The Stars We Walked Upon (Seven Sisters Series Book 5)

by M. L. Bullock

  “What did I do? I said I was sorry. Now come to bed.”

  I glared at him. Unless I was willing to tell him the truth, I would have to do as he asked. “Fine! I just hope I can sleep. My eyes are going to look horrible in the morning, and I have to meet with Desmond Taylor. You know, you’ve had me up every night this week.”

  “What? Have I been snoring? I’m sorry, Carrie Jo. Maybe I should get some of those strips for my nose—the kind that keeps your airways open. You should have said something sooner.” I flopped in the bed and turned my back to him, beating my pillow into submission. He tucked the blanket around me and kissed me on the cheek.

  Darn him! How dare he be kind! I like being mad at him.

  “I promise to pick some up tomorrow, and don’t worry about Taylor. You’re a genius. He would be lucky to have you work on his project. In the meantime, if my snoring gets really bad I can go sleep in the guest room. Should I?”

  I sighed, guilt over my snooping washing over me. “That won’t be necessary.” As he put his arm around me and held me, I realized I was being a fool. A man’s mind was his own territory—it belonged solely to him, and that included his dreams. How would I like it if Ashland saw a few of my dreams? I never planned to dream some of the crazy stuff I did, but it happened. I let him cuddle up to me, and I enjoyed his clean sandalwood scent and his strong arms. Well, as long as he’s only dreaming about it and not acting upon it, then we should be okay. Chances are he doesn’t even remember them. Most people don’t remember their dreams at all. Still, I had to do something if I wanted to stay married. And indeed I did.

  I glanced back at the clock on the bedside table. It was 4:45. Weird. What were the odds of that happening again? I had woken myself up early every day since Monday. Now it was Friday night—no, make that Saturday morning. As I pondered the puzzle, my eyes grew heavy and I soon fell back to sleep.

  I chose to think about something else for a while. Like Delilah Iverson. I’d put her to the side too long. I had promised myself after my friends died (they did die, didn’t they?) that I would dig in deeper. If for no other reason than to honor their lives. I hadn’t kept my word, which wasn’t like me at all.

  Conjuring her image from my memory of our ballroom encounter, I whispered her name. It felt right to seek the ghosts of the past. Maybe that’s what I needed to do if I wanted to stay out of Ashland’s head. Since I could not turn my dream catching off, I needed to learn how to focus on using it productively.

  It seemed like a good idea at the time.

  Chapter Two—Delilah

  Another hot summer day passed by without a single customer darkening the door of the Iverson Sundries Store. A small, greasy-faced child plastered his face on the front glass of the store before he was shooed away by his rotund mother, but that was the closest thing to a customer we had. A stray cat had made his way in the back door, which I’d absently left open, but I showed him the way out with the help of one of my new Shoemaker brooms. Around 4 o’clock, after sweeping the floors for the third time, counting spools of thread and repeatedly climbing the ladder to check the top shelf of my stock, I gave up. Miss Page had been true to her word. Nobody wanted to have anything to do with me or my business. For weeks I had managed to ignore the hisses and unfriendly faces, but now it was all too much. Mobilians had clearly cast their vote for the respectable Claudette Page. Friendless, hopeless and feeling defeated, I decided to call it a day. It was sad to say, but even the newly arriving northerners avoided my store. It was a hard pill to swallow.

  In contrast, Adam’s woodworking business continued to increase—there was never a lack of activity at his shop. It took hard work to get it moving; I had to give him credit for that. In the beginning nobody had wanted to give him a chance either, but he’d been persistent. And it didn’t hurt that he had a handsome face and friendly demeanor. Funny how nobody wanted to have anything to do with me, but my “brother” was perfectly acceptable. But then again, he wasn’t an illegitimate bastard, a social usurper. What would my parents say about all this? What would I say to them?

  I strolled down the wooden sidewalk, making a right turn toward Adam’s shop—I was happy to make the turn off Dauphin Street away from the snooty shoppers who crowded every store but mine.

  With a tinge of bitterness, I recalled this morning’s conversation with the only other Iverson in this town. “It seems to me that Mobile has far too many aspiring female woodworkers. For God’s sake, Adam, don’t encourage them.”

  “What am I supposed to do, Delilah? Close the shop door and forbid anyone to walk inside without your permission? You cannot tell me you’re worried about a few silly girls. You know only you have my heart.”

  We rarely spoke openly about how we felt about one another, and I was beginning to think that he was doing so now only to prevent further argument. Any other time he did not want to talk about our future together, or love, or feelings—except after the lamp blew out. I welcomed the guilt that came with the memory of our first time together. It had been awkward but wonderful until the sunlight streamed into the room and I woke up alone. He barely spoke to me in the days that followed, but he could not keep up the isolation since we lived in the same apartment above the store.

  Well, I only had myself to blame. I loved a man who most of the county considered my brother. For the hundredth time I asked myself, “What was I trying to prove?” It’s not like I needed money—both Dr. Page and my parents had been generous in their bequests to me—but I enjoyed working in the shop. It was the only life I knew, and now Claudette Page had seemingly put an end to all that. Mounting pressure from the unofficial leader of the local moral society had taken its toll.

  The afternoon heat rolled up from the sidewalk like an unseen blanket. I suddenly missed the coolness of Canada; even my unfriendly cousins were not as cruel as Mobile society. Unwilling to witness their collective disdain any longer, I kept my eyes on the path in front of me until I crashed into another pedestrian. My victim was a young woman, slightly taller than me but wearing more fashionable attire than mine—a moss-green dress that flattered her wide gray eyes. Despite her otherwise polished appearance, she had a bundle of tight curly red hair that appeared barely controlled by a diamond-shaped green hat. Before I could mumble an apology and continue on my way, she said, “Miss Iverson? Adam Iverson’s sister?”

  “I am Delilah. May I help you?”

  “Your brother tells me you are an excellent dressmaker. I happen to be in need of an excellent dressmaker.” She rocked back on her heels delightedly, as if she were doing me the greatest favor imaginable by offering me a job. The young lady appeared oblivious to the stir our collision had caused. When I did not respond immediately she added, “Oh, my manners. My name is Maundy Weaver. I own the dress shop two streets over.” She stuck her lace-gloved hand out to me, and I shook it.

  “I had no idea my brother made a habit of visiting dress shops. Thank you, but I don’t need a job.” I tried to get by her, but she touched my arm.

  “If I could have just a minute of your time. Would you join me for a glass of something cool?”

  She quietly added, “My shop is just a minute away.”

  I was curious now, so I nodded and followed behind this mysterious Maundy Weaver. Her shop was indeed just two minutes away. I was surprised I had never seen it, but then again I had not spent much time exploring the area. I wondered how well my “brother” knew the woman and why she believed I needed a job. With a polite smile, she opened the side door and we stepped into a small parlor. She waved me to a seat at a polished two-person table. I recognized the work—Adam had built this. As Miss Weaver poured us a glass of something that looked like iced tea, I looked about me. Through an adjoining door I could see into her store. She had customers, busy dressmakers and an endless sea of colorful fabrics neatly arranged along the walls. In her parlor there was no evidence of her dressmaking business. However, I could see that she was fond of pink roses for her china, and many decoratio
ns displayed that painted theme.

  “I am glad I caught you. When it gets this hot out, many shops close early. I suppose you find this climate a bit oppressive after Canada.” She placed the glass in front of me, and I could not resist taking a sip. The drink was not tea at all but something much more delicious. She laughed at my reaction. “Sarsaparilla. I like the flavor, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do. I see quite a bit of Adam’s handiwork here in your parlor. I didn’t know you were a customer, but I think there’s some mistake. I’m not looking for a job. As you know, I have my own store. Iverson Sundries on Dauphin Street.”

  “Miss Iverson, if I may be direct?” I nodded slowly. “I know all about your story and would like to help.”

  “Really? How much of my story do you think you know?” I set the glass down and stood. How dare Adam talk to this woman about our private matters!

  “Please, sit. I am a woman who appreciates the direct approach. I did not mean to offend you; it’s just that I too have crossed swords with Claudette. I know what a vicious adversary she can be, but you can beat her.”

  “So you think closing my store and coming to work for you as a dressmaker will beat her? I’m afraid I don’t follow your logic.” I sat back down, suddenly feeling tired.

  “Of course you don’t. You have no idea who I am or what I can do, Miss Iverson—or do you prefer Miss Page?”

  “Delilah will do fine.”

  “I have just learned that your attorney, Mr. Peyton, has every intention of advising you to withdraw your case.”

  I could not hide my shock. “He can’t do that!”

  She laughed dryly. “Oh yes, he can. He’s her cousin—and yours since you are a Page too. And as such, you can take him to court. You may not get much, but it will be on record and that might come in handy later. He should’ve shared with you his connection with her at your first meeting. It’s what legal folks call a ‘conflict of interest.’” I sank back in the chair. Could this day get any worse? Miss Weaver seemed to pick up on my thoughts. “Are you ready to quit?” She removed her hat pin and her hat and tossed it on the table beside her. She didn’t attempt to tame her wild red hair as she leaned toward me with one arm on the table, waiting for my answer.

  “I don’t quit so easily. Why does my situation interest you so much, Ms. Weaver?”

  With a smile she answered me, “Maundy, please. Why shouldn’t it? You’re a woman. I’m a woman. I believe we women should stick together. This world is an unfriendly place for us, hence my offer. I am not merely offering you a job; I offer you a way to get even. You need something—and you need it very badly. I can help you get it.”

  Her tone of voice made the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “And what is it you think I need?” The thought that I should never cross this woman flashed through my mind.

  She laughed again. “The only thing a woman ever really needs—information.”

  Surprised by her answer, I asked, “Information? I don’t understand. Information about dressmaking?”

  “Don’t tell me you’re dull, Delilah. You can’t be dull with that face. No, not dressmaking. You’d be surprised how much you can learn during a dress fitting. There are not many social situations in which the classes mingle so easily. I have been a dressmaker all my life, as my mother was before me and hers before her. None of us Weaver women got into the business because we loved dresses.” She cackled at some joke that only she knew. “With just a glance I can take your measurements and see the perfect dress for you or any woman—tall, thin, short, fat. I can make any woman look and feel good. With that ability comes a lot of trust. Women trust me. And when they trust you, they tell you things.”

  “And what kind of things do I need to hear?”

  “Everyone has a secret, and most people don’t want those secrets to see the light of day. That includes the high-and-mighty Claudette Page. In fact, I would venture to say that of all the people in the great city of Mobile, she has the biggest secret of all.” She sipped her sarsaparilla and smiled at me through her yellow-tinged teeth.

  “What secret might that be?”

  “Oh, that’s for you to figure out. I don’t like Claudette Page, but she is not my mortal enemy—she’s yours. Your very existence has threatened everything she holds dear. Her reputation, her wealth, her family’s name—these are all things she’s willing to die for. But if you find out her secret and confront her with it, she’ll slink away like a scolded puppy. Now,” she said, setting her glass down and smoothing her dress as she stood, “I need a dressmaker. Your business is in shambles, and that’s not likely to change. Put a sign on the door that says you’re closed for remodeling. Have your brother install some new cabinets or something. While he works on that project, you come help me. I’ll make sure you get the opportunity to get the information you need.”

  “Why are you helping me? I’m not ungrateful, but why?”

  “I’ll keep my reasons to myself for now, if you don’t mind. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but I would like to wait. Work for me for the next six weeks, and I can promise you everything will be different.”

  I stood up and extended my hand to her. “You have yourself a deal, Maundy.”

  She shook it and smiled broadly. “Smart girl. I’m Miss Weaver during working hours. I’ll see you at Rose Cottage in the morning.”

  “At your house? I thought I was to work here, in the shop?”

  “Oh no, dear. This little shop is for regular folks like you and me. My most exclusive clients have their fittings and consultations at Rose Cottage. It’s a private service that I offer them. For example, I have clients who need help with their Mardi Gras ball dresses, but privacy is an issue. Keeping those dresses secret is a must until the big reveal at the ball. It’s kind of a local tradition. It’s ridiculous how they try to outdo one another, but if it’s pearls they want, it’s pearls they will get. Or whatever strikes their fancy. That’s not going to be a problem for you, is it?”

  “Not at all. And where is Rose Cottage located?”

  “Turn left on Monterey Street and follow it to Virginia Street. My house is behind the Magnolia Cemetery. You can’t miss it. It’s the yellow two-story with the green shutters. Do you have a carriage?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Bring it. It will rain tomorrow. It always rains after heat like this. And dress nicely, Miss Page. You’ll meet your new attorney tomorrow.”

  “New attorney?”

  “My friend, Jackson Keene. He’ll help you get all this sorted out.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you for all this.”

  “One day I’ll tell you.” She leaned forward and peered into my eyes. “One day I will ask you for a favor. I will expect you to grant it. In the meantime, keep your eyes and ears open and your mouth closed. Don’t ask questions. The quieter, the less intrusive you are, the more likely they’ll trust you and the sooner you’ll hear something. Something useful you can use to put that old woman in her place. I have had enough of her and her moral society.”

  With a final handshake I slipped out of the house and walked back home. In one conversation I had lost everything and gained it all again. I wondered about my new partner, Maundy Weaver. What did she want from me? It would do no good to ask. I could tell she was not the kind of woman who would be easily persuaded to do anything other than what she wanted. Still, this was better than any plan I currently had. Once again, life had handed me an unexpected fork in the road. I hoped this time I had chosen the right path.

  Chapter Three—Henri

  I drizzled the bourbon into the hot pan and watched the flames appear. I worked the pan just like a short-order cook, coating the pecans in the decadent glaze. Turning off the flame, I continued to cook the alcohol out, pleased that I hadn’t burned the pecans. At least not this batch. Glancing at my wristwatch, I had a moment of panic—Detra Ann would arrive any minute, and I wanted everything to be perfect. I did not want to stop and think about what I was d
oing, how foolish I was to even dream that Detra Ann and I would ever be anything more than friends. But I did hope and dream. Although I couldn’t deny that I cared about her, I didn’t know how she felt about me. Not only that, but we were business partners. What was I doing having heart palpitations over a business partner? “Strike one, strike two,” as my granddad used to say.

  Walking the pan to the dining room table, I spooned the glaze over the plated roasted chicken. I couldn’t help but smile and for a moment felt confident that at least she’d like the dish I’d prepared for her. I tossed my dirty apron across the bar in the kitchen and searched for my lighter. No, on second thought, lighting candles would be coming on too strong. With nervous hands, I struggled to open a stubborn bottle of wine when I heard an unusual noise coming from the direction of the bathroom. It sounded like squirrels scratching at the wall—or someone breaking in! I put the wine aside and slipped quietly into my office. Removing my gun from the desk drawer, I went down the hall to investigate the source of the noise. I paused in the hallway waiting to hear the sound again. I was much more agile than I had been a year ago. I’d spent so much time at the gym—I had never been this fit before. My thirty-fifth birthday was last week, and I hadn’t told a soul. I didn’t need to be reminded how old I was. I couldn’t turn back time, but I could get in shape. And I had.

  Scratch, scratch…

  Nope, the noise wasn’t coming from the bathroom. It was coming from the guest room. As I stepped toward the door, I cocked my gun. I stood sweating in my gold-colored polo shirt, silently counting backwards from three. I heard a thud on the other side of the door and swung it open, my gun poised and ready to shoot the invader.