by AlLee, Jennifer L. ; Breidenbach, Angela; Franklin, Darlene
“For my birthday girl.” Father motioned to the last two unoccupied chairs on the front row. He then slid the tickets inside his suit coat.
Reba sat in the second chair, leaving the aisle seat for her father. She laid the program in the lap of her blue Sunday dress then glanced around, awed at what she saw. To think the four hundred chairs could be removed for dances, dance classes, wrestling, and banquets. Like the other theaters in town, Germania Hall was, as Reba had read in the Argus Leader, a “window to the world.”
She drew in a deep breath then released it slowly and a bit raggedly. “I can’t believe I’m here.”
The lady to her right leaned close. She smelled like a bouquet of flowers and wore a straw hat covered with ribbons and feathers. “Dearie, is this your first show?”
Reba nodded.
“Miss Maud Harrison is the newest addition to the program,” the woman whispered, and her eyes sparkled with the same anticipation Reba felt. “I saw her one-act comedy sketch, ‘The Lady Across the Hall,’ in Chicago last winter. Tonight is her last performance in Sioux Falls.”
“Is that her?” Reba pointed to the fiddler.
“Goodness, no. That girl is the dumb act.”
Reba frowned at the fiddler, whose eyes were closed as her bow floated against the strings. “Why is she the dumb act? She’s so pretty.”
The woman smiled sweetly. “The opening act is the weakest and usually has no dialogue, thus is considered dumb. The first performer exists simply to notify the audience the show has begun.”
As the woman turned her attention to the man on her other side, Reba opened the program. The first two pages contained advertisements, including a full-page ad for the Bee Hive Department Store her father had taken her to yesterday. She flipped the page.
GERMANIA HALL
Daily Mats. 1:30 Evenings 7:30
12 ALL STAR ACTS 12
TIMETABLE
FOR THE WEEK OF SEPTEMBER 21st
Under the timetable was a list of the twelve acts, of which eleven—including Miss Maud Harrison—were named. As lovely as the fiddler played, she was nothing more than “Musical Selection.”
How was that any different than being known as the youngest Diehl? Or the surprise Diehl? The unexpected one? Born after a dozen pregnancies, three of which ended in miscarriages and one in stillbirth. Embarrassed to admit at the age of forty-four, and with three grandchildren already, that she was carrying again, Mother had kept her pregnancy secret as long as she could. “In case it didn’t take,” she had explained ever since Reba could remember.
She hadn’t wanted it to take. While Mother had never said those words to Reba, Reba knew that’s what her mother had hoped. Maybe even prayed.
The unwanted one—that’s what she was. To her mother.
Reba’s vision blurred, but she blinked away the tears. She wasn’t going to cry about what she couldn’t change. Her father loved her. He liked spending time with her. He liked her as his daughter, as his youngest child. As a person. He never made her feel unwanted.
She rested against Father’s arm. “Thank you for bringing me to the city.”
He placed a kiss on top of her head.
A candy butcher stopped next to Father. “Sir, would you like a treat?” The mustached man withdrew two paper sacks from the basket that was supported by a strap around his neck. “I have lemon drops, cream candy, stick candy, rock candy, butterscotch, licorice, popcorn, and Cracker Jack.”
Father looked to Reba. “Your choice.”
“No, thank you.”
Father’s ashy blond brows rose, yet he didn’t question if she really wanted some. No matter how many times he insisted money was no object, she knew it was. Mother had made sure they both knew her disfavor with the weekend trip. The money Reba had made selling her show ewes and ram at the county fair needed to go to purchase a new divan and side chairs. Reba didn’t need to see Sioux Falls, any more than Father did. Waste of money, the trip was.
In the forty-two years her parents had been married, not once had they visited the big city together. Mother abhorred riding on the train. Mother saw no reason to leave home. Mother had grandchildren and work to attend to.
Reba smiled in hopes of convincing her father she was content without candy. They had one more day in Sioux Falls. She refused to waste their fun money on sweets.
Father waved the candy butcher on.
While the man made his way down the front row, Reba flipped through the program filled with advertisements for everything—anything—a person could want. Mother didn’t know what she was missing. If she did, she would never want to return to the farm.
Just like Reba didn’t.
And one day she wouldn’t return. Somehow she’d find a way to escape to a better world.
She closed the booklet then and gripped her father’s hand. “Father, I think I’d like to live in Sioux Falls,” she announced as the fiddler played a somber second tune.
Father’s blue-eyed gaze shifted from the stage to her. “You would give up everything you know to live here? You would leave the farm and your family? You would leave me?”
Reba’s heart tightened. She nodded.
His eyes almost looked watery, and he seemed troubled. No, not troubled or worried or even anxious. More like … well, like sad. And older than his sixty years.
She opened her mouth to tell him she wouldn’t leave. But nothing came out. Besides her father, there was nothing for her back home. No bright future. No life-to-the-fullest like Reverend Frieke had preached about last week. She refused to grow up to be miserable like her mother. She wanted pretty hats, caramel popcorn, and afternoons spent at the theater.
Reba started to let go of Father’s hand.
His fingers tightened around hers. “Reba Diehl, you are braver than I have ever been.”
Chapter 1
“A becoming hat or bonnet may be equal to a letter of recommendation, for it is the practice of many people to judge the character of an individual by the clothes which he or she wears.”
—JESSICA ORTNER, Practical Millinery, 1897
Turner County Fair, Parker, South Dakota Late August 1908
With a record fifth win at this year’s fair,” yelled the announcer through the megaphone, “Miss Reba Diehl!”
Reba released the breath she was holding. Her hat was the best in show.
As applause broke out, she was engulfed in hugs and congratulations. The best part about entering her creations in the Turner County Fair was how friendly and encouraging everyone was, even when their fair entry didn’t win.
“Miss Diehl,” the announcer said, “please come to the stage for your ribbon. Coming up next, the Division of Culinary …”
After the last hug, Reba smoothed the front of her good luck white pongee silk dress and nervously checked the pin securing her favorite black hat onto her hair. Of all the ribbons she’d won today, this one—Class 142, MILLINERY, Ladies’ Hats—meant the most. She glanced around for Levi, but the crowd was too thick and she was too short to see over anyone’s head. Surely he was around somewhere. Certainly. He knew how important this win was to her. He, more than anyone, would understand what this meant.
Reba smiled as she climbed the gazebo bandstand to accept the blue ribbon for the straw hat bedecked with handcrafted silk flowers and leaves. Hours cutting petals and curving the fabric. Hours stitching. Hours taking what she saw in her mind and turning it into a masterpiece. Her cheeks ached already from smiling so hard.
Because that’s what her hat was—a masterpiece.
She vigorously shook hands with the four members of the fair’s Department of Women’s Work. With a thank-you, she accepted the ribbon from the superintendent, Mrs. Gertrude Wright.
“This was your best hat yet. Congratulations!” Mrs. Wright touched Reba’s arm, stilling her from walking away. “Miss Diehl, please reconsider my offer. It’s far too generous a scholarship for you to pass up. You would be a valued addition to the teaching sta
ff.”
Reba nodded, even though she had no intention of attending college, regardless of where it was located. No matter how many blue ribbons she won for darning stockings, patching old garments, or repairing buttonholes, her future did not include earning a degree in home economics. Having a degree meant becoming a teacher, and Mrs. Wright, also the dean of Home Economics at Sioux Falls College, had already offered her a job upon graduation. Reba certainly didn’t want to teach college girls how to darn, patch, and repair, which was only a fraction of the household management curriculum. If she wanted to manage a household and teach, she would stay on the farm and have a quiver full of children.
She offered a polite thank-you then headed to the stairs.
Mrs. Wright called out, “You will receive an enrollment packet in the mail next week!”
“Oh, all right. Thank you!” Reba accepted hug after hug as she made her way through the crowd surrounding the bandstand. She wasn’t a seamstress. She wasn’t a teacher. She certainly wasn’t a country girl content to stay on the farm.
She was a milliner.
She made hats. Blue ribbon–winning hats.
And she had plans—grand plans.
Levi Webber hooked his thumbs around his suspenders as he watched the Ferris wheel turn. A soft breeze blew across his forearms, bare from his rolled-up sleeves. This year he’d convince Reba to ride the wheel with him. Tonight. At sunset. Twilight never ceased to amaze him with its ability to transform a fair into something a little bit mysterious, a little bit exciting, and even a little bit dangerous … and yet all the while sending out sweet echoes of laughter and romance. What girl could resist that? Sitting high above the fairgrounds at twilight would be the perfect time to choose the date for their wedding.
Of course, he’d have to not look at her when they talked, because when he did look at her, after a minute his ears would stop listening. Reba was the prettiest girl he knew. When he walked through the cornfield, he couldn’t help but brush the tips of the cornstalks. Her hair was as golden, as silky, as touchable. Lately, not touching it was becoming more and more of a struggle.
He loved her too much to bring her any dishonor.
That they were marrying soon was a blessing. Next month was a good time to marry.
Levi resumed his stroll along the midway, determined to find the perfect gift for his girl. For as long as he could remember, she had loved the fair as much as he did. Carnival workers cajoled youngsters and old-timers into their lairs. In the distance was the sound of BB shot hitting tin cans. He passed signs hawking food—FRESH ROASTED CORN!—and games. He paused at SHOOT A BASKET, WIN A Bear and watched two boys throw a dozen brown balls at six apple baskets nailed to a wall. None sank.
The game operator patted one boy’s back, leaving a chalky handprint. “Lemme let you in on a secret. That balloon dart game over there is the easiest one to win.”
After an exuberant “thank you, sir,” the boys dashed in the direction the game operator had pointed.
The man slapped his hands together, wiping off the chalk, then looked to Levi. “I bet you could win a stuffed bear for your girl.”
“I doubt I’d be that lucky.”
“Don’t be a pessimist. Have more faith.”
“What I need is more skill, not more faith.” Levi adjusted his flat cap. “Thanks for the offer. My fiancée would prefer a sweeter gift.” He continued on, passing a row of tents, buffeted by the smell of sausage competing with the smell of fish. The wind direction favored the fish, perhaps explaining why the line was longer at that stand.
The bandstand within eyesight, Levi stopped at a display of canned fruit. Mrs. Diehl’s pantry was as full as his mother’s was, but what it lacked was—
He picked up a jar, its lid covered in blue gingham. “Did you grow these peaches?”
“Sure did.” The seller stepped to the table while his pregnant wife stayed in her chair, knitting.
Levi studied the perfectly ripe fruit. He’d never heard of anyone successfully raising peaches in South Dakota. “How did you get them to endure the climate? I’ve been trying to grow peaches up in Brookings for the last six years. I’ve tried Bokhara No. 3 and some of the Iowa peach seedlings, and even planted a few pits of the Bailey, the Leigh, the Alberta, and the Early Canada. What few trees have survived have only produced fruit buds.”
“We’re from Minnesota,” the wife said. “This is my cousin’s booth. His wife has several entries in the culinary division. They’re announcing winners now.”
The seller tipped his straw hat. “You own an orchard?”
“No, sir. I worked at the South Dakota State University Extension to pay for my degree.” Levi couldn’t contain his smile. “Horticulture is a hobby of mine. I’m determined to grow peaches someday. My fiancée loves them.”
“What’s your degree in?”
“Agricultural business. And accounting,” he answered with less passion. He’d have earned a degree in horticulture if he’d had the time and finances … and the support from his parents. “My family owns the largest dairy farm in Turner County. We’re expanding, and they need me to do the accounting and paperwork.” Levi didn’t flinch as the man seemed to see into his soul and recognize the discontent he had tried to hide.
The man raised a brow. “Well, now, have you tried grafting the peach on native plum stock and on sand cherry?”
“Yes, sir. I grafted right on the ground or a little below it into a young sand cherry stock, using a wedge-shaped scion. Did it very early in the spring before the buds start.”
The seller nodded approvingly. “You’re doing that right. Try bending the trees at the roots in the fall and keeping them covered with straw or mulch in the winter. Don’t cover them, because the moist earth is apt to rot the buds.”
Levi shook the seller’s hand. “Thank you. I’ll take two jars.”
After paying the couple, he headed in the direction of the Women’s Work building. Reba loved peaches. His feet ached to run to her, to show her what he’d bought. Ever since returning home from college, he couldn’t stop thinking about her and their future together. Come spring, he’d plant her an orchard. The land she’d inherited from her grandmother had the perfect spot for one. God had certainly blessed him with the perfect wife and the perfect house on the perfect piece of land.
Levi clenched the jars of peaches to his chest as he wove through the crowd. The only thing standing between him and his perfect future was—
He grinned.
Nothing.
Chapter 2
“… while certain rules will always apply more or less to the details of construction, yet there are few rules which can ever be applied to the manipulation of trimmings.”
—Practical Millinery
Miss, I’ll give you two dollars for your blue-ribbon hat.”
Reba didn’t have a chance to respond before a second man said, “I’ll pay three!”
“Three and a quarter,” offered another man in a three-piece suit that looked to be tailored specifically for him, as did the fancy silk dress worn by the redhead holding on to his arm. The pair looked out of place—more suited for an urban environment like Chicago or New York.
Reba glanced back and forth between the three men. The bidding continued, and a crowd grew around display table number eight in the Women’s Work building.
“I saw a hat similar to it in Macy’s,” the stately redhead said to the woman next to her. “It was imported from Paris and was priced at thirty dollars.”
Several people gasped.
The bidding ended at half the Macy’s price tag … only to start up again on the very hat Reba wore. Within minutes, she had a handful of bills and a list of names and addresses of people interested in buying her hats. She’d never sold one for more than a dollar before, but today she’d sold two for over twenty times that. She gave her blue-ribbon hat to the redhead and accepted payment from the husband.
She then placed the money and the list on the empty disp
lay table and removed her favorite black hat with white silk flowers and ostrich feathers. She handed it to the other winning bidder. “Thank you, sir. I’ll send word when my shop opens.” As Reba continued to utter her thanks, the crowd wandered off.
The man nodded. “If you’re interested, there’s street-front space in the Edmison-Jamison building in Sioux Falls. It’s the best place to attract traffic from the Bee Hive next door. My wife will be thrilled for Sioux Falls to finally have a milliner of your caliber.” He withdrew a business card from inside his suit coat. “I am a loan officer at the Metropolitan Bank. Come see me next week.”
“Thank you,” she said, not taking the card, “but I don’t need a loan.” She tucked a loosened blond strand behind her ear. “I sold the land I inherited from my …” Her words trailed off when the banker’s gaze shifted to something—someone—behind her. It couldn’t be her father because he was at the cattle arena with her nephews, Hans and Peter.
“I’ll inform my wife about your boutique.” He pressed his business card in her hand then tipped his hat. “Good day.”
Reba turned around and winced. There stood Levi with a most unflattering scowl on his bearded face, which was enough of a confirmation that he’d overheard the discussion. This wasn’t how she’d planned on sharing the news. However, in light of recent events, as Father had warned her earlier this morning, this discussion was one she and Levi needed to have.
She laid her hat pin on the table.
“I won five blue ribbons,” she said to break the silence, “and sold two hats for twenty-four dollars. It’s unbelievable! People want my hats. If I’d have brought more, I could have sold them.”
Levi’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t care about the hats,” he said, walking to her. “You sold our land.”
Reba choked on her breath. “Our land? No, I sold my land inherited from my grandmother.”
He slammed the two jars of peaches he’d been carrying onto the display table. “You had no right to sell it without talking to me first.”