Love, Valentine Style

by Jasmine Haynes

  Chapter One

  Still recovering from jet lag, Charlie Bristol gulped her vente mocha. Having a coffee shop on every corner was one of the only good things about Seattle. She stood just inside the door and watched the rain pour so hard it bounced off the sidewalk. There was no way to avoid it—she’d have to brave the rain and make a dash for it. She ran from Starbucks to the Fine Art Museum, clutching her coffee in a death grip. She wouldn’t make it through the day without constant caffeine infusions. Even with her hood up, the water found a way through to her skin. What a dreary place to spend Valentine’s Day.

  Seattle was nothing compared to the bright lights of New York where she lived. Of course, she couldn’t really complain since she had volunteered for this job—setting up the traveling display chronicling the history of Valentine’s Day.

  The director of the museum held the door open for her. She offered her a pleasant smile. “Welcome to Seattle, Ms. Bristol.”

  A laugh bubbled up her throat. “At least I’ll be working indoors.”

  “Don’t worry. It never rains for long in Seattle. It just drizzles often.”

  Charlie nodded. That would explain why no one in Seattle carried an umbrella. “That’s a relief. Thank you for having me, Mrs. Tilton.”

  The door closed behind her and Mrs. Tilton extended her hand. Charlie gently clasped the older woman’s hand and gave it a polite shake. Mrs. Tilton reminded her of her grandmother, small of stature but full of life. Her classic librarian rimmed glasses perched regally on her nose.

  “We are excited to have you and the Valentine’s Exhibit. You know I could have picked you up at the airport.”

  Charlie shook her head. “I am from New York. I’m used to taking taxis.”

  “I can give you a quick tour of the museum. Or would you need to freshen up first?”

  Charlie pushed her hood off her head and water droplets flung everywhere. “Yes, please. Can you direct me to the bathroom?”

  “Certainly,” she pointed down a long hallway. “It is the second door on the left.”

  Charlie pressed the button on the hand dryer; with a paper towel she daintily dabbed the drops on her face. Her blonde hair was a mess thanks to being squished by her hood. She dug a small brush out of her purse and ran it through her long blonde locks. Putting her hair up would probably look best, not that it would really salvage her bad hair day. She put her hair in a ponytail and then wrapped it into a bun. Digging into the bottom of her purse she found a bag of bobby pins. She pinned the bits of hair sticking out trying to tame her messy updo into something more professional.

  It probably wasn’t practical to wear her Carven ruched navy blue wrap dress since she would be doing a lot of ladder climbing and bending over to set up the displays, but she wasn’t a pants kind of gal. You never knew when a hot guy would show up. At least her black dress shoes were flats.

  Now presentable, she re-emerged into the brightly lit foyer of the museum.

  Mrs. Tilton led her to a large room with empty display cases and white walls which looked as bare as the day they were painted. “If you need any help setting up your displays, please do not hesitate to let me know. It really is a pleasure to have you here, Ms. Bristol.” Enthusiasm brightened her green eyes. “I know it will be a hit. What a romantic way to spend Valentine’s Day … a trip to the museum.”

  “Oh, I’m sure the gentlemen will love it,” Charlie said, sarcasm weighting her voice.

  The older lady gave a tittery laugh. “They will endure it with a smile if they know what is best for them. But, really, Seattle is more cultured than many people think.”

  It was still a far cry from New York.

  Charlie noticed her boxes had been carefully brought in and set in a pile in the middle of the room. She needed to put on conservation gloves before she pulled anything out. Some of the valentines were very old.

  “Oh. I forgot. I hope you don’t mind an addition to your display.”

  “An addition?” Charlie asked. “What kind of addition?”

  Mrs. Tilton held up one finger. “I’ll be right back and show you.” She returned a few minutes later with a small sized flat rate postal box. “This was on my desk this morning. A local must have heard about the traveling exhibit and wanted to donate. I really do think these Civil War era valentines will be lovely in a case.”

  Civil War valentines? Charlie put on her conservation gloves and carefully pulled the valentines out. On top of the stack of valentines was a hand written note. Oddly enough the handwriting was fancy as if written by a calligraphy pen. Such handwriting was an art in itself and a lost art at that.

  “The letter isn’t signed,” Charlie said.

  “I know. The donor wishes to remain anonymous.”

  “He or she said they gave the museum a sizeable donation?”

  Mrs. Tilton nodded. “It really was a blessing. We haven’t had as many patrons this year with the recession. We needed the money. The donor only wishes their valentines be prominently displayed in return. You can do that, can’t you?” Her eyes contained hope and her voice a pleading note.

  “Of course,” Charlie said, smiling. “I’d be happy to.” It wouldn’t take her very long to set up another small display. She’d set it up in the middle of the room. If the donor wished them to be prominently displayed maybe they would come on the Valentine’s Day opening to see them.

  Charlie turned over one of the valentines and read the note on the back. The black ink had faded to brown but it was still visible enough to read.

  MY LOVE

  ’Mid bugle’s blast and cannon’s roar,

  And ’mid the battles angry flame;

  ’Mid clashing sabers red with gore,

  I fondly breathe they much-loved name.

  I feel thee near at dead of night,

  When I my vigil lone am keeping—

  Thy image guards me, angel bright,

  In dreams when wearied I am sleeping,

  Each northward wind wafts on its breath,

  To thee a yearning kiss of mine—

  On glory’s field or bed of death,

  I live or die thy Valentine.

  Blending patriotism and romance, that didn’t happen in today’s society. It was fitting for the Civil War though, and despite the gory words it touched her. Even the back of the valentine was a piece of art. It was embossed with an eagle on the top, a man dressed as a Revolutionary War soldier at the bottom left hand quarter and a drum surrounded by flowers in the bottom right hand corner.

  “That’s funny,” Charlie mused. “This valentine is addressed to a Charlotte Adams. My maiden name is Adams.”

  “Oh. What a coincidence. I didn’t look through all the valentines this morning, but it looks like all of them are to this Charlotte Adams from her beau, Elliot Lowery.”

  A shiver rippled from her neck to her ankles. “Do you know anything about this Elliot Lowery?”

  “No. I haven’t had time; the valentines just came in this morning. Based on one of the old envelopes, Charlotte lived in Illinois, so I’m guessing he was a Union soldier.”

  “I see. Well, if I have time after setting up everything I’ll see if I can learn a bit more about the sweethearts. It would be fun to print up information on them to include with the display. People love to make the human connection.”

  Maybe she’d even find a picture of this Elliot Lowery. This intriguing mystery would help distract her from her heartache. It was going to be a lonely Valentine’s Day. The first since the divorce became final. Perhaps she could pretend that these one hundred fifty year old valentines had actually been written for her.

  Chapter Two

  It had been a long night. Charlie had been working nonstop setting up the displays. The walls were now adorned with cupids and hearts and chocolate advertisements. Valentine’s Day is big business for candy makers, florists, restaurateurs, and greeting card makers. She just now realized that in additional to being an exhibit honoring art and love, it also showed
the history of commercialism.

  The majestic delicacy of the earlier valentines still touched her. The handmade care which went into every card made it all the more romantic. She could imagine ladies putting together the lace paper confections by candlelight, hand-painting on satin, and adding jewels to silk chiffon.

  After looking at all the pre-industrial valentines, she was drawn again to the Civil War cards, bypassing those from the 1840s and 1850s. She had placed the Civil War valentines in a case, resting against blue velvet. They fit well into the exhibit. She already had many Victorian valentines, but did not have any written specifically by a soldier until now.

  She yawned and shook her head. She’d already downed her second mocha. The caffeine crash was eminent. The adrenaline faded along with the coffee pumping through her body. She yawned again.

  Now that everything was nearly ready for the opening, couldn’t she take a nap? She stopped in front of the special display of Civil War valentines one more time. One of the valentines had somehow become crooked. How did that happen? With a sigh she unlocked the case and reached in to straighten it. It was a beautiful valentine with a picture of the Union flag draped over a soldier’s tent. She pulled it out and opened the two flaps to reveal the image of a Union soldier writing a letter home; above him was the simple drawing of a beautiful woman as if she was always on his mind.

  She gently ran her fingers across the embossed edges and read the verse.

  Fondly I gaze in

  Thy sweet face,

  And clasp thy little

  Hand in mine,

  Love swiftly speeds

  Us to the place

  Where I shall claim

  My Valentine.

  A tingling sensation spread across her chest. The sentimentality … she blinked her eyes. Her ex had never been sentimental. Sure, she liked a manly man, but to laugh and scorn her for showing her emotions had gotten old. Back in the 1860s things seemed simpler. Despite the terrible war, these valentines showed the humanity of this Elliot Lowery. He and this Charlotte Adams loved just like people loved today. Love was timeless. It never changed.

  Mr. Lowery seemed honest. The possibility of dying any moment tended to bring out the truth. He wasn’t putting on a front for the woman he loved. He was fighting for his country and his heart yearned to be home with her.

  Her imagination got carried away. Holding the valentine, she almost felt as if she was connected to him. He was true blue from the uniform he wore straight through his core. It shown with every bold and careful pen stroke.

  Charlie yawned again. She should stay awake a little longer and do research on this couple. She wanted to know more about them—especially Mr. Lowery. Was he tall and handsome with a dreamy smile?

  Her eyes grew heavy and slowly closed. She pressed the valentine to her heart. If only she could meet Mr. Lowery.

  Chapter Three

  Charlie woke feeling very warm, her legs stiff. Opening her eyes, she saw a glowing brick fireplace in front of her and felt the hard seat of the wooden chair beneath her. The museum didn’t have a fireplace. Where was she?

  This wasn’t the museum. She was in a cabin and the wood looked worn, not recently built. She held one of the Civil War valentines in her hand. She needed to put it back in the case before she damaged the beautiful piece of art.

  With her free hand, she rubbed her eyes, fully expecting this strange scenery to change to her Valentine’s Day exhibit. It didn’t. She stared at the valentine wondering what to do with it. For now she rested it on top of a small side table next to the chair. Why didn’t I imagine more comfortable and luxurious furniture? Her backside was sore as if she’d slept in the chair for hours. The smell of beef cooking drew her to the kitchen. She hadn’t had much to eat today. After all that coffee, she really should eat something hardy. She didn’t want to know what all that acid was doing to her insides.

  Steam rose out of a cast iron pan on the stove. How nice of whoever lived here to cook her something. She peered into the pot and saw large chunks of carrots and onions and potatoes simmering with the meat. The stew made her mouth water. This was classic country cooking, nothing like she was used to having in New York City.

  There was a knock at the door. Her chest constricted. Who could that be? Another knock. She found herself drawn to the door and slowly opened it as if the stranger might bite her.

  A young man with thick black hair and a sexy five o’clock shadow stood there, a single red rose in his hand. He straightened, bringing his boot clad feet together. She worked her gaze up from his feet all the way up his long legs to his broad shoulders and dreamy blue-gray eyes. He was dressed in a Union uniform, the blue wool coat unbuttoned to reveal his white shirt underneath.

  My imagination sure knows how to construct a good looking soldier!

  The man smiled, showing a row of straight teeth. “Miss Adams,” he said in a deep voice. When she raised her eyebrow at the use of her maiden name, he frowned slightly. “I know I’ve been gone for several months, but I didn’t expect you to forget me.”

  “Forget you?” She’d never seen him before. Maybe she should play along. “Um… I didn’t forget you. You just look—different.”

  He patted his stomach. “I’ve probably lost a few pounds. Your stew sure smells good. Every day I’m forced to eat camp cooking, I think about all those good meals we’ve shared.”

  Charlie’s mouth parted slightly. Her brain grasped for something to hold on to, something that made sense. All she could think was those valentines had gone to her head. Now she was dreaming about them! She took another look at the handsome soldier on the step, his easy smile and his warm eyes. She had no idea who this man was, but something about him was familiar. She trusted him instinctively.

  “Forgive me,” she said, opening the door wider. “Please come in. I’m sure you’re hungry.”

  He laughed. “You know me; I’m always hungry. Looks like I arrived just in time for supper.” He stepped through the door, the heat from his muscular frame making her heart race. His eyes swept her body, pausing at her breasts before perusing lower. “That is sure a salacious dress you’re wearing,” he said, a glint in his eye. “It is the right color, though.”

  It wasn’t that short. “This is one of my favorite dresses. It has long sleeves…” She glanced down and stopped abruptly. Of course this dress would seem risqué to a man from the 1860s. A blush crept up her cheeks. Why hadn’t her dream fixed that glaring detail?

  “It looks more like a nightgown,” he said, his eyes heating.

  Well that wouldn’t do. “Give me a minute. I’ll go change.” After she was properly attired, she could enjoy the company of her tall, dark mystery soldier. Charlie headed into the hallway. “Stir the stew,” she called over her shoulder. She didn’t want their Valentine Day’s meal to accidentally burn.

  Where was the bedroom? She opened the first door she came to and saw a small bed and a chest of drawers. Lying on the bed was a burgundy and white checkered skirt and matching bodice. It was very feminine. She held up the bodice and looked in the mirror above the chest of drawers. She’d always liked to play dress up when she was a kid. She’d acted in a few plays when she was in school. This evening she was playing the part of a Civil War lady. She might as well enjoy it.

  After picking up the bodice, she saw the petticoat, underdrawers and matching chemise which had been resting underneath. All were white cotton with a basic lace trim. At least he wasn’t expecting her to put on a corset. The image of mammy tightening Scarlett O’Hara’s corset flashed through her mind. Women endured a lot in the name of beauty, but she wanted to be able to breathe.

  Charlie dressed in the Civil War era clothes. She turned to the left and then to the right, examining herself in the mirror. Her updo looked too modern. She took out all the pins and brushed out the tangles. Her blonde hair cascaded past her shoulders. The all natural beauty would have to do. She returned to the dining room, her mouth dry. Would he approve?

&
nbsp; “Very lovely,” he said.

  Charlie blushed. “Thank you.”

  The soldier had already dished a bowl of stew for both of them. A loaf of bread and a pat of butter also sat on the square pine table along with two tall glasses of milk.

  He pulled back a chair for her. She held up the sides of her dress and sat. “Thank you.”

  He left the room and returned with the rose from earlier, now in a glass vase. He stood behind her, smelling her hair. “I’ve missed you, Charlotte,” he breathed into his ear. “And you know I love it when you wear your hair down.”

  Shock thrummed through her. Had he just called her Charlotte? Charlotte Adams? Oh dear. I must really be desperate for a date. Now I’m impersonating a dead woman. But she couldn’t deny the attraction she felt. The way the low rumble of his voice made her melt on the inside.

  His masculine musk radiated through the air, a heady mix of sweat and woods and a spice she couldn’t name. Her husband had not been the sentimental type. This was the first time she’d been given a flower for Valentine’s Day. It made the whole night romantic. But where had he found one naturally blooming in February? Didn’t roses go dormant in the winter?

  The magic of my imagination, that’s all. She shouldn’t question, she should just enjoy the moment.

  The sexy soldier turned down the oil lantern giving a more intimate, romantic atmosphere, and then sat in the chair across from her. “Have you missed me, Charlotte?”

  She stared at him from across the table, trying to decipher what his name might be. A twisting sensation in her stomach told her she already knew. Or had a good guess. She just didn’t want to admit it. “Mr. Lowery…?” She hesitated, not knowing what to say.

  “Elliot. It’s me, Elliot. Remember?” His gaze bored into hers, searching. “I know it’s been a while, but surely you haven’t forgotten me entirely?”

  Charlie nearly choked on her milk. My God it’s him. The man from the valentines. “Forgotten? No. Of course not.”

  He sat back in his chair and picked up his spoon. He still looked disgruntled and she racked her brain for something to put him at ease. “Elliot it is from now on. I just got flustered. It is easy to rely on formalities.”