by Mona Hodgson
“Expected? As in past tense?”
He glanced at Cherise, then returned his attention to Hattie and leaned toward her. “Truth is, I don’t think I can give her up.” She could barely hear his whisper over Cherise’s chatter. “Even to one of my own daughters.”
She shouldn’t be surprised. His care of the little girl made it obvious that he adored her.
“I’m sure it sounds crazy for an old man like me to entertain the thought of raising an eight-year-old girl himself.”
“I don’t think it’s a crazy thought.” Hattie made herself look into those blue eyes. “But I do think the undertaking would be easier if you didn’t try to do so on your own.” Her breath caught. His creased brow told her he was wondering what she meant. So was she.
The telephone jangled, and they both jumped from their chairs, nearly colliding in the doorway. Laughing, Harlan stepped back and let Hattie go first. “It is your house, your telephone.”
She rushed to the kitchen and pulled the cone from its hook. “Hello? Ida?”
“Yes, Miss Hattie.” The operator had a thick Spanish accent. “I’ll connect her.”
“Thank you, Eva.” Hattie handed the telephone cone to Harlan. He was, after all, the grandfather. He should hear the news first.
His eyes widened and his face paled.
“Ida? Is Vivian well?” Hattie asked.
He nodded, and a deep sigh escaped her.
“Two!” he said.
She moved closer to him. “Twins?”
Tears brimming his blue eyes, he nodded again. “Victoria and Veronica.”
“Thank the Lord.” Two more girls. Now poor William was outnumbered three to one. Hopefully, Kat would deliver a boy to even it out some.
Harlan said good-bye to Ida and faced Hattie, his gaze tender. “Mother and daughters are doing well.” He drew in a deep breath. “I have four dear daughters. Four attentive sons-in-law. Four rambunctious grandchildren, with number five on the way. And a dear friend.” He enfolded her hand in his. “I am a blessed man.”
And she, a blessed woman. With weakening knees. As nonchalantly as possible, she rested her other hand on the countertop to steady herself. Perhaps age wasn’t the issue she thought it was when it came to romance.
Monday morning Trenton paid for his breakfast and stepped out of the Third Street Café under a cloud-rimmed sky. The rain had finally let up sometime after midnight, but another storm was on its way. The thick air cradled dampness and the scent of rain as he walked to the studio.
Jesse usually joined him for breakfast on Monday mornings, but a big job had his friend working dawn to dusk this week.
It was just as well they didn’t meet today. Trenton would have been tempted to tell Jesse he’d darkened the doors of a church yesterday. No sense raising his friend’s hopes. Jesse might think his prayers had been answered and Trenton had finally given in to God, which he hadn’t. He’d left on the last song, but not before getting a view into the sanctuary through the tiny window in the door and glimpsing the back of Willow Peterson’s head. He didn’t get away before he heard her brother preach a sermon from Romans, chapter 5. “Justified by faith.” “Peace with God.” “Access by faith into this grace.” “While we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.”
If what the reverend said about all that was true, Trenton had a lot more thinking to do. He may have heard that message as a little boy visiting his grandmother’s church, before time and experience weighted his heart, but he couldn’t remember. His grandmother had given him a Bible thirty-some years ago, and it was still tucked away in his trunk. Maybe it was time he dug it out.
Ready to cross the street, Trenton looked up and saw Mrs. Flinn walking toward him with little Ruby in tow. He waited for her on the boardwalk.
“Good day, Mr. Van Der Veer.”
“Mrs. F-Flinn.” He brushed the brim of his top hat.
“I’m glad to see you. I wanted to commend you for the artist you hired. Not too many men would trust a woman to do the job.”
“M-men like your husband?”
She nodded, her cheeks turning pink. “He’s behind the times.”
Bigoted, according to Mrs. Peterson.
“I hope Mrs. Peterson will still colorize our photograph, although I wouldn’t blame her if she chose against it. My husband can be quite thoughtless at times.”
“Mrs. P-Peterson did m-mention your husband’s, uh, issues with us, but she didn’t indicate her p-plans.” If he knew her at all, he guessed he’d see her in the studio today with the colorized print. “I suppose the greater question is whether or not Mr. Flinn still intends to p-pay for the work.” Of a woman artist, hired by a man who stuttered. He kept the last comment to himself.
Mrs. Flinn raised her chin. “It doesn’t matter what he’ll do or not do. I sold a quilt. I have the money to pay for Mrs. Peterson’s work.”
“Very well.” Today was the deadline he’d given her for the job. He’d soon know one way or the other. “Could you st-stop by later this week?”
“Yes. I’ll be back in town on Thursday.”
“Until then.” Trenton continued to First Street and found himself looking for the man Mrs. Peterson called Mr. Baxter. He wasn’t anywhere near the tobacco shop, but Mrs. Gortner stood at the window outside his studio. He picked up his pace. “Good day, Mrs. Gortner.”
“Oh my.” She stared at the portrait Willow Peterson had painted of her. “Mr. Van Der Veer, I expected that dear girl would do a fine job, but this is—”
“Extraordinary.”
“Indeed, it is. Especially considering what she had to work with.” Her laughter rocked the feather plumes on her green hat.
Bells jangled while he held the office door open for her. She paused in the doorway and met his gaze, leaving mere inches between their faces. “You have a gold mine in Mrs. Peterson.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“And the frame? Who made that?”
“I did. I have a s-small wood shop in my house.”
“You run your own business and frame photographs and portraits with your hands? You’re quite the Renaissance man, Mr. Van Der Veer.” Mrs. Gortner smiled. “And you’re single, correct?”
The summary of his abilities was complimentary, but why would his marital status be of any concern to her?
“Your silence tells me it is so.” She continued into the office and turned to face him. “You do know that Willow Peterson is a widow, do you not?”
“I d-did know that. Yes.” Thanks to his insensitivity to her benevolent ways. “But her m-marital status has no bearing—”
“On her employment with you. Of course not.”
He closed the door and joined her at the window. “I could deliver your p-portrait this afternoon, if you like.”
Mrs. Gortner held her head high like a royal. “A business partnership with Willow Peterson is one thing. A personal relationship is a whole different matter.”
His neck warmed and his collar suddenly felt too tight.
“I know these things can take time to grow,” Mrs. Gortner continued. “No time like the present to plant a seed.”
He nodded, but he couldn’t say why. There wasn’t much chance Willow Peterson would care to nurture such a seed. She had gone to great lengths to ensure he believed her to be a married woman. She’d even submitted a portrait of her late husband, leaving out that he was deceased.
“I like to do my part in helping other women get their business off the ground,” Mrs. Gortner said. “I say we give folks ample opportunity to see Willow’s fine work. Why don’t you bring the portrait by on Friday?”
“Yes. I’ll do that. Thank you.”
“Hopefully you’ll soon have another of her portraits to display. I’ll take my portrait to our Women for the Betterment of Cripple Creek meeting next week and see if I can stir up more business for your gold-mine girl.” She winked, and embarrassment burned the tops of his ears. It was time he considered growing his hair a smidgen longer.
He looked away in time to see the portrait artist in question standing outside the window, looking at the portrait. She had an envelope tucked under her arm.
Mrs. Gortner noticed her too and smiled. “I’d say she’s admiring your framing handiwork.”
When Mrs. Peterson noticed them, she stepped inside, automatically ringing bells above the door.
“It’s so good to see you, dear.” Mrs. Gortner gave Willow Peterson’s shoulders a quick embrace. “We were talking about you.”
“You were?” Mrs. Peterson looked at him.
“Yes.” He smiled past his fear that Mrs. Gortner would try to do a little more gardening in front of his employee. “We were talking about the wonderful j-job you did.” That you’re a gold mine. And that Mrs. Gortner had planted a troubling and intriguing seed in his mind. He’d be fine as long as it didn’t take root. His heart couldn’t bear another drought.
“I didn’t do the framing or make the business sign.” Mrs. Peterson met his gaze, her green eyes looking like polished emeralds. “The frame is perfect.”
“He made it himself.” Mrs. Gortner pointed at him.
“You did?”
He nodded.
“I didn’t know you did woodwork.”
“He’s apparently a man of many undiscovered talents.” The mine owner’s smile was too wide.
“Are you happy with the portrait, Mollie?” Mrs. Peterson asked.
“I adore it.” Mrs. Gortner glanced at the envelope in Mrs. Peterson’s hand. “I’ll take my leave and let you two tend to your business.” She smiled at him. “And to the seeds.”
Mrs. Peterson’s brow creased. Time to change the subject.
“Thank you, again, for your b-business,” Trenton said. “You can expect the p-portrait on Friday morning. Early, if that’s all right.”
“Early Friday is fine with me. I’ll see you then, Mr. Van Der Veer.” Mrs. Gortner turned to Mrs. Peterson. “And you, dear, need to come by for another cup of tea sometime soon.”
“I’d like that.”
“Perhaps next week.”
They both watched Mrs. Gortner leave the studio, bells ringing behind her.
Willow Peterson faced him. “She’s quite a woman, isn’t she?”
He drew a deep breath. “Yes, and an apparent devotee of our work.” His mind hung up on the word our. He and Mrs. Peterson did make a great team. Him taking the photographs, her painting the portraits, and him making the frames for them. A great professional team.
Mrs. Peterson set the envelope on the counter. “What seeds are we to be tending?”
His mouth went dry. He’d hoped Mrs. Peterson had forgotten the woman’s odd comment. “Apparently, Mrs. Gortner is fond of gardening.”
“Oh.” Her mouth formed a perfectly shaped O and her face framed it in red.
“I saw Mrs. Flinn in town today,” he said quickly. “She hoped you’d still add the coloring to their family photo despite her husband’s offensiveness.”
“I did, for her.” She slid the photograph from the envelope. “And for you. You’re a professional. I need to be one as well. And I’m sure Mr. Flinn won’t be the last rude client we encounter.”
“Likely not. But you do have the prerogative to deny such a person service.”
“Thank you.” She smiled, deepening the dimple on the left side of her face.
Clearing his throat, he studied the photograph. “Very nice work. Mrs. Flinn will be in on Thursday to pick it up.” He wouldn’t make Mrs. Peterson wait until then for her payment. He slid the photograph back into the envelope and carried it to his desk. When he had her payment, he pulled a job order from the box and returned to the counter. “I have your percentage for you. And a new job.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” He handed her the money, careful not to brush her hand.
She slid the payment into her reticule and looked up at him. “You’re an answer to my prayer.” Blushing again, she swept a curl from her forehead.
Him, an answer to prayer?
“My prayer for a new beginning.” She moistened her lips. “You’re giving me the chance to do what I love to do—paint. And I’m thankful.”
“I know the need for a fresh start.”
She opened her mouth as if to speak, but didn’t. If she was about to ask about his fresh start, he was glad she didn’t. He’d said too much. He needed to keep their relationship professional. For her sake.
“I have two women scheduled for sittings late this week,” he said, “and they both said they’ll want portraits painted. But one of the couples I photographed last week commissioned a portrait.” He pulled the photograph from the envelope. “The woman said they know you, that you recommended my services.”
She looked at the photograph. “Yes. Mr. and Mrs. Johnstone. I sold them an icebox.”
“I appreciate the referral. Would M-Monday, the seventeenth, give you enough t-time?”
“Yes. That’s two weeks. I can let it finish drying that Saturday and Sunday.”
Sunday. Church. Was it wrong to attend church because of a woman and not out of a devotion to God?
Willow slid the photograph of Mr. and Mrs. Johnstone back into the envelope, her mind in a swirl. Her boss was fast becoming an encouraging friend, and it felt good to have someone besides a family member recognize and appreciate her abilities as an artist.
Trenton flipped the Open sign over on the door. She thought about reminding him of Tucker’s invitation to visit the church but decided that might be an infringement on Mr. Van Der Veer’s personal life. She’d have to talk to God about that later. In the meantime, she had another painting job to do and couldn’t wait to start on it.
“Looks like you might have company.” Mr. Van Der Veer held the door open for a short, bulky man hidden behind a big bouquet of sunflowers.
Mr. Baxter lowered the bouquet and gave her a smile that revealed several gaps in his teeth. “Hello, Missus Peterson. These are for you.” He handed her the flowers, his smile deepening.
“Mr. Baxter, you didn’t have to bring me anything.”
“And you didn’t have to give me your lunch.” He was clean and his brown eyes were clearer.
“I wanted to.”
“That’s what I’m saying … I wanted to give you flowers.” He looked at Mr. Van Der Veer. “I hope you don’t mind me bothering you at work.”
“It’s no b-bother.” Her boss smiled at him. “Lovely flowers d-deserve a lovely lady.”
Mr. Baxter nodded.
Willow pressed her hand to her warm chest and returned her attention to the bearer of gifts. “Thank you, Mr. Baxter.” Holding the flowers to one side, she leaned forward and kissed his bristly cheek.
He chuckled. “You remind me of my daughter. Carolyn was sweet like you.”
“Was?”
“Yes ma’am. She died of infection when she was nineteen.”
“I’m sorry.”
He ran his hand through a mass of wavy gray hair. “Carolyn would want me to stay away from the bottle.” He met her gaze. “Wish I could. Your kindness, Missus Peterson, gave me enough courage for today.”
Tears rimmed her lower lids and slid down her cheeks. Poor Mr. Baxter was in a battle she hoped he was strong enough to fight. To think God would use her to encourage him warmed her heart. God was good. He had been all along, but her eyes were finally open to it. Now she was seeing Him everywhere she looked. Even looking back on her time in the asylum, she saw His provision of people like Maria and the many there who’d helped her find her way back.
Had God placed her in Trenton Van Der Veer’s path to help him in his new life in Cripple Creek? Or had He placed Trenton here for her benefit?
“There’s not a thing wrong with this dress, Susanna.” Helen held up a lovely taffeta gown with a wasp waist. “You would look exquisite in it.”
“You know it isn’t right for me.”
Helen huffed. “Because it isn’t purple?”
“Exac
tly. Purple is the color of royalty, and I need to feel like a princess when I see Trenton.”
Helen dropped the hanger on the clothing rack. Her green eyes narrowed. “So, do I have this right? You’re not going to Cripple Creek to see Trenton unless you can find a purple dress?”
“I will find a purple dress. I will see Trenton.” Susanna continued her search at another rack. “If shopping is too much work for you, you can go back to your brother’s and leave me to find the correct dress without distraction.”
“Pardon me, ladies.” A full-faced woman shuffled toward them. “I couldn’t help but overhear you.” She smiled at Susanna, revealing a thin scar at her eyebrow. “Did you say you’re looking for a purple dress?”
“I am. Not too frilly but charming.”
“I see. To charm a special young man?”
“Yes.” Pay no mind that Trenton Van Der Veer was seventeen years her senior and hardly considered a young man.
The attendant’s smile widened. “You’re in luck, young lady. I received a shipment from Chicago just this morning. It’s still in the back room, but I remember seeing a very handsome purple dress.”
“I’d love to see it.” Susanna crossed her fingers behind her back and watched the woman shuffle past a curtain.
Quickly returning with a satin treasure draped over her arms, the curvy woman stopped directly in front of Susanna and studied her from hat to shoe. “The dress may need a nip or tuck here or there, but no man will be able to resist you in this dress, dear.”
“Perfect!” Soon Susanna would have Trenton nibbling humble pie from her hand. This time, she wouldn’t do anything stupid to ruin her chances of wearing the new purple dress to charm the stage managers in New York.
That evening, Willow knelt on a rag rug with a wide paintbrush in her hand. The four fresh canvases Trenton had sent last Wednesday lay on old newspapers on the pine floor in her bedchamber. Before she could use them, she needed to undercoat them to avoid any cracks. She dipped the brush into pure white paint and coated the third canvas.
Everyone else in the house had no doubt drifted off to slumber hours ago. Even Cherise was quiet tonight. Willow’s mind, however, refused to give way to such a frivolous activity. Not when the day—the past week, actually—had given her so much to think about.