by Dorothy Love
“I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.”
“It won’t be much. I’m thinking new hairpins, or a card of buttons maybe. I’m about broke, and Joe and James Henry both need new shoes.” He fidgeted with his cap. “I reckon I ought to tell you Mr. Blakely won’t take me back, and Mr. Whiting says orders at the mill are way down since construction at Blue Smoke is finished. Reckon you’re stuck with me awhile longer.”
“I wish I could pay you more, but the truth is, I’m about broke myself.” She had spent the last few weeks poring over her ledger and worrying about her dwindling bank balance. If Mr. McClure didn’t buy at least some of her pieces, she’d be out of business by Christmas.
Caleb nodded. “Losing most of our advertisers is a bad break, all right.”
She smiled at his use of the word our. She loved that he felt such a personal stake in the paper, despite his need to move on.
Caleb scratched his head and cleared his throat. “I was telling Ma about it the other day, and she said that what you need is an advice column where folks can write in about their problems and you say how to fix them.”
She laughed. “I’m afraid I’m the wrong person for that job. I can’t even fix my own problems.”
“Ma says people—especially ladies, I reckon—would buy subscriptions just to read about how to get a tomato stain out of a favorite dress or how to fix everything from a broken pump handle to a broken heart. She says people read questions from the lovelorn because they like trying to figure out who wrote the letter.”
“I’m certain that part is true. Folks are always curious about other people’s lives.”
Caleb whipped a sheet of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. “I figured we could post notices at the bank and the mercantile and over at Mrs. Pruitt’s dress shop. Ma says that’s where most of the ladies go for the latest neighborhood goss—uh, news.”
He handed her the paper, covered with his familiar scrawl.
Attention All! Do you have a thorny problem that needs an answer? Are you suffering from dingy laundry or unruly children or, worse of all, a broken heart? Then write to The Answer Lady c/o the Gazette and your problem will be solved.
Sophie mentally corrected his spelling of worst and thought about her days at the paper in Dallas. Writing the advice column was considered the lowliest, most undesirable job a true newspaperwoman could undertake. Still, there was no denying the column’s appeal. Mrs. Mills and her assistant could barely keep up with the dozens of letters that poured into the office each week. If writing such a column would save the Gazette, she’d hold her nose and do it.
She looked up at Caleb. “Change the e in worse to a t and print some up. Run it on page four of the next issue also. Let’s see what happens.”
He grinned and headed for the printing press.
Sophie picked up her letter to Mr. McClure and her reticule and headed for the post office. Passing the mercantile, she nearly collided with a woman coming out of Mr. Pruitt’s, her arms laden with packages.
“Miss Swint. Excuse me. Good morning.”
The photographer nodded. “Take one of these packages if you don’t mind. I’ve got my glass plates in here, and I don’t want to drop ’em.”
Sophie took the heavy package. “Where to?”
“My rig’s right over there.”
Sophie looked where she pointed and recognized Ethan’s black rig and horse. Her stomach clenched. She had neither seen Ethan nor heard from him in the two weeks since her confession. It felt like two years. But she had no one but herself to blame. To keep her emotions at bay, she’d thrown herself into her work, soliciting more printing jobs and stockpiling more articles she hoped Mr. McClure might purchase for his syndicate.
“Did Mr. Heyward drive you in this morning?” She followed Miss Swint across the dusty street.
“He offered and I accepted, but he and Mr. B. were in the midst of an awful row this morning, and he told me to come on by myself.” Miss Swint stowed her purchases and straightened her hat. “I didn’t mind. I like solitude.”
Sophie handed her the box of glass plates. “What do you suppose they were arguing about?”
Miss Swint waggled a finger at Sophie. “Oh no you don’t. I’m not about to give you fodder for one of your newspaper stories. I can’t afford to anger Horace Blakely. I need my job.” She climbed into the rig and picked up the reins. “Come on up to the ridge when you get a chance and see how my hut worked out. I’ll take your photograph for free.”
After she drove away, Sophie posted her letter to Mr. McClure and ducked into the mercantile for a box of pencils. She stopped at the bakery and splurged on a couple of sweet buns. Maybe Gillie could tear herself away from the orphanage long enough for a chat and a quick bite to eat.
Exiting the bakery, she nearly tripped over a black-and-tan dog lying on the boardwalk. He gazed up at her and thumped his tail. He looked like the same dog she’d seen earlier in the summer. She bent down. “Hector, is that you?”
At the sound of the name, the hound’s tail swished the ground and he licked her proffered hand. “Are you still hungry, boy?”
She reached into the bag and broke off a bit of sweet bun. No doubt Hector would have preferred a slab of beef, but he wolfed down the pastry, his eyes begging for more. She handed him another bite and started down the street. Hector trotted alongside her, his pink tongue hanging out.
Outside the Gazette office, she paused. “You’re just the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen, but you need to go on back now and wait for your master. He’ll be lost without you.”
Hector sat on his haunches and stared at her.
She smiled, glad that somebody was happy to see her. “Go on, now, before I fall in love with you.”
“Sophie?”
She whirled around. “Ethan.”
He touched one finger to the brim of his hat. “How are you?”
The memory of their kiss washed over her like a rogue wave. “I’m all right.” She nodded toward the street. “I just saw Miss Swint, driving your rig.”
He nodded. “She was in a hurry to get on down here to pick up her supplies. We’ve an entire family from North Carolina on their way up to the ridge today to get photographed.”
She reached down and scratched Hector’s ear. “Mr. Blakely’s idea must be paying off. It seems that everything he touches turns to gold.”
“He’s got an instinct for business, all right.” He bent to the dog. “Who’s this?”
“I think his name is Hector. He belongs to a farm family. I gave him a bite to eat, and now he’s my friend for life.”
“He couldn’t have chosen a better one.” Ethan’s gaze held hers. “I came to apologize. I should never have allowed you to walk home from the ridge that day. And I shouldn’t have behaved so coldly.”
“I suppose you had a right to be angry. Nobody likes being duped. I should have been truthful from the beginning. But I was afraid.” She dropped her gaze. “I wanted you to like me.”
“What made you think I wouldn’t?”
She hesitated. “I saw the way you looked at that man who came to your office the night of the reception, the way you dismissed him as a nobody.” She swallowed a knot in her throat. “The moment I saw him, I recognized that he’s of mixed blood too.”
His lips tightened. “I’m sorry you were witness to that night. But believe me, Julian is nothing like you.” He paused. “And I do like you, Sophie. I like you very much. Anyway, I didn’t come down here to talk about Julian.” Ethan nodded to a man hurrying past them on the boardwalk. “I came to ask whether you’ll forgive the way I acted and come with me to Race Day. I know October is a ways off yet, but I wanted to get my bid in early.”
She stared up at him. Was it too much to hope for, that he had forgiven her?
“Griff Rutledge has a horse in the race,” Ethan went on. “Blakely figures him to win.”
“If Mr. Blakely says so, then I’m sure it will happen. He seems to control everything in this town.”
“How did you know?”
He shrugged. “I read your paper cover to cover every week. I find it entertaining and informative, even when I don’t necessarily agree with your opinions. I couldn’t help noticing the lack of advertisements in the last couple of issues, and I assumed Horace had something to do with it. This morning I asked him flat out, and we had a very colorful discussion about it.” Ethan shook his head. “I had no idea Horace knew so many curse words. It may well have been the most inventive dressing-down I’ve ever received in all the years I’ve known him.”
She frowned, trying to make sense of it. Was Ethan saying he didn’t care about her ancestry? That he had defended her against his vindictive boss? “I’m sorry to have been the cause of so much trouble between you.”
“Horace Blakely is one of the most successful businessmen in the country,” Ethan said. “You could write the worst kind of accusations, and it would make no difference to someone with his money and influence, especially here in Hickory Ridge. There was no need for such pettiness, and I told him so.”
“He’s about to drive me out of business,” Sophie said. “All because of one editorial and because I dared to contradict him at the council meeting.”
“I know it. But don’t worry.” Hector nuzzled Ethan’s hand, and he stroked the dog’s head. “I have an idea.”
NINETEEN
The parlor at the Verandah was so jam-packed, Sophie could barely move. Before dawn, thick clouds moved in, obscuring the mountains, and now a torrential rain had forced the cancellation of Race Day. Townsfolk and visitors alike sought shelter wherever they could find it—beneath the overhangs of the buildings along the main road, in shops and offices, in Mr. Tanner’s livery. And a sizable number, it seemed, had sought out the Verandah Hotel for Ladies.
Sophie moved through the crush of whining children, harried mothers, and disgruntled visitors, offering cups of tea and plates of the hot biscuits Lucy had been preparing since the first roll of thunder. Mabel and Merribelle, lucky girls, were already up at Blue Smoke, seeing to the needs of the guests who had had better sense than to venture out in such weather.
A fire crackled in the fireplace, warding off an autumnal chill that seeped through the walls of the old building. Wet umbrellas leaned against windowsills, dripping water onto the pine floor.
Sophie carried her empty tray to the kitchen. “We need more biscuits.”
“This is it.” Lucy, her face shiny with perspiration, took another pan of biscuits from the stove and motioned to Sophie. “I’m nearly out of flour, and I am not about to go to the mercantile for more.”
Sophie peered out. Rain fell so hard it was impossible to see anything. “I don’t blame you. It isn’t as if these folks are paying guests anyway.”
A child let out an ear-splitting shriek that brought the buzz of conversation in the parlor to a temporary halt. Lucy closed her eyes. “Sweet sassafras! Who are all these people anyway?”
Sophie gazed around the room. In the small entryway, Mariah Whiting and her daughter-in-law, Ethelinda, stood sipping tea and chatting. Carrie Rutledge sat on the bottom step of the staircase, her arms wound around her small daughter’s waist. Sophie recognized the mayor’s wife and a few ladies from her church. Several women wore simple calico skirts and shirtwaists that marked them as local farm wives, but most of the others were strangers who had arrived on the train expecting a horse race, a parade, a picnic, and fireworks. Annoyance and disapproval clouded their faces. As if anyone other than God himself controlled the weather.
Lucy piled the hot biscuits onto a tray and added more boiling water to the glass jugs filled with tea. “I heard that Mr. Blakely wanted to hold the horse race tomorrow, but Mr. Rutledge refused. Even if the rain stopped right this minute, the race course will be too dangerous for the horses.”
“Mr. Blakely thinks he owns this town now.” Sophie’s empty stomach protested and she helped herself to a biscuit. “Sometimes I think Hickory Ridge would be better off without Blue Smoke.”
“Maybe.” Lucy poured two cups of tea and offered one to Sophie. “But then you wouldn’t have met Mr. Heyward.”
An image of Ethan the day of their hike to the ridge rose in her mind—the sunlight falling on his broad shoulders and his hair, the curve of his lips when he smiled. Now they were talking again, laughing together like old friends when one errand or another brought Ethan to town. And yet from time to time she still sensed in him a holding back, a private grief he was unwilling to admit or share.
A couple of boys, smelling of apples and wet wool, raced into the kitchen, swiped a handful of biscuits from the tray, and thundered back into the parlor. Lucy shook her head. “When my husband was killed, my first thought was regret that I would never be the mother of his children. But, I declare, if I’d had children and they turned out like those two . . .”
“Ada always said that as the twig is bent, so grows the tree.” Sophie refilled her cup and leaned in the doorway, watching the two boys wrestling each other for a place above Carrie’s on the crowded staircase.
Another clap of thunder rocked the building. The door opened and Gillie rushed in, her dress and shawl dripping water, her hair plastered to her skull. She shook out her umbrella and scanned the crowd.
“Go on and take her up to your room,” Lucy said. “I put some fresh towels in the upstairs cupboard last night. She needs to get out of those wet clothes before she catches her death of cold. I’ll bring up some hot tea in a minute.”
Sophie made her way through the crowd. Gillie collapsed against her. “Thank goodness you’re here. I wasn’t sure where I’d find you. People are holed up everywhere waiting out this storm.” She unlaced her muddy boots and set them beside the fire.
“Come on.” Sophie took her friend’s hand, and they squeezed past the knots of people sitting on the staircase. In the upstairs hallway, Sophie took a stack of clean towels from the cupboard and opened the door to her room.
Gillie shivered and stepped out of her wet things, draping her skirt, shirtwaist, and vest over the bed post. She peeled off a wet petticoat, added it to the pile, and laughed. “At least my unmentionables are dry.”
Sophie handed her a towel, and Gillie blotted her face and squeezed water from her thick, white-blond braid. “That feels better.”
“I’d give you something of mine to wear, but I don’t think I have anything that will fit.”
“That’s all right.” Gillie eyed Sophie’s bed. “But I wouldn’t mind warming up beneath that quilt.”
Sophie waved one hand. “Be my guest.”
Gillie wrapped a towel around her wet hair and slid beneath the covers. “Much better. Reminds me of when I was little and Mother tucked me in at night.”
Sophie perched on the foot of the bed. “I’d read you a storybook, but I don’t have one.”
Gillie grinned and pulled the covers up to her chin. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too. But I hear you’ve been busy.”
“Yes, the repairs on the orphanage are going well. Just yesterday Dr. Spencer received more donations from the hospital in Philadelphia. And Mrs. Scott stopped at the bank to give Daddy the money raised from the harvest festival. I hope we can open by Thanksgiving.”
“That soon?”
“Mr. Heyward has been over several times to bring materials and help the men with the heavy work. And you know what they say: many hands make light work. I only wish—”
Someone knocked on the door. Sophie rose. “That’ll be Lucy, bringing tea.”
But a strange woman stood there in a rain-spattered silk dress, her umbrella dripping water, an enormous veiled hat shadowing her face.
“I’m sorry,” Sophie said. “This is a private room. You’ll have to wait out the storm in the parlor like everyone else.”
“But, Sophie,” the woman said in a voice
that reminded Sophie of moonlight and magnolias, “I’m not everyone else. I’m your mother.”
Ethan set down his coffee cup and stared out at the pouring rain. He didn’t care about the canceled horse race, but he had counted on seeing Sophie today. On his trips to town, he made a point of seeing her, but with the resort so full, he had a hard time getting away. And the truth was, he missed her. He loved her saucy grin, her keen intelligence, her tender heart. And though he had apologized to her twice over, he still regretted the way he’d treated her when she confessed her deceit to him. Her admission had triggered an old resentment he’d spent a lifetime trying to tame.
In recent years he hadn’t thought much about the elderly aunt who took him in after his parents died. But here lately, every time he thought about Julian and felt the old hatreds rising up, he remembered the day Aunt Eulalie caught him destroying a neighbor’s crabbing pots in an effort to exhaust his rage. After making him apologize, she had paid for the damages and taken Ethan home. And warned him: “Don’t grow up angry, boy. It’ll make it harder to find your place in the world.”
Well, he had tried to let go of his anger, but sometimes that old helpless rage still overpowered him. If only Sophie had trusted him enough to be truthful from the outset. But maybe she was angry too, angry at the circumstances of her life. Certainly she was struggling to find her place in the world.
He picked up his pen and flipped through the stack of papers O’Brien had left on his desk. He signed bills of lading, supply requisitions, and payroll withdrawals, then scanned the monthly financial report. After only four months in operation, Blue Smoke was showing a healthy profit. From the beginning every room had been filled, and guests seemed not to blink an eye at a daily rate that was more than most of the staff earned in a month. The photographer’s hut had been a stroke of genius. Every guest, it seemed, wanted to make the trek to the mountaintop to pose for a photograph.
Lightning flashed and a clap of thunder rattled the window. Ethan glanced out at the roiling sky. Surely Miss Swint had had the good sense to stay off the mountain today. Not that Horace would be concerned. If there was money to be made, he wouldn’t care if the poor soul caught pneumonia.