Brides of Virginia

by Hake, Cathy Marie

  The woman kept her hands on the boy and looked up at Garret. “Indeed, it is, but the post office is still in the corner. Imagine how hard it would have been to move all of the metal mailboxes and counter!”

  The little boy giggled. “And the bars on the window. Daddy let me pull on the bars on his window at the bank. No one could ever move a window made of bars.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.” Garret glanced about the store, then grinned apologetically back at the mother and son. “Mr. Deeter has the post office shipshape. Wish I could say the same thing about the rest of the place.”

  “Prentice, there are boxes on the floor in this aisle. Let’s go around to the far wall. We can play a game of draughts while we wait.”

  Garret took a closer look and noticed the boy had a problem with his eyes. The woman managed to guide him around the dangers. “I could hold the letter for you and give it to Mr. Deeter when he returns.”

  She smiled. “Why, thank you. I’d appreciate that.” She handed him the letter and reached into the pocket of her apron to find her money.

  Garret frowned. Her letter was addressed to Sears, Roebuck and Co. in a flowing, elegant script.

  “You mightn’t need to order things, ma’am. I have fresh stock arriving tomorrow. Saturday will be the grand opening.”

  “Thank you, but Prentice and I read all of the descriptions in the catalog and decided on one particular item.”

  Not one to dissemble, Garret still felt it reasonable to state his case. “I realize the emporium has fallen into disrepair and may not have met your needs. Those times are past. I’ve bought the place and plan to make it a going concern and serve Buttonhole’s every need. If the article you wish is of a personal nature, I guarantee I’m a man of discretion.”

  “I appreciate your assurances, Mr. Diamond. Prentice and I have made our choice.”

  He inclined his head. “As you will.”

  The little boy tugged on her skirts. “I’m not going to get to lick the stamp now, am I?”

  “I suppose not.”

  Garret smiled at the boy’s wide, toothless mouth. “Looks like you would have done a fine job. Not many teeth in the way of your tongue.” He snapped his fingers. “You know, I think I remember having a stamp. Let me check.”

  A few minutes later, he found his stamp book. “Aha! Just as I recalled. I have one last first-class stamp.”

  “Thank you for checking.” The woman handed him two battered pennies.

  “I lost my teeth today.” Prentice diligently licked the stamp and stuck it in the corner of the envelope. His mother had stooped to hold it for him, and Garret noted how she made subtle allowances for her boy’s vision problems, yet honored his independence. Prentice had her light hair, but he otherwise must have taken after his father. His mother’s features were too finely chiseled, her form far slighter in build.

  “I’ve been busy, so I haven’t had an opportunity to meet anyone in town yet. Where do you folks live, and what does your husband do?”

  Prentice giggled. “Miss Rose doesn’t have no husband.”

  “My apologies,” Miss Masterson interjected in a laughter-filled voice as she straightened up. “I should have thought to be more forthright. I moved to Buttonhole two years ago and went through the same confusion, so I understand precisely what lies ahead for you. I’m a spinster and live down the street and around the corner.”

  “The house with the tip-tilty fence,” Prentice added.

  “Prentice and his father live across the street from me. His father is Hugo Lassiter, the bank teller.”

  Garret nodded. Miss Masterson had done him the kindness of subtly letting it be known that Prentice had no mother. No doubt, she minded the boy. Lucky kid. She has a ready smile and a gentle heart. Odd that she seems so blithe about being a spinster. Any other woman would be embarrassed or coy, but she seems content as can be.

  “We ought to leave and allow Mr. Diamond to get back to his tasks.” Miss Masterson set the envelope by the postal window. She took hold of Prentice’s hand.

  “You promised I could see Tom.”

  “Yes, I did.” She looked up at Garret and explained, “You have a mouser named Tom who likes to sleep under the back porch steps. Would you mind if we exited from the storeroom?”

  “I’ll need to assist you.” Garret lifted Prentice onto his shoulders. “I have discards piled by the back door.” He offered his arm to Miss Masterson and led her through his store.

  She halted and gasped when they got past the curtain that led to the storeroom. “Mr. Diamond, surely you cannot mean to waste all of these things!”

  “I’m not disposing of all of it. Much of it is out of season, so I’m hauling it up to the attic.” He frowned at several bolts of fabric. “Between the sun and the mice, those yard goods are ruined. The lids are bulging on those jars, and I won’t sell anything that I think is spoiled or might make a customer sick.”

  Miss Masterson squeezed by him, opened the back door, and tugged Prentice free. She set him down and ordered, “Go see Tom Cat.” After the boy left, she turned back. “Mr. Diamond, Cordelia Orrick is a widow with three little girls. She lives in the green cottage at the far east end of Main Street. If you cut the first few yards off of those bolts, the fading problem is gone, and Cordelia is resourceful enough to work around the other parts. I’m sure she’d find the flannel particularly useful. As for the jars—if you empty them, I’ll wash them. They can be filled with soup for shut-ins.”

  Garret leaned against a shelf and looked at the piles of junk. “A widow shouldn’t have to mess with mouse nibbles.”

  “Ruth and Naomi gleaned.” She smiled. “I have no doubt they ran into a few field mice.”

  Garret frowned. “Sharing the field with mice is to be expected; sharing flannel isn’t.”

  Miss Masterson let her gaze wander about the storeroom. “Cordelia is a hard worker. You said you have stock arriving on the morrow. I’m not one to tell you how to run your business, but I’m willing to mind her daughters for the day if it would help.” Before he could reply, she sashayed out of his store and collected Prentice.

  Garret watched Rose Masterson wander down the street. He had the odd feeling she was completely unaware she’d left home without a hat. She’d worn dainty lace gloves, but she had a smear across her apron that looked suspiciously like jam. It matched the level of Prentice’s mouth, a fact that Garret found charming. If the rest of the town were half as delightful, he’d settle in quite happily.

  Chapter 2

  Your emporium looks wonderful, Mr. Diamond.”

  “Thank you, Miss Masterson.” The store owner tucked a pencil behind his ear. “You deserve part of the credit for its condition. You recommended Mrs. Orrick and watched her daughters after school yesterday. She was a tremendous help. I doubt I’d have gotten everything ready in time without her assistance.”

  “I did nothing; Cordelia is industrious as a bee. Bee—oh, that reminds me. I need honey.”

  “I’ll be happy to get some for you.”

  “Piffle. I’m going to enjoy wandering about. I’ll discover where you’re keeping it.” Rose turned away and sauntered through the mercantile. She hadn’t voiced empty praise. The place shone. In the two years she’d lived here, Buttonhole’s only dry goods store had been pathetically under-stocked and dingy. The change was startling.

  Rose finished scanning all of the shelves and displays, then set her wicker basket on the counter. She’d purposefully waited until the end of the day. From the steady stream of folks who’d gone by her street all day, she’d surmised the mercantile’s opening had, indeed, been a grand one. Plenty of small tasks had kept her busy, and she’d been just as glad to tend to them and avoid the crowds. “Since the store’s been closed a few days, I guess most of the townsfolk were happy to come by.”

  “It’s been a pleasure to meet my new neighbors.” Garret Diamond looked down at the meager contents of the basket she’d brought, then back at her. “Were
there other things you required? I’m happy to deliver the order to your home so you don’t have to carry it.”

  “You’re so very kind to make the offer, but I have what I need.”

  He looked at the box of shredded and spindled wheat breakfast biscuits. “I’m carrying a new product. It’s a ready-made breakfast cereal with a far more pleasant flavor and texture. C. W. Post calls it Grape-Nuts, but it’s actually a wheat cereal, too.”

  “I already have Cream of Wheat at home, thank you.”

  He nodded. “I had some of that for my own breakfast this morning. I confess, I have a decided weakness for adding raisins to it.”

  Rose smiled and lifted the single banana out of her basket. “Brown sugar is my usual, but when they’re available, I prefer sliced bananas in mine.”

  “Ah, and the very last one, I’m afraid. I’ll be sure to keep them in stock. They’ve become quite the thing, haven’t they?”

  She set it down and remembered softly, “I had my very first one at the Philadelphia Centennial.”

  “I didn’t have the pleasure of going to the centennial, but I went to the Chicago World’s Fair. I count it one of the great adventures of my life.”

  “Oh my! Did you ride on the Ferris wheel?”

  He nodded. “Fifty cents to rotate on it twice. A shameful extravagance, but I don’t regret it at all.” He patted the counter next to her banana. “But I didn’t have one of these there. Did you see the oranges I have in the crate over by the apples? They’re fresh from California. Train brought them straight through.”

  “I’m sure they’re pure extravagances, too, Mr. Diamond, but my own trees are laden with a variety of other fruits, and I’m already going to be busy trying to preserve their bounty.”

  He propped both elbows on the counter and leaned toward her. “Perhaps I could tempt you to buy some sugar, paraffin, or canning jars?”

  Rose burst out laughing. “I suppose I could use a loaf of sugar.”

  “Ah, but I don’t just carry loaf or cone sugar, Miss Masterson. I have granulated sugar by the bag—so much more convenient, don’t you think?”

  “Buttonhole is going to be spoiled by the fancy goods you’re importing.”

  He winked. “I certainly hope so. The sacks it comes in are double thickness, so you’ll end up with a useful swatch of fabric.”

  Lula Mae Evert had toddled over to hear about the sugar. She reached up to primp her mousy brown marcel waves into place, then patted Rose on the arm. “Useful. Now there’s a clever salesman. He already figured out the perfect word to hook you into making a purchase.” She turned her attention to the storekeeper. “Rose, you’ll soon discover, is the most practical woman the dear Lord ever created.”

  “Now that is high praise, indeed.”

  Rose felt a flush of warmth over those words, because that closely matched her prayer. Each morning, she asked the Lord, “Make me a blessing to someone in Your name today.” It wasn’t pride—it was her calling. God had been faithful in opening her eyes to places where she could be His servant.

  “Five pounds or ten of that sugar, Miss Masterson?”

  The man had an almost playful air about him that could charm even the grumpiest old crone. Rose drummed her fingers on the counter. “Why, Mr. Diamond, I’m shocked. You don’t have it in twenty-five-pound sacks?”

  “I do, but I’m afraid if I tried to sell it to you, picnic ants might carry you off.”

  She smiled at the outrageous picture his words painted. “Very well. I’ll take ten pounds since I’m starting to can fruits. If you have any more of the bags with the tulips on them like you sold to Mrs. Sowell, I’d like that print, please.”

  It didn’t take Mr. Diamond long to tally up her order. The man was quick with ciphering but accurate. He settled each item back into her wicker basket with care to keep it balanced—something most men wouldn’t have thought to do. Rose tucked that fact away in the back of her mind. Mr. Diamond was not only clever and conscientious; he was also thoughtful.

  As if he could tell what she was thinking, he turned the basket toward her and pushed the sugar off to the side. “I’ll bring that sugar by after closing. It’s too heavy for a lovely lady to carry.”

  Lula Mae Evert giggled. “Rose is strong as an ox, Mr. Diamond.”

  Rose gave him exact change and lifted her basket, then hefted the ten-pound bag of sugar—in the tulip print, as requested. “I’m quite capable. I thank you for your offer. I do hope many of your customers have thought to extend an invitation to church tomorrow.”

  “A few have.”

  Lula Mae lit up like a Fourth of July sparkler. “Well, of course you’ll come, Mr. Diamond. Afterward, you just march right on over to my house. We’re having pot roast, and I insist you share it.”

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to turn down your kind invitation, Mrs. Evert. I’m going to Sunday supper at the reverend’s.”

  Rose headed out the door and dipped her head just a shade so no one could see the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Gossip swept through Buttonhole at hurricane speed. The moment someone learned that the new owner of the emporium was a bachelor, every last mama with a marriageable daughter revised the Sunday supper menu, thus providing a dandy excuse to visit the store today. Lula Mae would mope all week for having missed this opportunity to snap up a fine young man for her daughter, Patience. By showing up so late in the day, she’d given all of the other mamas and daughters a head start at trying to attain the attentions of the charming—and probably richest—eligible man who’d just moved to town.

  Oh, and if things went as Rose suspected, the matchmaking was going to turn into quite a show. Handsome Mr. Diamond would be in church tomorrow, but if any of a dozen young ladies had her way, he’d be at the altar for an entirely different reason within the season. Poor Mr. Diamond.

  Mrs. Evert watched Rose Masterson leave, then murmured, “Bless her heart.”

  Garret knew full well those three fateful words were a Southern belle’s stock phrase for jumping in and dishing out gossip. He wasn’t one to tolerate talebearing, even if it came wrapped up in pretty words or under the guise of news.

  “She’s just as sweet as that sugar you sold her.”

  “What a kind thing to say.” Garret felt a twinge for having misjudged the woman.

  She fussed with the large jet button at her throat. “Well, I’m only speaking the gospel truth. Rose Masterson is a dear, dear woman. She’s different, you understand.” The woman’s voice dropped. “We all make allowances for her. Somewhere along the way, her parents failed her miserably.”

  “I thought Miss Masterson said she’d only been living in Buttonhole a short time.” Garret had the feeling if anyone needed allowances to be made, it was more likely Mrs. Evert. She wasn’t making sense. “You knew her parents?”

  “Of course I didn’t know her parents. They’re dead, young man. She’s an orphan.”

  “Such a shame. It’s a good thing they reared her to be so capable and independent though.”

  Mrs. Evert ignored every word he said and babbled on. “They went on to the hereafter due to the same tragedy, so she lost them both at once. Terrible as it is that she was left alone to fend for herself—they left her virtually penniless, too. She ekes by in that little house of hers and declares she’ll never marry. Have you ever heard of such nonsense? Well, at first, we all assumed she was heartbroken from her loss, but she’s never snapped out of her strange notion. She wouldn’t do a body harm—so you needn’t ever fret yourself over that. The woman’s a glowing example of Christian charity. It’s just that she’s … well … dotty.”

  The minute Mrs. Evert paused to draw in a breath, Garret cut in so she’d cease the talebearing. “It’s always a pleasure to learn a sister in the Lord is gifted with such charity. Was there anything else you’d like to buy, ma’am?”

  The remainder of the day flew by. Garret finally swept up, locked the front door, and counted out the till. Business had boomed today
, but that could be attributed to curiosity and the fact that he’d kept the store shut for almost a week. Of course, the volume of customers was astronomical. Sales showed it, too. He’d turned a tidy profit. Good thing he’d filled the storeroom and had another shipment of goods due in on Monday.

  It didn’t take long to fill out his account book, but Garret had always found working with numbers quite easy. Organization was the key. He kept the financial ledger, then a record book for stock on hand and what he’d ordered. In a matter of a few months, he’d have a fair notion of the volume sold on average of each item so he could keep his store stocked appropriately.

  Garret knelt behind the counter, removed the secret panel he’d installed, and opened the lock on the Gruberman and Sons wall safe. He’d need to make a bank deposit on Monday. For now, he’d keep his funds secured here. He set them inside but kept out his tithe and offering for tomorrow. Once the secret panel clicked back in place, Garret stood and stretched. It had been a long day.

  For the next hour, he restocked his shelves. Funny, how he’d learned so much about his neighbors by what they bought. Lumbago salve, Belgian lace, paregoric, and a Bailey teething disk—Garret had a glimpse of the town and its individual inhabitants.

  And Rose Masterson—what did her purchases tell him? He turned a jar of honey so the label faced the front. She’d bought only necessities. Staples. No frills—nothing but the basics. Even if he’d had several bananas, would she have bought more than just that one? For all of the customers he’d had throughout the day, he could still recall each of the items that barely filled the bottom of Miss Masterson’s basket: honey, a single banana, cereal, yeast, one can of Borden’s condensed milk, and half a pound of lentils. Oh—and the bag of sugar. Mrs. Evert’s comments led Garret to believe Rose didn’t have any leeway in her budget. He hoped he hadn’t embarrassed the young lady by suggesting purchases she couldn’t afford.

  If Miss Masterson suffered a pinching purse, why had she recommended he ask Cordelia Orrick to assist him with the store? As it was, he’d already arranged with Mrs. Orrick to come dust and mind the store for a few hours a week. Depending on how the store did, Garret figured he could probably also hire Rose Masterson. The Lord instructed His sons to mind the widows and orphans, didn’t He?