Missouri Magic

by Charlotte Hubbard

  “You remember!” Beckoning him to follow her, she swayed down the aisle with a decidedly grown-up gait and stopped a few shelves away. “Notorious heartbreaker that you’ve become, I didn’t expect you to recall the little girl who had a colossal crush on you. But I guess there were several, weren’t there?”

  “Only one who sent me four Valentines one year—anonymously—and then mailed initialed notes swearing eternal devotion,” he replied with a chuckle. “How are you, Joy?”

  “Well, I’m—”

  “She’s busy, Frye. What’re you doing here?”

  Damon turned slowly, masking the anticipation that rushed through him at Perkins’s pointed demand. “I’m here to pick up some paste mix, and Miss Holliday seems to be the only employee present to—”

  “The others are at dinner. Up-to-date, caring boss that I am, I allow them an hour,” the defensive blond continued. “A happy work force is a productive work force.”

  It was bluster and they both knew it, a warming-up for the inevitable confrontation that had been brewing these past weeks. The secretary’s gaze bounced eagerly between him and Patrick, so he dismissed her with a polite smile. “Good to see you again. I need to discuss some business with your boss.”

  “And I haven’t gotten those letters I dictated, concerning our new credit policy, have I, Miss Holliday?”

  “No, sir. I was just finishing them.”

  With a resentful lifting of her slender, freckled nose, she walked back to the enclosed office, and then Patrick blocked her view by shifting to Frye’s left. “Don’t tell me Cruikshank can’t supply your little papering project,” he said in a venomous voice. “Lord knows you wouldn’t even have to pilfer paste, as much as you’re bilking the Ransoms to work for them.”

  “I have my faults, but petty thievery isn’t among them.”

  The lumberman’s golden complexion reddened. “No? Then, what do you call trifling with Celesta, trying to steal her from me? She’s my fiancée, and if you don’t keep your hands—”

  “Does she know that?”

  Perkins sucked in his breath. “By God, you are not going to ruin her the way you did Lucy! Perhaps we should step out back and settle this like—”

  “I don’t want to dirty your suit,” Damon replied, and to irritate Patrick further he brushed imaginary dust from his crisp linen lapels.

  Perkins slapped at him, flushing as he stepped back. “Damn you! I registered a complaint with the police the night you abducted Celesta from the concert, so you’re a watched man, Frye. One more—”

  “Yes, Celesta does seem to have eyes for me. Among other things.”

  The blue orbs before him narrowed ominously. “Get out! And if I see you with her again, you’re a dead man!”

  His threats rang with such an empty defiance that Frye laughed out loud as he turned to walk away. He paused at the door, though, unable to resist getting the last word in—as he’d done all their lives. “You’d better order the wood for my casket, then,” he taunted. “Something in cherry would be nice. And so appropriate.”

  As Damon stepped out into the noonday sun he saw the mill hands sauntering back to their idle saws, casting curious glances his way. He’d seen all he needed to, and he needed to be more protective of Celesta than ever. Cornered prey like Patrick could be fatal when he lashed out.

  Chapter 16

  Celesta hurried from the post office, burning with curiosity. The unmarked envelope from Beadle and Adams was thicker than usual, and because Bill Thompkins was working behind the desk she dared not open her mail here. It was probably a letter from Mr. Victor, her editor, terminating her writing relationship, and she didn’t want to cry hysterically while cursing Damon Frye. Bad news was best endured in the privacy of the alcove, where Grandfather’s spirit might comfort her.

  When she spied an empty bench in Central Park, however, Celesta succumbed. As she slid onto the slatted seat, she tore into the envelope and then gasped. Along with the larger-than-usual check for “The Case of the Purloined Papers” was a letter written in bold, flowing script:

  My Dear Mr. Lester,

  Heartiest congratulations, sir! We felt “Purloined Papers” was your finest work to date, meriting a higher rate of pay—until we met Damon Dare! Our readers are hungry for just such an adventurer, and Sally Sharpe followers are sure to demand more of his derring-do ... not to mention the sultry innuendo that smolders between him and the Girl Detective. Continue to present this pair in such a suggestive yet tasteful way, and we shall be pleased to pay you half again as much as Sally earns you for a regular case—and we’d like to keep putting her on the stands as we always have, thrice a month. Best wishes for your continued success!

  Celesta’s mouth dropped open. She read the letter again, her excitement rising until she wanted to shout out loud. Was this real, or had Frye written it? But he couldn’t have! There was Orville J. Victor’s distinctive signature, just as it always appeared on his correspondence.

  She squeezed her eyes shut against sudden tears, wishing she could share this success with Mama. When her poignant mood subsided, Celesta walked resolutely into the heart of town, to the Hoskins drugstore, where dime novels were sold. Sure enough, there were the Beadle and Adams pulps for the last week in July, and beneath the bright orange masthead, Sally Sharpe was sketched with wide-eyed confidence, cornered by an ominous, well-dressed scoundrel who wielded a knife—and who bore an uncanny resemblance to Damon, just as she’d written him! It was too good not to share with someone, so she bought a copy of ‘‘The Purloined Papers” and hurried back to the Manor with it concealed in her skirt pocket.

  That evening when Damon found the dimer in his overalls, along with the letter Victor had written, he slapped his knee and chuckled. His first inclination was to remind her who mailed Damon Dare to the publisher, but when he saw Celesta’s pretty flush and the grin she couldn’t suppress, he realized the success was hers alone.

  She was waiting for him in the dining room, the last first-floor salon they had to paper, and when he was certain the aunts were out of earshot, he grabbed her up and kissed her jubilantly. “I hope you’re happy, young lady,” he whispered. “You certainly deserve to be.”

  Celesta giggled, loving the gentle strength in his arms and the hint of cherry tobacco that lingered from his after-dinner pipe. “I suppose I should be humble and admit you were right to send my story to New York.”

  “No need. I’ve already patted myself on the back.” He set her down, aware that Katherine was still in the kitchen. “Besides, it was your tale, sweetheart. I just recognized its potential for greatness.”

  Her cheeks must’ve been ruby red, by the feel of them. “Thank you,” she murmured. “You don’t know how good those words sound to me.”

  Frye stroked her cheek, and it struck him that he hadn’t felt this ecstatic—for himself or anyone else— in years. As the two of them took down the gilt-framed mirrors and paintings, he watched her with growing pride. Who would ever guess that cotton-clad Celesta Montgomery, a maid’s daughter—his woman!—thrilled thousands of readers across the country with her tales of suspense and adventure?

  “Are you going to tell Justine and Katherine?” he asked softly. “I bet, when they realize the extent of your success, they’ll be impressed rather than appalled. They’re both more open-minded than you might think.”

  She unrolled the wallpaper, considering this. “Maybe. But for now, I just want to enjoy this little victory—share it with you. All right?”

  “Certainly.” He glanced toward the kitchen to be sure Katherine wasn’t listening. “When do you think it’ll be in the stores?”

  “In a few weeks. Mid-August, I’m guessing.”

  “Perfect. We’ll pace ourselves so that the upstairs hallway is all finished, and celebrate,” he suggested, tweaking her nose. “If you wish to declare yourself then, it’ll be appropriate, and your aunts will be in high spirits anyway. If not, well . . . we’ll find a way to mark the occasion
.”

  His provocative wink left no doubt as to what he had in mind, and during the next two weeks he teased at her with dozens of little gestures that were nearly as exciting as making love to him—which, she sensed, he was avoiding so that she’d go mad with anticipation. One morning she awoke to find a perfect red rose on her nightstand. Other days she received scandalous notes in her post office box, detailing exactly what he wanted to do to her when they were alone. Gone was the darkly dangerous beast who’d lured her to his lair, and in his place stood a gallant, proud suitor with just enough rogue in him to keep Celesta wondering.

  Did he love her? Would he declare himself soon? Such daydreams had Celesta floating through the days, oblivious to Justine’s barbs and patient with Katherine’s attempts to bring their budding romance into full flower. Patrick had apparently decided she was too much trouble to pursue, after Justine’s humiliating send-off, and that in itself made early August a pleasant time for all of them.

  As though arranged by Fate, “The Golden Bounty” appeared on the stands the morning after the upstairs hallway was completed. Mr. Hoskins always put his new dimers out on Tuesdays, so Celesta found an excuse to go into town whenever she thought Sally’s latest would be out. She was gazing at her magazine from an aisle away, forcing herself not to jump up and down when Wilbur Lyons, who managed the green grocery next door, bought one.

  She was about to take one for herself when a shirtsleeved arm darted from behind her and plucked two copies from the display. Celesta pivoted and nearly knocked Damon off-balance, laughing with nervous pride when she realized who he was.

  “Let me treat you to a keepsake copy,” he said in a low voice, “and I’d like you to autograph mine tonight—perhaps after we read the story aloud, assuming our respective parts?”

  His suggestion made her mouth go dry. All she could do was nod.

  “Then, I’ll see you when we have the moonlight to ourselves and no one can keep us apart,” he murmured. And after placing a chaste peck on her temple, he went to the front of the store to pay for his novels.

  Celesta stood trembling, alive with anticipation as she gazed at the sketch of the Girl Detective in her bounty hunter’s arms. Dare was teaching Miss Sharpe to fire his rife, so their position wasn’t overtly sexual, but compared to the other dimers around it, “The Golden Bounty” looked quite provocative. And the artist had followed her description of Damon Dare so closely she wondered if anyone here in Hannibal would recognize her hero’s real-life counterpart.

  Justine did seem to be watching Frye more closely at dinner that evening, and Celesta suspected her aunt had already secreted her dimer upstairs and was impatient to start reading it. Katherine sat giddily at her end of the table, soaking up Damon’s compliments on her pork cutlets and potato salad. The conversation was lively, as though the renovation of Ransom Manor had rejuvenated all their spirits.

  “We really must hold a reception or a tea,” the younger aunt said as she stood to scrape the dirty dishes. “These walls look too lovely to keep just to ourselves.”

  Justine coughed. “Let’s not be hasty, Katherine. Mr. Frye has cleared away the scaffoldings, but soon he’ll be installing pipes and fixtures for the new bathroom. Why not wait until we can show that off, too?”

  Damon smiled and was about to speak when the spinster looked at him with brown eyes that almost had a sparkle in them.

  “In fact,” she continued demurely, “I was wondering if you could possibly build us a water closet on first floor, as well. The way I understand it, the pipes will come upstairs through the study, which means we’ll have to enclose them somehow. Seems perfectly logical to make efficient use of that space.”

  “If Justine gets a second commode, I get running water in the kitchen!” Katherine piped up.

  Frye laughed and stood beside his chair, grinning slyly. “Ladies, your requests will be easily carried out, and I’m flattered that you’re so confident of my work. In fact, I have an announcement about that very topic.”

  Celesta’s eyes widened, and she could feel the excitement coursing through her two aunts as they leaned forward to listen.

  “I’ve arranged for a crew to begin digging the trench for the pipes by week’s end,” he began, pausing to tease them a bit, “and I’ve received word that your porcelain fixtures—the sink, the flush commode, and the claw-footed tub—have finally arrived.”

  Katherine clasped her hands at her bosom. “I can’t wait to see them! They’ll have the loveliest white shine, and—”

  “Every bit as fine as the Cruikshanks’ fixtures,” Justine added smugly, “because I had Damon order them from the same company.”

  “They must’ve been terribly expensive,” Celesta murmured in surprise.

  The eldest Ransom smiled as though she’d been hoarding this secret ever since Frye’s work began. “We can’t have the Manor falling behind the times any longer. We’re a small family now, but we still have our pride.”

  “Oh, my,” Katherine replied breathily, and then, with mist in her eyes, she said “oh, my” again.

  It was one of the most touching moments Frye had ever witnessed, and he let the euphoric silence gladden their hearts for a few moments more before he cleared his throat. “I’m truly honored to be a part of this occasion,” he said in a reverent voice, “and I hope you’ll allow me to contribute tonight’s dessert as part of your celebration. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll fetch it from the cave.”

  When he’d passed through the kitchen, both aunts babbled at once.

  “Bless his heart, what’s he—”

  “What a thoughtful young man, to—”

  “Celesta, has he asked for your hand, dear?”

  Celesta’s breath caught in her throat, and the silence was as sudden as her aunts’ exclamations had been. They were both gazing expectantly at her. “No, Damon hasn’t said a word about—”

  “Oh, he will, though! I just feel it!”

  “Katherine, that’s hardly for us to say,” Justine reminded her crisply. “His intentions seem honorable, but let’s not forget he lives in St. Louis. If they marry, one of them will have to uproot.”

  Aunt Katherine’s smile crumpled, and she was about to protest; but the footsteps approaching from the kitchen kept her quiet. Damon strode to the table with a frosted silver cylinder in the crook of his arm, carrying a tall green bottle and a flat, rectangular box. “I thought a taste of champagne was in order,” he said in a lilting voice, “and I had fresh ice cream made, and here’s a box of chocolates. I’ll pull the cork if you’ll get us some bowls, Celesta.”

  “I’ll clear away these plates.”

  “And goblets,” Justine said as she rose from her chair. “Mother’s stemware was made for just such an occasion.”

  Moments later a bright pop rang around the dining room and four elegant champagne goblets were fizzing in the center of the table. Katherine spooned up generous portions of the strawberry-studded ice cream while Celesta inhaled the heavenly scent of the imported candies.

  Damon handed around the bubbling glasses and then raised his own. He’d planned to say something jaunty and light, but the glowing faces around him and the new luster of the room where they’d shared so many dinners made him suddenly sentimental. “I—I propose a toast to three of the finest ladies I’ve ever known,” he said solemnly, “with many thanks for allowing me to share your home these past weeks.”

  Her heart pounded as Celesta sipped the cool champagne, because Damon was now gazing at her, hinting at the more intimate celebration to come.

  “And I wish to toast the future of this family,” Justine said in a stately voice. “May we prosper and grow in the coming generations.”

  “Hear, hear,” Katherine replied, her gaze flitting pointedly between Frye and her niece.

  It was embarrassing to be the topic of their toasts, yet Celesta’s insides fluttered all during dessert. Two months ago, she’d thought any hope for happiness had died with Mama: the prospect of being
imprisoned with these elderly aunts had seemed the end of her own life as well. And now Justine acted as though she, too, had renewed her interest in living, and Katherine spent much less of her time pining for Ambrose. All because Damon Frye, the rake who gained admittance with a load of lumber and some timely flattery, had forced them to stop wallowing in their misery.

  After the dishes were washed and put away, Damon invited Celesta to join him at the piano for some duets, and since her two aunts had please! in their eyes, she couldn’t refuse. Katherine settled into her favorite chair with her needlepoint, and Justine chose a seat near the window. The padded bench was full of songbooks and sheet music her mother had once played, and since her partner was the more accomplished musician, Celesta chose to sit at his left and play the bass parts.

  His shoulders were so broad she perched on the very edge of the bench and still rubbed against him. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing two powerful forearms as he flipped through a book of old favorites . . . arms that would soon hold her, hands that would soon caress her to ecstasy. The heat between them increased, and they hadn’t yet begun to play.

  “How about ‘Annie Laurie,’” Frye said softly. “That’s a good one to warm up with.”

  “I’m warm enough, thank you.”

  Her reply was muted, yet Celesta’s voice made him pray for the evening to pass quickly ...for Justine to retire to her reading and then fall soundly asleep. After he played a few introductory bars, she joined in, timidly at first, but competently. By the second time through she was improvising on the simple bass line, adding flourishes that prompted him to embellish the music as well.

  “Camptown Races” was on the following page, and after a rousing first verse, Damon urged her to sing with him. “Oh, de camptown races, sing dis song—”

  “Doo dah, doo dah,” she joined in. It was sheer happiness to sit beside him this way, heartbeats accelerating with their cheery song as they tried to outdo each other’s playing. When they ended the tune by racing to a loud chord, both aunts applauded enthusiastically.