Thomas blinked in surprise, and she chuckled again. “I’m rather interested in his cases, so he tells me about them. He’s the cleverest doctor this side of the Mississippi, and his stories are fascinating. Why, there was this one time where a man had broken his knuckle—”
Dr. Gideon cleared his throat as he came back in the room, and his wife turned a shade of red. “I’m sorry. I’ll bring out those pancakes now.” She bustled back the way she’d come.
The doctor smiled as he took a seat. “I married a gem. Few women would be able to tolerate what I do, let alone want to hear about it. She’s a good support to me.”
“Yes, I can see that. She’s very kind, too.”
“That she is.”
And an excellent cook, as Thomas found out a moment later when he tasted her pancakes. It was awkward to eat with his left hand, but neither the doctor nor his wife seemed to be paying any attention to his table manners at all. He imagined they’d seen much worse, but that didn’t keep him from feeling ashamed.
Chapter Three
Tabitha took a deep breath as she stepped into the post office. Here she was again—back behind the desk where she used to work. Just as with the house, everything was exactly the same, even down to the placement of the pen on the counter. She wondered what would happen if she were to move that pen. Would Clara be struck with a fit of apoplexy? Would lightning come down from the sky and set the post office on fire?
Clara bustled in just then, and Tabitha startled. She was grateful no one could read her thoughts.
“Guess you remember how we do things,” Clara said as she walked over and unlocked the front door. “Same as always—nothing’s changed.”
“I remember quite a bit, and I’m sure the rest will come back to me,” Tabitha replied.
“Good. Herbert’s feeling poorly this morning, so I’ll be taking the mail to the train. You see to the office while I’m gone.”
“I will. I hope he’s all right.”
Clara lifted a shoulder. “Too much pie at dinner, I suppose. You get to work sorting that bunch.”
Tabitha lifted the sack from the day before onto the counter and began organizing it. As she read the names on the fronts of the envelopes, she smiled. So many of these people were friends of hers—it was good to see that they still lived here, and it would be even better to see them when they came in to collect their letters. They were what made living here tolerable.
“Well, there you are, right where you belong,” Mrs. Smith gushed as she stepped inside the building. “Why, it’s just like old times. Now I feel like the world can keep spinning.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Smith,” Tabitha said, smiling at the woman’s effusiveness. “How are you today?”
“Much better, now that I’ve seen you. I went home yesterday and said to my husband, ‘Mr. Smith, I believe my eyes were playing tricks on me just now. I saw Tabitha at the train station.’ So I had to come in and make sure I hadn’t dreamed it all up.”
“Here I am, in the flesh,” Tabitha replied.
“Indeed you are, and I couldn’t be more thrilled! Now, let’s see. I need to mail this letter.” She fished in her bag and pulled out an envelope. “I need to mail another one too, but it’s not written yet, and it’s very hard to mail a letter when it hasn’t even been written yet, don’t you think?” She gave a little giggle.
“It is.” Tabitha took the envelope and Mrs. Smith’s proffered coin. “What else can I do for you today?”
“Nothing, dear. But be looking for me tomorrow. I’m going to finish that letter even if it takes me all night to write it. You know, it’s much more pleasant corresponding with people when they’re people you actually want to talk to.”
Tabitha chuckled. “Why are you writing to people you don’t want to talk to?”
“It’s polite, dear. And we must never forget that being polite is the most important thing in the whole entire world.” She rolled her eyes as she said this, and Tabitha chuckled again.
“I promise to remember that.”
After Mrs. Smith left, Tabitha put the mail under the counter in stacks, categorized so she could find everything easily. Then she grabbed a cloth and began to dust—not that there was any dust in the entire building, but she needed something to do. This was one of the things she’d disliked about working at the post office—once everything was sorted, if no one came in, the hours could be hard to fill.
“Well now, if it isn’t Tabitha.”
She knew even without turning to look who had just come in. Darcy Hamilton, arguably the prettiest girl in town, and definitely the most conceited. Tabitha set down her rag and smiled, reminding herself of her vow to stay happy. “Hello, Darcy. It’s good to see you.”
“Is it? I was just trying to decide.” Darcy lifted an eyebrow and glanced around. “It’s been, what, two years since you left? You had all those big dreams about making it on your own—I’m so sorry it didn’t work out.”
“It was a disappointment.” Tabitha wanted to explain how it had been out of her control—that she’d been doing just fine until the fire—but she knew that nothing she said would make any difference to Darcy. That girl had a competitive streak in her so wide, you almost couldn’t see across it.
“Well, now you’re back safe and sound.” Darcy placed a letter on the counter. “I’d like to mail this, please. My beau is off in New York going to medical school, and I write him faithfully every other Sunday. It’s so lonely, studying to become a doctor. Of course, once he’s trained, he’ll have all the attention he could ever want.” She gave a light, vacuous titter, but Tabitha knew there was iron behind the words.
“Medicine is a good profession.” Tabitha accepted payment for the stamp and tucked the letter away.
“I guess I’ll be seeing you at the festival.” Darcy wiggled her fingers and left, the door closing firmly behind her.
And that was the main reason Tabitha had left Atwater. Not just because of one thoughtless girl—no, she was stronger than that. It was the whole collection of thoughtless girls, combined with her family members. If everyone was like Mrs. Smith—accepting of all—she would have been happy here. Granted, an entire town full of Mrs. Smiths would be a challenging place to live, but at least it would be entertaining.
A few minutes later, Clara returned with the day’s mail, and looked over the letters in the outgoing pile. “I’m going to make Herbert some tea. You all right here?”
“It’s been very quiet. Please do whatever you need—I’ll be fine.”
Clara nodded once and stepped into the kitchen while Tabitha pulled out the first set of letters that had just come in.
The door opened with a chime of the bell, and Tabitha glanced up. “I’ll be right with you.” Then she stopped and looked again, wondering if her eyes were playing tricks on her. No, it really was the young man from the train station the day before. Suddenly, she forgot what to do with her hands and how to speak. “Good afternoon,” she said at last, noticing how high and squeaky her voice had become. Gracious, she sounded like a mouse.
“Well, hello again,” he replied. “I didn’t know you worked here.”
“I do. As of this morning. May I help you?”
“I certainly hope so.” He held up his right hand, which was encased in bandages. They looked hard and uncomfortable. “Seems I broke some fingers this morning.”
Her heart gave a sympathetic tug at the sight. “Oh, no. That must have been painful.” Thank goodness, her voice didn’t sound so strained that time. “What can I do for you?”
“I need to write a letter, but I can’t write.” He chuckled, holding up his hand again. “I wondered if you could possibly do it for me—if I tell you what to say.”
“Well, I don’t know if that’s something a post office employee is allowed to do.” Tabitha pressed her lips together. She wanted to help him, but she didn’t know if she could get in trouble for it. There were laws to protect the privacy of the mail—did she have the right to know
what his letter said? But then, he’d asked for her help—she wasn’t interfering where she wasn’t wanted. She brushed off the thought to go ask Clara for permission. “Yes, all right,” she said after battling it out. “Just let me get some paper.”
“Thank you.” He smiled and rested his elbows on the counter while he waited. Even the way he leaned was charming, and Tabitha swallowed again.
Once she had the paper and pen ready, she asked, “What would you like to say?”
His face took on a dreamy look. “‘My dearest Ivy.’” Then he paused. “Is that too forward? Should I use something a little less . . . forward?”
Tabitha smiled. “How well do you know her?”
“We’re engaged.”
At that, her heart fell to the floor. She should have guessed, from the word “dearest,” that this wasn’t a casual acquaintance, but still, it was disappointing. She’d hoped that maybe he was writing to his sister. “If you’re engaged, I imagine you can use whatever terms of endearment you like. What do you call her when you’re together?”
“That’s the thing. We’re engaged, but we’ve never actually met.”
Tabitha blinked a few times. “I’m sorry—how is that possible, exactly?”
He grinned. “I placed an advertisement for a mail-order bride a few months ago, and she answered.”
Why was everyone in the world suddenly interested in marriage by mail? Tabitha shook her head before she could stop herself.
“What’s the matter? Don’t you approve of courting through correspondence?”
“It’s . . . it’s not that,” she answered, trying to find a suitable response. “I just find it ironic—several of my friends recently decided to become mail-order brides.”
“How recently? I’m not corresponding with one of them, am I? That would be quite the coincidence—but you could tell me all kinds of little secrets about her.” He grinned again, making this all the harder for her. Engaged men should not have such nice teeth. Or dimples.
“It was about a week ago, and I have no friends named Ivy. I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to help you with those secrets.” Helping him with the letter would be hard enough. “All right, I have ‘My dearest Ivy.’ What would you like to say next?”
He absently knocked on his cast while he thought. “‘You’ve been on my mind quite a bit lately as I’ve watched the schoolchildren here at Atwater scurry off to class, their books tucked under their arms, an apple in their hands for the teacher. The fall leaves are turning even as we speak, creating a landscape of glorious gold and red. I wish you were here to see it with me.’”
Tabitha had written the first few words, but then her hand stopped as she listened. This man was a storyteller, not at all what she had expected from his rough clothes and casual demeanor.
“Did I say something wrong? Should I change it?” he asked, and she blinked.
“Oh, no. In fact, it was quite lovely. I just fell behind. Forgive me.” She quickly wrote out the rest of what he’d said as best as she could remember it, too embarrassed to ask him to repeat himself. “All right. I’m ready for more.”
“‘I’m sure you’ve noticed the unfamiliar handwriting. I had an accident this morning at the lumber mill, and broke some fingers on my right hand. A nice young lady at the post office is writing this on my behalf.’” He paused again. “I never asked your name.”
“Tabitha. Tabitha Phillips,” she replied.
“I’m Thomas Scott. I’d take your hand, but I’m afraid that would be painful. Probably for both of us.” He grinned again, which he really needed to stop doing. “I appreciate your help, Miss Phillips.”
“I’m glad to be of use. What would you like to say next?” It was best to remain as impersonal as possible. If she let herself become friends with him, it would be even more difficult to ignore the way her heart beat faster when he leaned across the counter to see what she had written so far.
“Let’s see. How about, ‘With all your responsibilities, I understand why you haven’t written of late. I imagine that by the time you’re done grading your students’ papers, the last thing you want is to write one more word. I did enjoy hearing about your hometown and your summer adventures, though, and would like to hear more about them when you get the chance.’”
Tabitha wrote all that down, then asked, “It’s been a while since you heard from her, then?”
“Yes. She’s so busy, though—I can’t blame her. And what can I say—I’m a patient fellow.” He fished in his pocket with his left hand and pulled out a photograph. “Isn’t she worth waiting for?”
Tabitha took the picture from his outstretched fingers. The girl was pretty—there was no denying that. She had long golden ringlets piled high on her head, a few tumbling down artistically, and she was posed next to a trellis of flowers. Her dress was beautiful, flounced and ruffled and beribboned all the way down to her feet. Yes, she certainly was lovely.
“I can see why you’re so besotted,” Tabitha said at last, passing the picture back to its rightful owner. She glanced down at her own plain dress and apron, feeling just a little jealous. Odd, because she’d never been the jealous type. “What shall we say next?”
“‘I just showed the postal worker your picture, and she agrees that you’re lovely.”’
“Oh, no,” Tabitha protested. “Don’t involve me in this.”
“Why not? Doesn’t every girl want as many compliments as she can get?”
“It’s nice when people think we’re pretty, but I don’t think we need to know what every stranger in the world thinks. Come now, let’s finish this the right way.”
Mr. Scott seemed amused at her outburst. “Oh, all right, then. ‘I don’t mean to pressure you, but I’d very much like to know when you plan to come to Atwater. My home isn’t large, but it’s clean and well maintained, and it’s standing ready for you. Just say the word, and all the final arrangements will be made. I’m looking forward to welcoming you here and showing you all the beautiful things Missouri has to offer.’”
“And how would you like to sign it?” Tabitha asked when he fell silent.
“That’s just the thing. I don’t know.”
Tabitha shook her head. “Is this like trying to decide how to start the letter?”
“That’s it exactly. Do I say ‘love’? That seems premature. ‘Sincerely’ feels like a business letter. ‘Regards’ feels as though I’m writing to my grandmother. What do you recommend?”
‘Well, to be honest, I’ve never written a romantic letter before. I’m not sure I’m the best one to ask.”
Mr. Scott looked at her with amazement. “You’ve never written a romantic letter before? How is that possible?”
Heat rose to Tabitha’s cheeks. “I’ve never had anyone to write to.”
“Oh, come now. You must have had dozens of suitors.”
Everything came back to that, didn’t it? She’d have to introduce Mr. Scott to Mrs. Smith. She imagined they’d get along famously. “I’ve been approached by several young men for courtship, if that’s what you mean, but none of them were a good fit for me. Now, I don’t recall this conversation being about me. We’re writing to Miss Ivy, aren’t we?”
“Yes, yes, that’s right. We’re trying to finish this letter up properly. How about, ‘Warmest thoughts.’ Does that work?”
Tabitha smiled. “I think that works very well.” She penned the closing, then passed the paper over to him. “You should at least sign it with some sort of scrawl, even if it’s with your left hand.”
Mr. Scott shook his head. “You just want to see me make a fool of myself, don’t you?”
“No, not at all. I’m just trying to make this letter a little more personal.”
“Oh, all right. If you insist.” He picked up the pen with his left hand and attempted a scribble at the bottom. “I hope she knows that’s my attempt at a signature and that I didn’t drop the pen across the paper.”
“I can tell that’s your name,” Tabit
ha said.
She took Ivy’s address, then placed a stamp in the upper right corner. “I believe we’re all set to go,” she said after tucking the letter into the outgoing mail pile. “Is there anything else you need, Mr. Scott?”
“No, I believe that’s all. For today, at least.” He ran a finger under the edge of his cast, and Tabitha wondered if it was bothering him. “The doctor says I can’t use this hand for a while. Do you mind if I come back? You’ve been so kind, I hate to intrude, but you’re the only one I can ask for help. Hoss would never understand.”
“And who’s Hoss?” Tabitha asked, although from the name alone, she could make some guesses as to the man’s appearance and character.
“He’s my closest friend at the lumber bill. He’s a good fellow, but he’d never let up teasing me if I asked for his help with something like this.”
“Then yes, I’d be glad to help.” Tabitha paused, toying with the end of the pen. “I’m curious, though. You say you haven’t heard from her for a while, but you’d like help to write her again. You’ll write her even if she doesn’t respond?”
Mr. Scott lifted a shoulder. “I just want her to know I’m thinking of her, even if she doesn’t have time to think of me.”
Tabitha’s heart couldn’t take much more of this. She’d never heard anything so sweet. “Well, I guess I’ll see you in a few days, then,” she replied, making a show of gathering up some papers to be organized. In truth, they were all blank, but he didn’t need to know that.
“Thanks again, Miss Phillips,” he said with a touch of his cap, and then he was gone.
Tabitha leaned against the counter and watched him walk down the street, stepping out of the way to avoid colliding with a woman pushing a baby carriage. He gave her a slight bow before continuing on his way, and Tabitha sighed.
Then she straightened and shook her head. She was behaving in a ridiculous fashion. She was far too old for this kind of girlish swooning, and he was engaged besides. Thomas Scott was a postal customer, and that was all.
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