Marian pushed the small chair from Hannah's desk and put it against the toy box lid hoping it would keep the lid in place, but she knew the wind would push it if it broke the rest of the window.
"Let's move the desk over here, too," she said.
She and Hannah moved the desk and placed it in front of the lid. Then they put the chair on top of it.
"That should be heavy enough to keep the lid in place," Marian said.
Suddenly there was a crash and the sound of glass breaking toward the end of the hall. They ran to Marian's little room and found that the window had broken and wind and rain were teeming into the room. Marian's chair was soaking wet. She quickly surveyed the room for something to cover the window, but the only thing tall enough was the armoire.
"Go fetch Becky," she said to Hannah.
When Becky arrived, they each took a side and slid the armoire toward the broken window. It was hard getting it across the damp carpet, but somehow they managed to get it in front of the window, which stopped the wind, but not the rain.
"The floor and the armoire will be ruined," Marian said.
She sighed. It was times like these she wished she had a husband, although when she did, he wouldn't have been there anyway. She had learned to fend for herself and Hannah, but she couldn't stem the forces of nature.
"Let's go downstairs," she said with a sigh. "There's nothing else we can do right now."
Hannah understood her mother's frustration, and she hoped the toy box lid would keep the window from breaking, or her floor, too, would be ruined.
The wind blew hard for the rest of the day, and at three o'clock it suddenly turned into a slight breeze. Hannah went outside and looked up in the sky where she saw a break in the clouds that looked like a circle overhead and blue sky showing through. The dark clouds were moving, but the rain had stopped along with the hard wind.
Marian joined Hannah on the front lawn.
"That's the eye," she said.
"I can see why they call it that," Hannah said. "It's like God looking at us."
"It means the wind and rain will start again, but it's almost over. Come and get inside. This calm won't last long."
Marian noted the fallen tree branches and patches of flooding that would turn to mud and leave her grassy lawn a patchy mess. The flowers she'd planted were uprooted and lay on the grass.
"Come, Hannah," she repeated, and Hannah followed her mother inside.
Chapter 6
Horace Beecham, whose salt and pepper hair was neatly clipped, had just turned fifty and, much to his wife's dismay, had grown a handlebar mustache that grew past his upper lip. He often failed to remove all the particles of food from it with his napkin and it usually bore a crumb or two leftover from whatever meal he had recently eaten. He wore navy blue overalls and work boots. His crew had been working every day but Sunday to repair damage wrought by the storm. He stomped his foot down on the floor under the window.
"I'll have to replace the window," Horace said. "And the floor boards will have to be replaced, Mrs. Dawes. Altogether I'd say you're looking at about two hundred dollars' worth of damage."
Marian looked at the window, which was covered with a small tarp Horace had brought and affixed to the window frame with small nails.
"Now I know what you're thinking, Mrs. Dawes, that two hundred dollars is very dear, but I have to buy the wood, order a window made, pay my workers, and replace the glass in the child's room as well. Now if you look at it that way, it's quite reasonable."
"It is dear, Horace. That's a substantial sum."
Horace looked at the window again and ran his hand over the tarp. He liked Marian Dawes. She was a nice widow with pretty green eyes and strawberry blond hair.
"Yes, it's dear. Perhaps I can go down on my price, but only for you. I'd have to ask you not to tell anyone what you paid."
"I would be the soul of discretion," Marian replied.
"I can do it for one hundred and fifty, but that's rock bottom, Mrs. Dawes. There's nobody in all of New Jersey who'd do it for less."
"I understand, Mr. Beecham."
Now Marian was looking at the window and putting her hands on the tarp. She then knelt down and ran her hand over the wood, which had begun to pull away from the wall and curl slightly at the end.
"One hundred, Mrs. Dawes, and not a penny less. I have to pay my men."
Marian stood and crossed her arms over her chest. Horace took a small leather bound ledger and pencil out of his pocket. He began to fill in Marian Dawes' name and enter some figures, but he couldn't help glancing at Marian. She had a sad look on her face and she kept biting her lower lip.
"I really can't go lower, ma'am."
"I understand, Mr. Beecham."
"I can start work first thing next week."
"Yes, of course. It does need to be replaced."
"So, I can put you down for next week?"
"Yes, Mr. Beecham."
"I'll require a hundred dollar deposit, but if you don't have it first thing, well, I know you so I'll give you till the end of the month."
"Thank you, Mr. Beecham."
Horace didn't like dealing with women. He never felt comfortable shaking their hands to seal a business deal, so he would have them sign a page in his ledger. He laid it on Marian's desk and handed her the pencil. She read the page and signed it on the bottom.
"We'll be here first thing Monday. We have to finish up a job at Margaret Mason's first."
Horace looked at Marian as though trying to decide if she was the type of woman who enjoyed hearing a bit of gossip.
"Did you hear about the vagabond Mrs. Mason's gardener found in his shed out back of her house?"
"I think Becky mentioned something to me about that."
"George went out to the shed to get his rake and there was this man, bold as brass, sleeping in the shed. He was young, and he had an accent, George said. Well, Mrs. Mason took him in! Just like that! Well, you know, she's one of them that calls herself a patron of the arts, and George says he's some kind of artist. I don't know about that Mrs. Mason. Why, a man like that could kill her in her sleep!"
"She truly took him in?"
"She did. Now she's trying to get the school board to hire him on as an art teacher. Can you imagine that?"
"Then perhaps he isn't a vagabond at all. Maybe he's just down on his luck."
"Still don't think it's a good idea to keep him so close. She's letting him stay in the rooms over her carriage house. Says the light is good there for painting. I told my wife to be careful. We live right near the Mason house."
"I'm sure he's not a danger, Mr. Beecham. Mrs. Mason seems commonsensical enough to me. If she felt taking him in was the right thing to do, then I'm sure he won't be a problem."
"You haven't seen him, ma'am."
"Well, no, but..."
"He's young. He has this look about him that catches a woman's eye."
"Oh, I see."
"You watch out for that young'un of yours. And you be careful. You should maybe keep your doors locked from now on."
"Oh, Mr. Beecham. I'm sure that won't be necessary."
"Just the same. I'd be remiss if I didn't tell you, you having no husband and all, and the girl."
"I appreciate your concern, Mr. Beecham, and I'll consider your advice."
Marian walked to the bedroom door, signaling the end of their meeting, and Horace followed. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Horace began to put out his hand but pulled it back. Marian noticed the gesture and pretended to ignore it as Mr. Beecham's face turned red.
"Then you'll start the work on Monday?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am. We'll be here first thing."
Marian opened the door.
"Thank you for stopping by, Mr. Beecham."
"You're welcome, Mrs. Dawes. And thank you for your business."
Marian hadn't noticed Becky standing behind her as she closed the door.
"As though there was anyone else to h
ire," she said.
"He gave me a good price, Becky."
"I'm sure," Becky replied.
Becky had a low opinion of Mr. Beecham. She'd seen him flirting with Jane Keeler, the owner of the dry goods store, the day they all went to buy Hannah some modeling clay, and didn't feel it was proper considering he was married and all. Jane had to order the clay, and Becky scowled at her as they stood at the cash register.
"Where's Hannah?" Marian asked.
"She's out with Johnny Liberty. They were going to the library."
"Have you heard from Jane?"
"No, the hussy hasn't called."
"Oh, Becky, it was nothing. I don't know why you get yourself in such a tizzy over things like this."
"He's a married man. He has no right making eyes at Jane Keeler. Her and her short skirts."
Jane wore her dresses an inch higher than considered decent. She was in her early thirties and felt she needed an advantage over younger women if she was to find a husband before she was forty. Jane wasn't what one would call a conventional beauty. She did, however, have a certain charm that men found attractive, particularly married men, and it was rumored that Jane had been intimate with Maeve O'Conner's husband, Liam.
"I read in the newspaper that skirts may go up an inch this season," Marian said with a smile.
She always found Becky's exasperation amusing and would often goad her to see what Becky would say.
"Well, it's downright indecent, and there is no way I will ever raise my skirts."
Marian laughed.
"I might consider it one day. It would keep the hems cleaner, don't you think?"
"The men in this town would go wild. You mark my words."
"And I also read that slippers will replace button shoes."
Now Becky's face turned a bright red.
"Sodom and Gomorrah. That's what it will be around here."
Marian pressed her lips together to suppress a smile as Becky stormed off to the kitchen. As soon as the kitchen door closed, Marian ran to the parlor, buried her face in a pillow, and laughed.
Chapter 7
The Mason house on Oak Avenue was the biggest house in New Beach. Its graceful lines and Corinthian columns caught the eye of passersby, who would stand on the sidewalk and discuss the cost of building such a large residence. After all, Margaret Mason was a childless widow of fifty-five. Why did she need such a large house?
Margaret had moved to New Beach from Long Branch when her husband of thirty years, Frederick, died at the age of seventy. He had amassed a large fortune by manufacturing silk at his mill in Paterson, and when he sold the business in 1885, they moved to Long Branch so he could live out his days by the sea. Frederick was a good businessman and invested well.
Frederick only bought stocks in companies he was well acquainted with, and he was personally acquainted with Mr. Bell and Mr. Edison. He didn't believe in giving money to anyone unless he shook their hand and felt their "vibrations."
When he died, Margaret grieved, for she had truly loved her husband. There had been no children and he was all she'd had. She couldn't bear to live in the home they shared and sold it within six months of his passing. An acquaintance told her about New Beach and Margaret visited the small beach town. She fell in love with the town immediately and hired Horace Beecham to build her a house. Horace had never built anything so large, and he had to hire men from Long Branch to fulfill the contract. Horace's nephew, newly graduated from Rutgers with a degree in architecture, drew the plans for the mini-mansion, which Margaret saw as a small Roman villa nestled in the pines.
Instead of a foyer, there was a portico with a marble fountain. Goldfish swam in the pool under the fountain. The portico led into a dining room on the right, a study and a parlor on the left, and in the center, a staircase leading to the second floor. The kitchen, at the back of the house, also had a staircase to the second floor, and a staircase leading to the basement and wine cellar.
The stairs ran up the center of the portico to the second floor landing. From the second floor, Margaret could look out over a railing into the portico. Her bedroom was the first room on the right. It was the largest room on the second floor and contained a marble fireplace, ornate ceilings adorned with sculpted cupids, and paintings by relatively unknown artists Margaret had discovered such as Claude Monet. She had a private bath with a large marble tub that resembled a roman bath. The fixtures on the sink were gold, and the windows in both the bath and the bedroom were covered in silk Roman style shades that Margaret had custom made by a designer in New York City.
There were two other bedrooms with similar décor, but the ceilings were plain. The bathroom off the hallway was less ornate than her private bath, but she had also installed Roman shades on the windows. The tub had clawed feet and the sink plain, brass fixtures.
Margaret was very proud of her home and would often entertain her neighbors with quasi Roman orgies where nothing of a sexual nature took place. They were food orgies, with a huge table filled with sumptuous delights the people of New Beach had never heard of such as caviar and baklava.
The townspeople loved Margaret's parties and loved her as well, which is why they were so concerned when she allowed a tramp to stay in her carriage house. Unbeknown to her new neighbors, that is until she mentioned it to Horace Beecham, in the years before moving to New Beach, Margaret had sponsored several artists. To Margaret, the young man, Pierre Rousseau, was not only down on his luck, but a refined gentleman and artist, in need of a leg up to return to his rightful position in society.
As she sat at her dining table, Margaret sipped her tea and thought about a drawing Pierre had done. She had asked him to give her an example of his work so she, in turn, could show it to a friend in Long Branch. Someone told her of an artist colony in Point Pleasant, and she was considering renting a bungalow there during the summer months so he could be with other artists who would help him perfect his craft. She hadn't mentioned this to him yet since she hadn't decided if she wanted him to go. He was charming and a good listener, and Margaret enjoyed his company.
He had been living in the carriage house for a month. He had gained weight and looked quite handsome in his new clothes Margaret had custom-tailored for him. Most people thought she was having an affair with the younger man, but Margaret had no interest in sex anymore. She loved her husband, and was content with her life. She did not want or need the romantic attentions of a younger man. She did, however, like witty conversation and intelligent discussions about art, and Pierre was able to provide her with both.
There were French doors in the dining room that led to a side porch, and she could see Pierre talking to George, her gardener. She couldn't hear the conversation, but by the look on George's face, it wasn't congenial. Margaret liked George and didn't want to lose him, but if he couldn't get along with Pierre he would have to be replaced.
Pierre came through the French doors and smiled at Margaret. She was dressed for the day in a silk lilac bodice and skirt, and her long, brown hair had been fashioned in a Gibson Girl style by her maid, Jenny, a woman who had worked for her for twenty years. Margaret's hair was streaked with gray, and her face slightly wrinkled around her mouth and her eyes. But her blue eyes twinkled with mirth as Pierre entered the room.
"Good morning," he said.
His French accent pleased Margaret as it reminded her of the summer she spent in Paris with her husband.
"Good morning," she replied. "I saw you talking to George. Is there a problem?"
Jean-Pierre took his seat on Margaret's left-hand side.
"He thought I had trampled his roses."
"Why on Earth would he think that?"
"He is a fool. Everything that goes wrong, he blames me."
Margaret studied Pierre's face. She was no fool; she knew there was more to the story than this, but she chose to let it go.
"I spoke to John Taylor yesterday," she said.
John Taylor was the head of the school board. Margaret w
anted the board members to hire Pierre as an art teacher. She was willing to build a new classroom in the high school if they would give Pierre a job. Art wasn't being taught there, and Margaret wanted to introduce the young people of New Beach to the finer things in life.
"And what did Mr. Taylor say?"
"He said they would take it under advisement. That means they will think about it."
"They will never hire me. They all think I am a gigolo."
"Oh, I think they will hire you. They like the idea of a new classroom, and I'll make sure you have a contract so they can't just let you go once they have it."
"I am grateful for the things you've done, but this is too much," said Pierre.
"Poppycock. It's not just for you; it's for the children of this town. They need to know there is more to life than reading and writing. The world is changing."
Pierre reached out and placed his hand on hers. Margaret pulled it away. He frowned, and she smiled.
"I'd prefer you didn't touch me, Pierre. I told you at the beginning I wasn't interested in that type of relationship."
"I was just showing my gratitude," he protested.
"I know what you were doing," she said.
He looked into her eyes. She looked at him as though she could see into his soul, and her stare made him uncomfortable.
"Yes, well, I thank you for helping me."
"You're welcome. Now, we have a meeting at the school this afternoon. I want you to wear your navy blue silk suit with a tie, not a cravat, and the plain black shoes I bought you. We want to show them that you are a serious young man and despite the fact that you don't have a teaching certificate, which you will obtain in the future, of course, you are more than capable of teaching art. Bring some of your drawings with you, and maybe write something down about artists in France."
"Do you really think these bourgeois peasants will want to hire me?"
"Be careful, Pierre. These are your neighbors now. You'd better change your attitude if you want to live here."
"But surely you feel the same way about them."
"No, I don't. I rather like the people of this town, and I suggest you form an attachment to them as well. You need their approval, whether you like it or not, and if you don't get this job because you can't humble yourself, then I may have to ask you to leave my carriage house."
Hannah's Dream Page 3