed, I stayed up with Jacob, and we talked for a long time. He told me the parts he really liked about the movie. But then he asked me why I always chose those roles. “Don’t you want to go deeper?” is how he put it.
Deeper. He meant give up outer-space movies and adventure films for something about a family coming apart at the edges. Something that made the audience tear up. A weeper, our grandma called them.
I wasn’t surprised. Jacob had that kind of nature. He was more emotional than me. He was a deep thinker too. Really deep. He liked to look at people and situations and figure out what was going on, deep down.
In fact, he was the one who told me how unhappy Dad was. On all my visits back home after I moved to LA, I hadn’t noticed Dad was unhappy. And after I came up to Idaho to be with Jacob, I guess I figured Dad was sad about him. But Jacob said no way. Dad’s been unhappy for years. Since we were little kids. That’s one reason he works all the time. He doesn’t want to come home.
I wasn’t sure I believed Jacob when he told me, but after Dad moved out of the house a couple of weeks after the funeral, I knew my brother was right all along.
I’ve tried talking to both Mom and Dad about what’s going on between them. Dad always says I need to ask Mom. Mom says she can’t talk about it. Maybe she would’ve told Jacob if he’d asked her. Maybe he did ask her before he died. Maybe he knew and chose not to tell me. I don’t know.
Families are strange. People who love each other and hurt each other at the same time. I’m pretty sure Mom loved me. Loves me. But she’s said a lot of things that hurt me too. I got thicker skin as I got older, but I was always aware of the comparison, the way she preferred to be with Jacob over me. The way she wanted to protect him but left me to fend for myself.
Can’t say that I blame her. Jacob was special. He loved people. He loved life. He loved God. Long before I came to a place of knowing Christ, Jacob opened his heart wide to Him. Jacob was good to everybody. Didn’t matter if he was talking to the mayor of a city or a homeless guy on the street, Jacob treated them with the same kindness and respect. He listened to them. He listened to me. Really listened.
Wish I could say I’m like that, too, but I’m not. In school, I was usually off somewhere, trying to impress a girl or a teacher. Trying to impress a producer or director in recent years.
What’s that say about me? Nothing good.
Chapter 4
Hearing a sound, Liam turned from the stove to see Kurt stop at the bottom of the stairs. Unlike Liam, who wore baggy shorts and a T-shirt that had seen better days, his agent looked as if he were heading to a business meeting at one of the studios. Even his sho
es were shiny again; not a speck of yesterday’s dust remained on them.
Liam held up the spatula in his hand. “Breakfast?”
“You bet.” Kurt moved into the kitchen, stopping at one of the barstools at the raised counter.
“Coffee’s ready.” Liam motioned with his head in the direction of the coffee maker.
“Even better.”
Liam returned his attention to the egg mixture in the frying pan, quickly adding the cheese, diced ham, and bell peppers to one side before folding the omelet over and then, when ready, sliding it onto the waiting plate. “Your timing was perfect, as it usually is.” He carried the plate to the counter and set it in front of Kurt. A moment later, he added a fork and napkin next to the plate.
“I never pictured you as domesticated.” Kurt chuckled, the deep sound seeming to echo in the large kitchen. “A delicious dinner last night. Now omelets for breakfast.”
“I don’t know about domesticated, but I enjoy cooking. It relaxes me. Of course, it’s more fun when I cook for somebody who’ll appreciate it.” Liam pointed at his friend’s plate. “Dig in before it gets cold.” He turned back to the stove to prepare his own omelet.
“Wish I could stick around a little longer,” Kurt said.
“You’re welcome to stay as long as you want.”
“Can’t. I’ve got some important meetings on Monday.”
Liam looked over his shoulder. “You could stay one more night. We can take a drive, and I’ll show you the area. We could even go up to Galena Summit. Amazing views of the Sawtooth Valley from there.”
“Tempting, but I already booked my return flight. It’s early this afternoon. I’ll have to head down to Boise soon.” He checked his watch. “Another hour or so.”
Liam let it drop. If Kurt left soon, he would have less time to try to make Liam change his mind. And Kurt would try again. He hadn’t come all this way to fail.
His own omelet ready, Liam slid it onto a second plate and went to sit at the counter. The two men were silent while they ate. For a short while, the only sound in the kitchen was the clink of forks on plates. But once the plates were clean and the coffee mugs refilled, Kurt turned a serious gaze on Liam.
“One of my meetings on Monday is about a movie that’s meant for you. A starring role, and you’re the director’s first choice.”
Before he could help it, Liam asked, “Who’s the director?”
Kurt leaned forward and softly said the name of the top-tier director as if it were some national secret that had to be protected.
Excitement blossomed in Liam’s chest. Who wouldn’t be excited? Every actor in Hollywood wanted to work with Grayson Wentworth. The guy was a genius. He excelled at everything—action movies, rom-coms, science fiction, drama. What he touched turned to the proverbial gold.
But being flattered wasn’t enough to pull Liam back into that world before he was ready, and he checked himself before he let Kurt see his involuntary reaction. It wasn’t time to go back. He knew it wasn’t. And more important, God hadn’t released him to return. He wished he could explain that to Kurt, but his agent had a way of blocking any God talk, as he called it. In fact, his frequent advice was for Liam to believe whatever he wanted but to keep it to himself. Hollywood wasn’t interested in his Christian faith. Neither was Kurt Knight.
Liam had followed his agent’s counsel for years. His faith remained a private matter. Nobody’s business but his own. Only he felt less comfortable with that decision of late. What kind of disciple never spoke about the teacher he followed?
“Well?” Kurt’s voice had a sharper edge to it now. “Aren’t you going to say anything? A Grayson Wentworth film and your chance to star in it.”
Liam stood, grabbed his empty plate as well as Kurt’s, and carried them to the sink. He drew a breath before he turned, leaning his backside against the counter. “That would be amazing, Kurt. Really. I would love to work with him. Wentworth is the best of the best. Maybe I’ll get to work with him in the future. But I can’t commit to anything right now.” He was starting to feel as frustrated as Kurt looked.
“You’re killing me, Liam.”
“I know, and I’m sorry. I wish I could say something different, but I can’t. We’ve been over it more than once. Look, Kurt. You’ve done great things for me and my career. You’ve hung in there with me through the ups and down, and I appreciate it more than you know. I’d like to make things easier for you now. I would. But I can’t.”
How was he supposed to explain that still, small voice in his heart to a man who didn’t believe in the God behind that still, small voice? There weren’t enough words, and there wasn’t enough time.
“I’m not ready to go back to work,” Liam added. “I’m not ready to leave Idaho. I need to be here for now. I’ve got a lot to . . . work through. It’s more than just grief, but there’s plenty of that too.”
He looked toward the large window in the great room. Outside, morning sunlight beamed down through the tall trees, golden shafts breaking through the greens and browns of the pines.
A few moments later, the scrape of stool legs upon the floor drew Liam’s gaze back to his friend and agent. Kurt stood beside the counter, shaking his head slowly. “All right. I give up. I won’t hassle you anymore. I’ll tell him . . . I’ll tell Wentworth something. Maybe he wants you enough to be willing to wait awhile longer.”
* * *
Aunt Rosemary flipped over the sign in the window of the door. “I’ve heard it’s called a soft opening,” she said as she drew back.
Chelsea had tried to convince her great-aunt to wait a few weeks before reopening Rosemary & Time. In her mind, they were nowhere close to ready for customers. But she’d learned it was pointless to argue with the woman. Rosemary Townsend was seventy-five and still recovering from surgery, but she knew what she wanted.
Using her cane, Aunt Rosemary moved to a wingback chair set near the large front window of the shop. She dropped onto it with a sigh, then leaned forward and pulled the matching padded stool closer and placed her injured leg on it.
“Don’t mind me if I nod off every now and then.” She tossed a smile in Chelsea’s direction. “And if you need to ask me something, just wake me up. I’ll drift off again if I need to.”
Chelsea returned the smile. “Okay.”
Aunt Rosemary sighed again, settled deeper into the chair, and closed her eyes.
Chelsea watched the older woman for a short while, then turned and went up the stairs, carrying her laptop beneath one arm. Today she planned to reorganize some of the books on the second-story shelves. She didn’t know much about antique books. How did a person tell what was old and valuable instead of simply old and worn? She supposed she needn’t worry. Most of the books in this shop would be simply old with no added value because of their age. But if something unusual popped up, she hoped to be able to find its true value. Hence the laptop.
Cobwebs and dust had been cleaned away from the shelves where she planned to begin. Now she would remove books from the cases, sort them as items to keep and items to get rid of as quickly as possible, even if they sold them for only a nickel or a dime. Paperbacks, she assumed, were the least valuable. She would go through them first.
As she pulled a step stool up to a bookcase, memories of another July morning drifted into her thoughts. She’d been with Aunt Rosemary for the better part of six weeks by that time, and she’d explored every nook and cranny of the shop and a good deal of the town and surrounding forest. Within Rosemary & Time, she’d climbed ladders and used step stools and tucked herself away in unusual hiding spots. But on that particular day, she’d taken a book to the window seat at the back of the second story. With the window open, she’d been able to hear the water splashing over the stones that lined the bed of the creek. It had been a comforting melody, and the book she’d chosen had carried her away to a delightful fantasyland.
In books, even when bad things happened, better things seemed to follow. The boys and
girls in the stories could somehow slay the dragon or save the wounded animal or solve the mystery. Good saved the day, and villains were banished forever.
So different from the real world. So different from the true story she’d lived.
“How’d you turn out so worthless?”
“Stop that sniveling. Do you know how ugly you look when you do that?”
“What am I doing with you? I must be crazy to waste my time here.”
Chelsea covered her ears with the heels of her hands, trying to shut out the voices from the past. Eyes closed, she reminded herself that she was not only fearfully and wonderfully made but also a child of the King. The opposite of ugly and worthless.
O Lord, You have searched me and known me . . . You have enclosed me behind and before, and laid Your hand upon me . . . How precious also are Your thoughts to me, O God! How vast is the sum of them!
After a while, the cruel voices faded into silence, and Chelsea drew in a slow, deep breath. As she let it out, the bell above the entrance chimed, drawing her gaze down toward the door. She expected to see one of her great-aunt’s friends. Instead she saw a tall, handsome man pause on the landing, his gaze stopping on Aunt Rosemary who, as she’d warned she might do, was napping.
Chelsea shook off the last remnants of her troubled memories as she stepped off the stool and moved to the railing. “Hello. May I help you?”
The man looked up and smiled.
And what a smile! Her heart did a strange little dance in her chest in response to it. He looked a bit familiar. Did she know him? No, she would remember if they’d met. She was sure of that.
“Hello, there.” His voice was warm and soothing, his eyes a deep chocolate brown. “Grace over at the mercantile told me I should talk to Miss Townsend.” He motioned with his head. When he continued, he lowered his voice to a near whisper. “But if that’s her, I don’t want to disturb.”
Make You Feel My Love Page 4