by Carol Cox
Mitch glanced up from his note taking. “And that hand would belong to. . .”
Showalter smiled. “My intent is to help Arizona develop in a way that all of us can be proud of.” He pointed to an easel holding an artist’s rendition of the proposed sanitarium. “Let me show you what I mean.”
❧
. . .at sunset, when a myriad of colors from the divine Artist’s brush paint the entire sky.
Catherine stared at the line, then crossed it out with heavy strokes of her pen. She cradled her forehead in the palm of her hand. What a pathetic effort! A child could do as well—maybe better. What happened to the effortless turn of phrase Mr. Showalter had praised only a short time before? Now, no matter how hard she tried, the words simply wouldn’t come. She couldn’t think of a coherent sentence to depict the glories of an Arizona sunset.
But she could have described Mitchell Brewer’s face without a moment’s pause.
His image filled her mind: that unusual combination of brown hair and gray eyes, the smile that made her insides feel like melted butter. . . Stop it!
She yanked open her desk drawer and jerked out a fresh sheet of paper. What is the matter with you, Catherine Elizabeth O’Roarke? If you can’t concentrate on your work, you’ll lose this job.
That settled her down in a hurry. She couldn’t afford to wait for inspiration; she had to focus her mind on the task at hand and write. Otherwise. . .the specter of returning home a failure would prove to be no specter at all but grim reality.
No. She would not go home in defeat, not after her brave pronouncements. She needed to fix her attention firmly on the task at hand. Her job, that was the important thing, her whole reason for coming here.
Smoothing the sheet of paper, she dipped her pen in the inkwell. She had prayed for this chance, and she wasn’t about to miss out on it just because some melting gray eyes gave her goose bumps that would outdo any love-struck schoolgirl’s. She had a purpose in life, a mission, and she wouldn’t let Mitchell Brewer—or any other man—distract her from her goal.
Six
Mitch closed the door of Nathan Showalter’s office behind him and stood in the quiet of the empty anteroom. After all the grand notions that had been thrown at him over the past half hour, he needed a moment to collect his thoughts.
If only half of what Showalter talked about came to pass, it meant a greater potential for Arizona than he had ever dreamed possible.
The ideas Showalter presented chased each other around inside Mitch’s head. Instead of insubstantial drawings, he could almost see the finished structures already in place. He shook his head. Few men had Showalter’s gift for painting a picture with words. Now if he could only do as good a job for the readers of the profile he would write.
He looked around to get his bearings, then started toward the outer office, formulating his opening sentence in his mind. Retracing his steps would take him by the reception desk and then—
He stopped in midstride. Catherine O’Roarke. He’d almost forgotten.
For a moment, he considered hustling back to his office before any of his thoughts were lost. Then his conscience prodded him. He had given his word to Alex, and he intended to live up to it.
Ah, well. It wouldn’t take more than a minute to make good on his promise. He would visit with her a bit, then go on his way, having fulfilled his obligation to Alex.
❧
Catherine heard footsteps approaching down the hallway in time to pull herself together before Mitch appeared. She wasn’t about to sit there looking at him with calf’s eyes. By the time he set foot in the reception area, she sat primly, ready to give him no more than a polite acknowledgment as he left.
To her surprise, he stopped directly in front of her desk and smiled as if they were old friends. “Your boss certainly has a way with words.”
Catherine unbent enough to give him a brief smile then leaned over her work again.
“This article I’m going to write should be wonderful publicity for Southwestern Land and Investments.”
Catherine glanced up and immediately found herself lost in his gaze. How could she ever get any work done if he persisted on staring at her with those smoky gray eyes?
“So you’re writing the copy for the new advertisements? May I see?” Without waiting for an answer, he picked up the page she had turned in to Mr. Showalter earlier and scanned it. “Very nice,” he said. “Have you been doing this long?”
Catherine couldn’t help but flush with pleasure. “Not long. I just started yesterday, as a matter of fact.” And when did the topic of this conversation turn from the company to me? She shifted in her chair and fiddled with her pen.
“Only yesterday, eh? Have you lived in Phoenix long?”
The goose bumps reappeared on Catherine’s arms, but this time they weren’t caused by pleasure. Something about this conversation didn’t seem right. “No.” She drew the word out. “I’m new here.”
“Ah, a newcomer to our fair city.” He shuffled from one foot to the other. “Are you enjoying it here? No problems getting settled in?”
Catherine nodded politely but kept a wary eye on him. He looked too nice to fit her mental picture of a masher, but this was the city, after all. It wouldn’t hurt to be on her guard.
“I’m getting along quite well, thank you.” She put a note of finality into her tone. “And now if you’ll excuse me, I really need to get back to work.”
Judging by the way the tips of his ears reddened, she had succeeded in making her desire to end the conversation clear. “Of course. Don’t let me keep you.” He pivoted on his heel, grabbed his hat, and hurried out the door.
Catherine cupped her chin in her hands and stared after him, wishing she hadn’t been so abrupt. He probably hadn’t meant anything by those questions. It was her own inexperience with the way things were done in the city that made her throw up a wall of caution like that. Next time, she wouldn’t be so quick to jump to conclusions.
She bit her lower lip and blinked at the sudden sting of tears. After the way she’d just spoken to Mitchell Brewer, there probably wouldn’t be a next time.
❧
Mitch dotted the last i, set his pen aside, and swept his pile of notes into his top desk drawer. He hadn’t felt this energized in a long time. The profile on Nathan Showalter showed promise, even at this rough stage. Given Showalter’s gift with words, it hadn’t been hard to breathe life into the developer’s plans.
He slid the article draft into a folder and pushed it to one side of his desk. At least he’d been able to get the basic shape of the article roughed out while his impressions of Showalter were still fresh in his mind. Now he needed to get back to business for the Clarion.
Mitch checked his appointment calendar. Oh, yes. He was supposed to be covering the announcement to add more electric streetcars to the line connecting Phoenix to Glendale. That was supposed to start in. . . He checked his pocket watch. Oh, brother. Only ten minutes to go.
He stood and yanked his coat from the back of his chair. Thrusting his arms into the sleeves while he walked, he hustled toward the door. It seemed like everything in his life was happening at top speed these days. He pushed through the door to the street and hurried along the sidewalk to where he’d parked his roadster. Much as he preferred walking, he would never make it on time otherwise.
He maneuvered the auto down Washington Street, managing to avoid pedestrians and an oncoming motor car while he circled around a horse-drawn wagon. His life had become a similar juggling act, taking every bit of effort just to make sure he got everything done. Even so, he lived with an underlying fear he was going to wake up some day and find out he’d made a royal mess of things. He tooted his horn at a delivery wagon driver who had stopped to pass the time of day with a man standing in front of a café.
Look at the way he’d mixed up the figures in that article on mining production. It was a good thing he caught the error before Dabney saw it. That could have been a real catastro
phe.
Mitch had an uneasy feeling he hadn’t done so well with his mission for Alex, either. Once he found himself face to face with Catherine O’Roarke, every coherent thought had flown out of his mind and he’d fumbled his words like a schoolboy with stage fright.
Had he sounded as ridiculous to her as he had to himself? He went over the conversation in his mind while he parked the roadster, patted his coat pocket to make sure he had his notepad, and dashed off toward the meeting. Thinking back to what he’d said, he winced. No doubt about it, that little speech wouldn’t win him any awards for eloquence.
He skidded in the door just in time to catch the speaker’s opening remarks. Whipping out his notepad, he scribbled frantically, trying to keep up with what was being said.
Thoughts of his conversation with Catherine O’Roarke invaded his mind, distracting him from the job at hand. What had it sounded like from her point of view? He hoped he hadn’t come across as though he was trying to be too familiar. The more he thought about it, the more he felt sure he had done just that.
Calm down, Brewer. You did what Alex asked you to and found out what you needed to know. Her opinion of you doesn’t really matter.
He grunted, drawing an irritated look from the man standing in front of him. Mitch cleared his throat and tried to look like he was still focused on a meeting that no longer held any importance. To his amazement, he realized that it mattered very much what Catherine O’Roarke thought of him.
❧
“Glad to be back at your own desk?” Enid’s blue eyes shone with a friendly light.
Catherine slid into her chair and set her purse inside the bottom drawer. “More than you can imagine.” Three days of covering Mattie’s post at the front desk had given her a new appreciation of the skills it took to be a successful receptionist.
Thanks to Mrs. Abernathy’s tender care and lavish doses of chicken soup and peppermint tea, Mattie had recovered from her ailment, and this Monday morning found her back in her regular place.
Mattie was pleased; Catherine was delighted beyond measure. Dividing her attention between a new prospectus for the sanitarium and the steady stream of callers wanting to speak to Mr. Showalter produced more frayed nerves than usable copy, something Miss Trautman had been quick to point out.
Catherine squared her notes into a neat stack, pulled her pen from the center drawer, and prepared to prove Mr. Showalter hadn’t made a mistake in hiring her.
“Did you hear about the group marching for women’s rights?” Enid asked. “They’re going to rally at the capitol on Saturday.”
Irene frowned. “Why get so worked up about it? We’ll either get the vote, or we won’t. It doesn’t really matter to me.”
The pen slipped through Catherine’s fingers and clattered on her desk. “You can’t mean that!” She shoved her chair backward and bounced to her feet.
Enid and Irene stared openmouthed.
Irene lifted one shoulder in a tentative shrug. “I can voice my opinion at home all I want, but my dad and my brothers are the ones who’ll have the final say. What difference will one vote make? It’s a man’s world. It always has been.”
“But it doesn’t have to stay that way.” Catherine’s breath came quickly, and she knew from the burning in her cheeks that her face must be turning red. “Do you realize the lengths women before us have gone to in order to assure us of having a voice in government? Do you have any idea of the sacrifices they have made?”
Enid and Irene glanced at each other then shook their heads slowly.
Emboldened, Catherine stepped in front of their desks and struck a pose. “Listen, both of you. A woman’s mind is every bit the equal of a man’s—sometimes better, if you ask me.”
A voice behind her made her jump. “But no one asked you, did they, Miss O’Roarke?”
Enid gasped, and Irene turned pale. Both girls ducked their heads and focused all their attention on the papers before them.
Catherine felt a crawling sensation along her spine, like the time Alex Bradley dumped a handful of grasshoppers down her neck. Gathering what dignity she could muster, she tilted her chin and turned to face Miss Trautman.
“We were only discussing the rights of women.”
The supervisor narrowed her eyes. “You are not being paid to discuss politics. Nor are you being paid to waste the time of the other employees. Mr. Showalter will not put up with such goings-on. You are being paid—in case you have forgotten—to write copy for advertisements for the benefit of Southwestern Land and Investments. . .something you have found trouble doing ever since you arrived.”
Catherine opened her mouth to make a retort then clamped her lips shut. All she would accomplish by arguing was to receive another reprimand. . .or maybe a dismissal. That prospect didn’t bear thinking about.
She forced a tight smile and bobbed her head. “Yes, ma’am.” She returned to her chair and bent over her work. She could feel Miss Trautman’s icy stare lingering on her for several long moments before she heard the supervisor’s footsteps clicking their way down the short hallway to her own office.
“Whew.” Irene let out her breath in a whoosh. “That Trautman is a cold fish, all right.”
Both the other girls giggled, and Catherine felt some of her tension slip away. She hadn’t said anything wrong; she’d just chosen the wrong time to say it. If Irene and Enid were truly interested in learning more about the importance of suffrage, maybe she could set a time after work for the three of them to discuss the matter away from Miss Trautman’s keen ears.
Silence settled over the room, broken only by the tap of typewriter keys and the scratching of Catherine’s pen nib across her paper.
An oasis in the desert, she wrote, remembering Mr. Showalter’s glowing description. The Phoenix area is destined to replace the likes of Baden Baden as—
“Catherine?”
—the premier destination for those seeking healing for the body and balm for the soul. The salubrious climate and—
“Catherine!” Irene’s sharp whisper pierced the stillness.
“What is it?” Jolted from her concentration, her tone sounded sharper than she intended.
“I just wondered—do you really think women should be involved in politics?”
“Of course. How else can we affect society? You said it’s a man’s world. Well, maybe that is what’s wrong with it.”
Irene shot a furtive glance toward the door and lowered her voice even more. “I’m only working here until I find a husband. How can a woman fulfill her role in the home if she’s going out and stirring things up?”
“How can she be sure she will have a home to run if she leaves control of her life in men’s hands?” Honestly, didn’t these women ever think about anything beyond snaring a husband and the seeming security that brought? Catherine laid down her pen and crossed the distance between their desks.
Irene’s lips formed an O. “I never thought about it that way.”
“Well, you should.”
The door behind Catherine squeaked, and she whirled around. Mattie stood in the doorway. “What on earth are you carrying on about? If Miss Trautman hears you—”
“She won’t if you keep your voice down,” Irene shot back. “Let Catherine talk. This is starting to make sense.”
“It makes perfect sense,” Catherine went on, buoyed by their interest. “This isn’t just the whim of a few radical individuals. Women have fought long and hard to reach this moment in history, and we don’t dare turn back when we’re on the brink of victory.”
Her audience stared at her, eyes shining. “Is it possible, then?” Enid whispered. “Is suffrage for women really that close?”
“It is if we don’t give up. Imagine how wonderful it will be if Arizona celebrates this momentous step in her history by allowing women the right to vote!”
She raised her right arm in a sweeping gesture and glanced at the others in anticipation of a quiet round of applause.
Irene’s a
nd Enid’s mouths hung open. Both girls stared at a point over Catherine’s left shoulder, then dropped their gazes to their desks and started typing furiously.
A sinking feeling buzzed in the pit of Catherine’s stomach. Miss Trautman. It had to be. She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath, hoping she could brazen out another rebuke. With her head held high, she turned. . .and looked straight into the face of Nathan Showalter.
“Would you come with me, please?” Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and strode down the hallway toward his office.
Catherine waited for the floor to open and swallow her up. When it didn’t, she forced her feet to follow in his wake. Just past the door, Miss Trautman stood, arms folded across her chest and a smug expression in her eyes.
It took all the courage Catherine could muster to tilt her chin and stride past without a break in her step. She might be about to lose her coveted job, but she refused to give her supervisor the satisfaction of seeing her mortification.
Before she rounded the corner, she darted a quick glance over her shoulder. Mattie still stood rooted near the doorway as though turned to stone. Her look of sympathy confirmed Catherine’s fears. Mattie, too, knew she was about to be sacked.
Mr. Showalter stood behind his desk and gestured toward a chair. Catherine sank into it gratefully. Her legs wouldn’t have held her upright another moment. She crossed her ankles and folded her hands loosely in her lap, trying to maintain the appearance of dignified calm. Inside, she felt like a whimpering child.
The last time she’d felt so disgraced had been at age ten, the time her father caught her trying out some language she’d learned from a cowboy he’d recently hired. The results of today’s offense would be even more painful, and both times it was the fault of her own willful nature.
Mr. Showalter settled into his heavy chair and cleared his throat. Catherine braced herself.
“That was quite a performance you put on out there.”
Catherine nodded miserably, not trusting herself to speak. Even worse than being taken to task like this would be the humiliation of breaking down in front of her employer.