by Cathy Pegau
The sun peeked from behind thick white clouds, attempting to take the chill off the damp day. August back in New York could be unbearably hot and humid. Despite its nearness to the sea, Cordova wasn’t humid at all, but it was wet. Michael had described how it could rain for days on end, and last winter’s ten feet of snow had been considered mild for the season.
He’d also warned her that the wind could be the worst part of the weather, cutting through material like an icy knife. She’d felt some of that chill last night, and Charlotte mentally inventoried the winter clothes she had brought. Perhaps she’d need to purchase more substantial garments and boots.
The clatter of cars on rails and the bite of coal fires told her the train yard was nearby. In his letters, Michael had described the area as “Old Town,” where Cordova had originally been established on the south shore of Eyak Lake. The Copper River and Northwestern Railway now provided the port town a way to accommodate national and international interests in the copper and fishing industries, and business was booming.
New buildings were going up all the time along the main streets, and beyond. There wasn’t much else down near the yard anymore, Michael had said, except an old cemetery and a patch of woods called Nirvana Park.
Here on Main Street, storefront windows glinted in weathered but well-kept buildings. Ladies, in more up-to-date fashions than Charlotte would have expected, passed her on the wooden boardwalk and smiled in greeting. Men, whether dressed in suits or the rough clothing of laborers, touched the brims of their hats as she passed.
On a closer look, however, some of the men strutting along the walkway were actually women. No one gave their trousered legs a second glance, let alone a comment. That certainly wouldn’t have been the case in most places.
Homesteaders, Charlotte figured. Or women who’d found their way here and liked the live-and-let-live lifestyle. Those were the sorts of women she wanted to interview for her articles.
But otherwise, Cordova seemed like any of the small villages she’d visited back East. There had to be something more exciting about living on the frontier than the occasional shooting or women in pants, or her articles would be lining canary cages.
Charlotte opened the door of the café, the bell above tinkling with her arrival. The aroma of coffee and cooked bacon hung in the air. Two of the half dozen tables were occupied, one by an older couple perusing the menu and the other by a lone man with bloodshot eyes and a greenish tint to his skin who nursed a cup of coffee. And perhaps a hangover. To the left stood a long counter with six empty padded stools. A tall and lanky young man—boy, really, probably no older than fifteen—came out through a pair of swinging doors at the far end of the room. Beyond the doors was the clatter and clang of a kitchen at work.
The boy flipped a small white towel over his shoulder. “Sit anywhere you’d like, miss. Can I get you a menu?”
Charlotte sat on the end stool. “Just coffee, please.”
He grabbed a white cup and saucer off an artfully arranged stack, then carefully poured out a cup from the large aluminum pot on the stove behind him and slid it in front of her.
“Cream and sugar?”
“Please.”
A covered bowl of sugar with a silver spoon sticking out was followed by a small ceramic pitcher the boy retrieved from the icebox under the counter.
“Anything else?” His brown eyes were bright and eager.
Charlotte smiled at him. “No, thank you.”
“You just call if you need anything.” He snatched the pot up and came around the counter to refill cups and take the couple’s order without writing it down, then hurried back to the kitchen calling out their request for soup.
Charlotte spooned a bit of sugar into the cup and added a dollop of cream. While she sipped the potent brew, she turned her attention to the scenery outside the window. The gap between the clothier and the tailor shop showed the blue-gray waters of Prince William Sound.
A pair of women passed the window. One glanced in, catching Charlotte’s gaze. Marie, the woman from last night, stopped, said a word or two to her companion, and entered the café. The door chime sounded.
“Miss Brody,” she said breathlessly, “I’m sorry to disturb your refreshment.”
Charlotte set her cup down. “No, it’s quite all right. Will you join me?”
Marie stepped closer, shaking her head. She was dressed in a modest skirt and blouse, her coat hem falling past her hips. Sturdy boots covered her feet, very unlike the shoes she’d worn last night. “No, thanks. I just wondered if you’d do me a small favor. I know we’ve just met and all, and you have no cause to, but it’s not for me.”
The girl—for in the light of day and with her face unpainted, she seemed hardly more than that—wrung her hands together. Worry lined her smooth brow.
“It’s your friend, Darcy, isn’t it?” Charlotte surmised. “Has she gotten worse?”
The waiter pushed through the doors. “Hey, Marie. You having a bite?”
She waved him off. “Not today, Henry. I’m just talking to Miss Brody for a second.” Henry shrugged and returned to the kitchen. “Please,” Marie said to Charlotte, “could you ask your brother to come today? Darcy was barely able to get up this morning, she was so sick. Brigit’s madder than a wet hen at being short a girl, especially on weekends.”
Charlotte was no doctor, but whatever was ailing the poor girl sounded serious. Why was Michael reluctant to check on her? “I’m going to see him shortly and will make sure he goes. I’ll drag him there myself if I have to.”
Marie clutched Charlotte’s sleeve, her relief clear. “Oh, thank you so much, Miss Brody. I’m obliged.”
“Happy to help, and please, call me Charlotte.”
The girl’s face broke into a smile, making her look even younger. “Charlotte. I have to get back to my errands. Thank you.”
She darted back out to join the other woman who had stayed on the walk.
Henry came out of the kitchen again, carrying two bowls of soup. He served the couple, then came over to Charlotte. “Refill, miss? They’re free.”
Charlotte finished her coffee, then slid the cup and saucer away. “No, thank you.”
She dug a dime and a nickel out of her purse and laid them beside the dishware.
Henry’s eyes widened. “That’s way too much, miss. Coffee’s only a dime.”
She stood, smiling at him. “The coffee was quite good, and the service impeccable. Thank you, Henry.”
The boy’s cheeks pinked. “Thank you, Miss Brody.”
Charlotte left the café, sure she’d be able to talk to Henry about real life on the frontier and the people who inhabited it. Finding sources of information was hard enough, but being new in town meant she’d need all the help she could get. People tended to talk around servers and those in similar humble positions, forgetting they had ears. And mouths.
A salt-and-coal-tinged breeze blew in from the south, accompanied by the rumble of a steam engine. The black trail of smoke puffed westward, toward the docks. She caught a glimpse of freight cars between the buildings and through the trees, carrying ore from the copper mines far north of Cordova. The train carried passengers as well, and Charlotte made a mental note to book passage to view the glaciers along the route.
She turned east, toward Michael’s home and office. There was his sign, MICHAEL C. BRODY, MD, at the end of the street across from the three-story federal building that held the post office and the U.S. marshal’s office. Charlotte wondered if Deputy Eddington was inside. Remembering the rude awakening that morning, she felt heat rise on her cheeks. She hoped the deputy would forget seeing her in only a cotton nightgown during that introduction.
Charlotte climbed the stone step to Michael’s front door. A window on the right showed a narrow view of his office through floral curtains; the one on the left was covered by a heavy shutter. She opened the door and stepped inside. A battered desk and bookshelves were tucked into the far right corner along with a p
lain wooden chair. Two more chairs sat on the opposite side of the desk. Cabinets along the walls held bottles and medical supplies. The interior door across from the outer door was slightly ajar. Voices murmured from beyond it.
Not wishing to disturb Michael and his patient, Charlotte closed the door and sat in one of the wooden chairs. She couldn’t understand what they were saying, and she wasn’t trying to be nosy, but the person talking to him sounded like a woman. Occupational hazard of being a journalist, eavesdropping on conversations. Charlotte picked up a thick book on the desk and skimmed pages as a distraction from the voices in the other room.
After a few moments, the inner door swung open. Charlotte looked up, meeting the eye of a petite blonde adjusting her hat. The other woman smiled and strode toward her with purpose.
“You must be Charlotte. You look just like your picture. Michael’s told me all about you.” She stuck out her gloved hand. “I’m Ruth.”
Charlotte rose and grasped Ruth’s hand. She glanced at Michael, who stood behind her. He winced, apologetic. Obviously Ruth was aware of Charlotte, but he’d never mentioned Ruth in his letters home.
“So very nice to finally meet you,” Charlotte said. She’d covered for her brother more than once. “Michael’s writings didn’t do you justice.”
Ruth blushed and looked over her shoulder at him, beaming. “He’s such a dear.” She returned her gaze to Charlotte. “We must get to know each other now that you’re here. Oh! Do say you’ll be at the mayor’s dinner tomorrow night. It’ll be the party of the year.”
Michael laid his hands on her shoulders. “Charlotte’s only just arrived and likely hasn’t unpacked. She may be too—”
“I’d love to,” Charlotte said, grinning as widely as Ruth, but not for the same reason. Michael narrowed his gaze, knowing Charlotte had accepted the invitation just to irritate him. “I’ll see what I have to wear.”
Ruth squeezed Charlotte’s fingers and gave a small squeal of delight. “Wonderful. If you need to borrow something, just let me know. The Windsor is such a lovely venue when it’s done up.” She released Charlotte’s hand and pecked Michael on the cheek. Charlotte barely managed to stifle her surprise. Who was this young woman kissing her brother? “I’ll let you two have your lunch. Mother and Father are expecting me back shortly.”
Ruth pulled on leather gloves as she strode to the door, waved, still smiling, and left.
Michael sighed and slumped into his chair behind the desk. “You just had to accept the invitation, didn’t you?”
“Well, you obviously weren’t going to tell me about it, let alone invite me, so yes.” Charlotte took her seat again. “Who is she?”
He avoided Charlotte’s gaze for a while, rearranging the items on the desk. Charlotte settled back into the uncomfortable chair and crossed her arms. She wasn’t so hungry that she couldn’t wait him out. Finally, he looked up at her and rolled his eyes in resignation.
“Her name is Ruth Bartlett. Her father is the Reverend Samuel Bartlett, pastor of the Lutheran church.”
Charlotte stared at him. “And?”
She was sure there was an “and” in that statement.
Michael fidgeted. He straightened his straight tie and slicked back his neat hair. “And she is to be my wife.”
Shock brought Charlotte to her feet. “Your wife? You never mentioned anything about her. Not a word. When were you going to tell Mother and Father? When were you going to tell me?”
It hurt that he’d kept such an important part of his life from the family. From her. When had things gone awry? While Michael was in medical school? During his disturbing tenure at the hospital? Since her own life had taken a path she’d been too ashamed to discuss with him?
Charlotte winced, mourning the loss of their childhood relationship, of their innocence.
Michael stood and began pacing the small space. “I was trying to find the proper way to explain it. It’s happened rather suddenly. And I’m telling you now.”
“Only because I stumbled in on you. This sort of thing is to be shared and celebrated, not hidden away.” That was how more upsetting incidents were to be handled. Her train of thought went directly to that conclusion. “Is she pregnant?”
Michael’s mouth dropped open, as if he were shocked she even knew the word. “What? No, of course not. She’s a good girl.”
Charlotte’s chest tightened, and her stomach knotted. A good girl. Of course she was.
“I wanted to tell you,” he continued, “but I knew Mother and Father would have a fit if I told them I was engaged before they could investigate her family.”
True enough. The Brodys were progressives, to a point. They’d been incensed with Charlotte’s decision to become a journalist who wrote about feminism, equality, and unfair labor practices. Not because they didn’t support the ideas, but because of the negative—and potentially dangerous—focus on Charlotte and the family. To appease them, Charlotte sometimes used a pseudonym for her more controversial articles. But anything that threatened Claxton Brody’s business enterprises or punched holes in the moral fiber Frances Brody had woven was to be avoided.
Both she and Michael knew the ramifications of displeasing their parents. The elder Brodys, particularly Father, had a long memory for slights and insults. Marrying the “wrong person,” or other indiscretions, qualified as such.
“You won’t tell them, will you?” The worry in his eyes, the fear she’d tattle, hurt her worse than his keeping Ruth a secret. Neither of them had been saints, and they’d protected each other from parental wrath on many occasions. This time would be no different.
She came around the desk and grasped his cold hands. “It’s not my place to tell them, and I’d never go behind your back like that.”
Michael’s cheeks pinked. “I’m sorry. I should trust that you’d keep it to yourself.” He gave her a wry grin. “And force me to hold my own feet to the fire.”
They both laughed.
“Come on,” Charlotte said, tugging his hand. “I want to hear all about this woman who’s joining the family.”
Michael grabbed his mackinaw off the coatrack behind the door. “She really is a great girl. I think you’ll like her.”
Charlotte gave his arm a squeeze and smiled at him. “I’m sure I will. By the way, I haven’t had breakfast, so be prepared to lavish me at luncheon.”
On their way out of the restaurant, Charlotte took Michael’s arm. “Thank you. That was the most delicious salmon I’ve ever had. Do you always eat that well?”
The afternoon had cleared somewhat, with patches of pale blue peeking through the clouds, though it wasn’t quite warm enough to leave their coats open. A “sucker hole,” she’d heard another lunch patron call it—a temporary break in the foul weather that made you think it was over.
Michael’s eyes were half closed, his face angled toward the sun. “I wish. No, I figured I’d treat you to a decent first meal. After this, you’re on your own.”
“I can cook for both of us, you know.”
He gave her a sideways, dubious look. “When did you learn to cook?”
“Mrs. Cameron taught me at the end of last summer, when I stayed with Kit.” The moment she said it, Charlotte tensed. Kit’s mother had given her tips and lessons, keeping Charlotte’s mind off her “love woes,” as Kit had referred to them in the presence of her parents. Mrs. Cameron hadn’t pressed for details, but Charlotte suspected the older woman knew the real reason behind her extended visit.
She hadn’t meant to bring up last summer to Michael. Skimming over reality and creating details for letters was one thing. If he asked her about it, she’d have to lie some more.
“So I’m guessing you can now boil water and fry an egg?” he asked.
Charlotte laughed, covering her slip of the tongue. “Funny, but I’ll have you know I’m quite the cook. It’ll save us both money, and you won’t have to worry about dinner or lunch during your hectic days.”
“The selection he
re is somewhat limited.”
She shrugged. “So it won’t be exciting food. We won’t starve.”
“And I often trade services for game or fish.” His eyebrow quirked upward. “Can you manage that?”
“Not a problem.” Charlotte wasn’t quite sure what sort of “managing” would be required, but she wouldn’t balk now. “What do you say? You provide the food, and I’ll prepare it.”
After a moment’s hesitation, he grinned and gave a nod. “All right. We can work out a list for McGruder’s later.”
They walked on, and Charlotte breathed in the salty, low-tide-scented air. In the distance, a steam whistle announced the train’s approach to town from the north. A pleasant late summer day, for the far north.
“I stopped in at the café before coming to your office,” she said as they turned the corner toward the rooming house.
“Decent place. Don’t eat the soup on Fridays.”
“Thanks for the warning. I spoke to Marie while I had my coffee.”
His eyebrows drew together. “She asked about Darcy again, didn’t she?”
Charlotte moved aside to allow two racing boys to thunder past them on the boardwalk. “She’s worried. I told her I’d talk to you. Will you please go see Darcy today?”
“Yes, I will,” he said after a moment. “I’m sure the girl is merely suffering from some minor affliction. Perhaps a cold or a touch of exhaustion. They tend to overdo it, staying up during the longer days of summer, and not realizing how late it is.”
Charlotte had little issue with ladies of the evening plying their trade, but that didn’t mean she wanted to dwell on what “overdoing it” meant. “Thank you. I’m sure it’s nothing, but Marie was very agitated earlier.”
“Marie is a kind soul, and she and Darcy are close.”
They stepped onto the Main Street walk and came face-to-face with Deputy Eddington. The three of them stopped just short of bumping into each other, surprised expressions all around.