by AlLee, Jennifer L. ; Breidenbach, Angela; Franklin, Darlene
The Swansons’ beagle came bounding out the farmhouse door and leapt at Grant. He bent and lifted Mr. Box into his arms. “We should take you up on a balloon ride with us, old fellow.”
Mrs. Swanson stood in the doorway, eyeing their vehicle, which she called his “idiotic death trap.” She handed Lee a basket. “Sarah left without this. I guess it’s too big to balance on the bike.”
“Right kind of you, ma’am.” Lee accepted the large wicker contraption and seemed to stagger under the weight. “What’s in here, Miss Bonnie?”
“First”—she counted down on her fingers—“there’s my prize-winning canned peaches; then pound cake, which won at our county festival; then my fried chicken, best of Central Michigan Fair in ’85; my corn bread muffins; and more.”
“You’re sending all that with one gal?” Hudgins flexed his arm slowly, like a weight lifter, before gently setting the basket on the floor of the backseat of the carriage.
Her cheeks reddened. “I added more for you fellows since you’re going to keep watch over her. All kinds of strange folk come into those fairs, don’tcha know?”
“Yes, ma’am. I reckon so.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Swanson. We’ll do our best.” Grant offered her what he hoped was a winning smile. Watching over the pretty Miss Richmond should be no chore at all.
The early train arrived as the sun rose over the gorgeous new fairgrounds, casting a coral glow on the whitewashed buildings. Sarah made her way directly to the almost-empty Home Arts Pavilion. Her carpetbag, holding quilt and sundries, weighed her down more than she’d imagined. By the time she set it down by the linen-covered registration table, her arms ached worse than after milking an overfull cow.
“Good to see you, again.” The registrar, about Mama’s age with soft brown waves framing a pretty face, smiled up at her.
“Thank you, Mrs. Burgi.”
“I have your table information.” Judith Burgi flipped through a box of what looked like recipe cards and pulled one out. “Number twelve, shared with Miss Denise Drefs.”
“From Newberry?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Burgi beamed, as though she’d just handed Sarah a blue ribbon. “Do you know her?”
“I do. If only I’d known.” They’d met at the county fair. “We could have traveled together.”
“She brought her mother’s quilt to display.” A muscle in Mrs. Burgi’s jaw twitched. “It’s rather unusual.”
“Oh.” Sarah wasn’t sure how to respond. “I’m sure it’s lovely.”
The registrar’s lips compressed into a thin ribbon.
When no further comment was forthcoming, Sarah picked up her bag. “Thank you, Mrs. Burgi.”
Within the hour, the pretty young blond joined Sarah and caught her up on the latest town news. “With the new asylum opening, we’ll have many nurses coming to the area. It’ll be even harder to meet young men.”
“I’ve no desire to meet any men.” Sarah blurted out the words without thinking.
Arching a golden eyebrow, Miss Drefs gently inclined her head toward the building’s door. “With that gal here, I doubt we’ll have to worry about meeting any fellas.”
Sarah swiveled around. Even a hayseed like herself recognized Mamie DuBeau, whose wealthy father owned DuBeau’s Department Stores. On the weekends, Papa picked up the Detroit Free Press, reading it from front to back. Sarah enjoyed scanning the social columns, which frequently mentioned Mamie DuBeau. Her fiancé was reported to be an industrial engineer-inventor. How exciting, to spend time creating new machines.
From front and center of the pavilion, Mamie DuBeau sauntered right toward Sarah and Denise. The lovely brunette patted the side of her upswept hair. Attired in a midnight-blue wool walking suit, a glittering hat pin secured her matching feathered hat. She could have stepped out of a Godey’s ad. Or more aptly, from one of the DuBeau Department Store advertisements in the Detroit Free Press.
To Sarah’s surprise, the woman paused at their rectangular table, her catlike green eyes scanning her from hatless head to the scuffed tips of her work boots. “Good day. I’m Mamie DuBeau.”
Resisting the urge to shove her hand at the woman, having read it was considered unladylike, Sarah nodded. “Sarah Richmond. Nice to meet you.”
Her friend offered her hand, and the Detroit society miss lifted her nose in the air, ignoring her.
With one long, manicured finger, Mamie pointed to the ceiling. “That’s mine.” The feline expression on her face reminded Sarah of when the cats had gotten into the creamery at home.
Suspended from a golden bar, with two gilded eagles on each end, an exquisite American star quilt dominated all others.
Sarah’s mouth went dry. What chance did she have?
Denise straightened to her full height, taller than both women, nearly the height of Sarah’s eldest brother. “I’m showing my mother’s quilt.”
“Where is it?”
Miss Drefs unfolded what should have been a log cabin quilt but appeared more like a child’s paint box had exploded on a quilt backing.
The Detroiter’s nostrils curled.
“I haven’t found a workman to hang it yet.” Denise ran her hand over the quilt, protectively.
“We brought in our own help.” Mamie’s face became a regal mask. “My father owns DuBeau’s. He sent a work crew over after hours to hang mine in the best spot.”
When Sarah and Denise blinked at her, the beauty added, “He has friends among the State Fair Commission who wanted to help out.”
Feeling like the air had been sucked from her lungs, an image of Arnold flashed before Sarah’s eyes. The hospital staff had made every effort to save him. If she won, she’d wanted to donate the prize money to the medical staff. And she wanted to use the publicity to promote fundraisers for the clinic. The hospital’s understaffing and lack of care for her sweetheart were what she believed led to his death.
The annoying woman fixed her green gaze on Sarah. “What brings you to the fair?”
Sarah had had enough of the woman’s condescending tone, which reminded her of the nurses who made up every excuse under the sun as to why they’d not changed Arnold’s bandages nor gotten him up like the doctor had told them to do. She frowned. “Same as you, I expect.”
“Oh?” Her perfect lips puckered. “Have you something to display?”
Sarah narrowed her eyes at the woman, wondering what she’d look like if her maid hadn’t spent hours dressing her up like a doll. Denise, if she swapped out her pretty but serviceable clothes, would outshine this upstart. Sarah slapped her hand down on her quilt, which had been unfolded into quarter width. “Here it is.”
“Oh, I thought that might be your cloak. It looks wide enough.”
A frisson of anger shot through Sarah. As Denise had, she stood her tallest and looked down at the shorter and much thinner woman. Wealthy, privileged, dressed in the latest fashion or not, this girl needed a set down. Sarah had entreated Arnold’s nurses to improve their methods, but they’d only briefly complied before reverting back to their poor care. “Forgetting your manners are you?”
Jaw dropping open, eyes wide, Miss DuBeau swiveled away, leaving behind the overpowering scent of her tuberose perfume.
Sarah patted her folded quilt. Once again she’d lost her temper, like she had over and over again as Arnold fought to recover without receiving consistent help. Mama called Sarah her even-keeled girl, but those nurses at the hospital had gotten under her skin like chiggers, as did Miss DuBeau. As much as she’d like to ignore insults and incompetence, she simply couldn’t.
Glancing down at her clothes, her hot cheeks flaming, she’d like to shrink into a tiny bit of cotton and stuff herself into her quilt and hide. Her best dress had been decorated with new buttons, lace on the hem, and ribbons edging the seams. But standing near Mamie DuBeau made her mother’s and her efforts at fashion laughable. Even Denise’s pretty blue cotton day dress made Sarah’s look worn out. Which it was.
Denise wra
pped her arm around Sarah’s apron-covered waist. “Don’t let her get to you.”
She took two steps back and appraised Sarah. “Perhaps she’s jealous.”
“Of me?”
Why had the society miss headed straight to Sarah? It was strange.
Grasping the ties to Sarah’s apron, her new friend pulled them tighter then wrapped them around her waist, pulling them in once again, emphasizing Sarah’s small waist and her generous curves.
Denise pointed toward the door. “There’s a couple of fellas over there with their eyes bugging out of their heads, instead of helping put the quilts up.”
Sure enough, a trio of swarthy men ogled Sarah from across the room. She turned away and drew in a deep breath. Maybe Mama was right about men in the cities. They weren’t civilized.
Grant’s heartbeat ratcheted up as Lee and he strode out from their barn. He’d not felt this light of heart when they’d been setting up their balloon shed, but today longing filled him. “Let’s see who’s already here setting up their booths.”
The beautiful, brand-new grounds covered acres. Lovely trees and flowers—all separating him from Sarah Richmond.
Hudgins winked at him. “How about the Home Arts Pavilion first?”
Feigning a groan, Grant put his gray cotton workman’s cap on, pulling the bill low over his forehead. “Good a place as any, I suppose.”
“Ya’ll come on then, ya heah?” Hudgins liked to lay his accent on thick sometimes, which could land them in some trouble.
“Behave yourself today.”
“Spoilsport.”
Grant stiffened. Jonetta had often called him that. But as she lay dying, she’d apologized, saying he’d been the most stalwart friend she’d had.
Hudgins pulled an apple from his pocket and tossed it in the air as they walked, catching it with ease each time. Once in a while he’d pause, wink at a lady, and then grin if she blushed.
“Don’t even think of trying that number on Miss Richmond.” Grant nodded at a trio of gents setting up a canopy. The scent of rich coffee carried on the breeze. “Wonder how she takes her brew.”
“Probably full-bodied, sweet, and creamy.” Lee’s eyebrows waggled in self-amusement.
Grant stifled the desire to throttle his friend. “I’ll inquire.”
“Why?”
Grant’s index finger involuntarily twitched, which it did when he was aggravated, working like a telegram operator sending a message. “That’s my business.”
“Speakin’ of business, ya ever think about givin’ up on using our engines to navigate?” Lee scratched his chin.
Grant’s need to create an engine that would help maneuver much larger and navigable balloons to far places had become a sore topic. “We’ve already had the military sniffing around our shop in Detroit.”
“Meanwhile, everyone else tryin’ this seems to be meetin’ an untimely end.”
“Let me pray on this some more.” And get into the Word more than he had been.
“Maybe it’s good we’re tethered,” Lee muttered.
They walked on to the massive hall, which reeked of sawdust and paint. Men, and some women who never should have been up on the ladders in their bulky skirts, hung quilts.
As they moved through the thin crowd, a curvy woman standing high atop a rickety ladder half turned toward them. His breath caught in his throat. Both at the image of her feminine form so prominently displayed and because of the danger of using that weathered old ladder that looked like it should be heaved onto a trash pile.
“Mr. Bentley! I’m so glad you and your friend are working today.” Sarah Richmond, her dowdy gray skirt flaring out near the top rung, called down to him. When she swiveled around, one hand grasping the side, it began to sway.
“No!” He thrust out his hand.
The ladder tumbled, heading straight at several ladies who shrieked.
Grant rushed forward as Sarah hurtled down.
Chapter 4
Oh!” Strong arms caught her, and Sarah grabbed Mr. Bentley’s neck and shoulder. Instead of the scent of paint and fresh lumber, ever present on the new site, she inhaled something spicy mixed with the faint odor of engine oil. She felt his knees bend and then struggle momentarily to straighten as she dipped in his arms. She marveled that he could manage her and her ample curves so easily. She’d feared he’d fall. “Thank you, but I think you’d best set me down.”
This close, his pupils appeared large and black, with only a thin line of rich chocolate brown around the rim. He didn’t release her, nor did he seem to breathe. Perhaps she’d knocked the stuffing out of him. Finally, he sucked in a breath and blinked. “Miss Richmond.”
Gently, he lowered her. When he let go, a chill seemed to take the place of his warm hold. She crossed her arms and clutched them to her body. “I’m awfully glad you’re working today.”
Nearby, Mr. Hudgins pulled the ladder away, as a bevy of quilters watched, tittering. Goodness, Sarah could have landed on one of them. Denise joined her and Mr. Bentley. “Are you all right, Sarah?”
“Nearly broke your neck,” Mr. Bentley muttered. He bent to pick up his hat from the floor then dusted it off against his leg.
Sarah bit her lower lip.
Denise clutched her hands to her chest. “What your friend did was so brave!”
“I could’ve been knocked unconscious.” Mr. Bentley patted his thick hair.
Mortified, Sarah was at a loss for words. She glared at the irritating workman who’d possibly saved her life. “You might be too thickheaded for that to have happened.”
His handsome features contorted, and his face reddened. “Do you not think before you act?”
Mr. Hudgins strode back toward them.
“You got up on that ancient contraption.” Grant’s voice rose.
“Now, Grant …” Mr. Hudgins laid a hand on his friend’s arm, but Mr. Bentley shook it off like a snake.
“You could have died right in front of all these ladies. Can you imagine the horror that would’ve caused?”
Around them, heads turned and women gaped. The hall suddenly became eerily quiet.
A whisper-soft voice within her urged, “Forgive Arnold.”
Tears pricked her eyes at the conviction she knew was from God speaking to her heart. She’d thought she’d forgiven her fiancé for volunteering at the Wild West show, only to inflict horror upon the spectators, his family, and her when he was seriously injured. Worse yet, his lingering death without proper medical attention.
Mr. Hudgins ran his finger around his collar, bringing to mind Arnold’s priest, who didn’t seem to know quite what to say to Sarah. She wasn’t, after all, his wife. Would be no one’s wife.
Her eyes flitted back to Lee Hudgins’s collar. A decidedly white, starched, and possibly celluloid dress collar gleamed beneath his jumpsuit. Incongruous for a workman. She directed her gaze to Mr. Bentley whose Adam’s apple bobbed above a similarly pristine white collar. His eyes glazed over, as though he, too, was lost in thought.
“Why didn’t you wait for someone to help you?”
Once again, Mr. Hudgins tried to lay a hand on his coworker, but Mr. Bentley threw back an arm, almost striking the other man on the nose.
“Why would you put yourself in danger’s path and not consider all those who care …” His voice trailed off.
Sarah didn’t need a scene. Yet every word he hurled at her she’d spit out at Arnold after the accident. Almost verbatim. A chill swept over her. She could’ve sworn God stood right there with her. And of course He was with her. There was nowhere she would be without Him. Even in a pavilion full of ladies who’d just seen her make a fool of herself.
“I fear your conduct is becomin’ most ungentlemanly.” Mr. Hudgins’s accent thickened. “Miss Richmond is not your mother.”
Not his mother? Why would he say that?
Mr. Bentley spun on his heel and stormed from the hall.
Her heart beat wildly. Good thing she’d sworn off
men. The last two she’d cared for had died. No more heartbreak, nor pining over what could have been. No putting up with male tantrums in a public setting. No more quilting long hours on a wedding quilt that would never be hers. No additional embellishments to this quilt. She spun around to see where her quilt had fallen.
Denise offered it to her.
“Thank you.” She pressed it to her bosom. The hours of wishes, dreams, and love that had gone into every stitch would soon belong to someone else. At least she prayed that would happen. If she attracted enough attention with it, she could sell it for a good price. And if somehow she beat out Miss DuBeau and the others for the blue ribbon and was interviewed by the papers, she’d be sure to point out that more state dollars needed to go for hospital care in the Upper Peninsula.
Lee Hudgins swept his hat off. “Forgive my friend, ladies. He lost his mother in an accident that he witnessed.”
“Oh.” How horrible.
“I fear you, Miss Richmond, received the wrath a twelve-year-old boy could not vent on his mother.”
Sarah drew in a long shallow breath. “I see. I’m sorry.”
Taking two steps toward him, Denise extended a slim hand. “I’m afraid we haven’t been introduced. I’m Denise Drefs, Sarah’s table partner.”
Mr. Hudgins stared for a moment too long at Denise’s proffered hand. Then he bowed, took her hand in his, and pressed a lingering kiss atop it. “Charmed, Miss Drefs. My name is Lee Hudgins, but I insist you call me Lee.”
Denise seemed to have swallowed her tongue. Lee was a very handsome man and eloquent for a groundskeeper. Perhaps he’d received a good education and had fallen on hard times. Why did neither man ever seem to have equipment with which to conduct their work? Odd.
Still rattled by her fall, Sarah set the quilt on the table and leaned in.
“Are you all right?”
“I believe so.”
“Well, then.” Mr. Hudgins cocked his head at her. “I’ll be on my way.”
“Wait. You’re working right now, aren’t you?” Why were they there?