“How does a bachelor act?”
Ruth felt her face heat again. “They flirt with pretty women.”
Jen laughed. “You do like him!”
“I do not. I simply find him interesting.”
Jen’s laughter came out in a snort. “Interesting? He’s unbelievably handsome. The man could be a moving-picture star. Maybe he is. Did you ask what he did?”
“He’s a salesman.”
“Oh.” Jen considered that a moment. “Maybe he sells moving pictures. What do they call that? A promoter?”
“I don’t think he has anything to do with moving pictures.”
Jen’s eager smile turned into a frown. “Did you at least get his name?”
“Sam.”
“Sam what?”
Ruth had to admit that she didn’t know. As far as she could recall, he’d never given his last name, though she’d told him hers. How peculiar.
Jen gave her a look of thorough exasperation. “How could you spend an hour and a half with a man and not ask him anything important? What did you talk about?”
“Business. Mrs. Vanderloo’s dresses.”
“Dresses. Of course, you’d talk about dresses. If you’re ever going to find a husband, you’ll have to learn to talk about things that interest a man.”
“We had business to address. Nothing more.”
“It wouldn’t hurt to learn a little more about the man.”
“One can hardly ask a stranger personal questions.”
“There are other ways of getting information.” Jen looked as though she was about to burst. “Unlike you, I happened to ask around.”
“You did what?” Ruth tried to look horrified, but she was curious. Still... “That’s gossiping.”
Jen rolled her eyes. “How else are we going to know? You didn’t learn anything, and you had the perfect opportunity. Business. What woman talks business with a handsome bachelor?”
Ruth wasn’t about to divulge the little he’d shared about his family or the unnerving way she’d felt when he touched her.
“Well, do you want to know what I heard?” Jen’s smug smile told Ruth she’d heard plenty.
“I’m not listening to gossip,” Ruth said, knowing her sister would spill the news anyway.
“It’s not gossip. It’s fact. He’s working for the new store that’s opening up in the old carriage factory next door. You know. The store that everyone’s wondering about. I heard they’re going to sell automobiles.”
“Another one? There’s already the place selling Cadillacs. You’d think one would be enough for such a small town.”
Jen grinned. “Maybe he’s rich like Mr. Cornelius, and he’ll sweep one of us off our feet. Then all our troubles will be over.”
Ruth couldn’t believe Jen was still stuck on that patient-nurse romance she’d heard at the sanitarium. Such a fortuitous occurrence couldn’t happen again, or could it? “If you’re interested in Sam, you’ll have to move quickly. It doesn’t sound like he’ll be in town long.”
“Me?” Jen squeaked. “Why would I be interested in Sam? You’re the one he was doting on.”
“Doting? He helped me after we collided. Any gentleman would do the same. I’d hardly call it ‘doting.’”
“It looked like doting to me.” Jen crossed her arms. “I’d say he’s already sweet on you.”
“I’d say you’re talking nonsense, just like that idea of yours.” Ruth pulled the stack of unpaid bills closer. “Besides, Mother will be home Tuesday.” Jen would never pursue her ridiculous plan in front of their mother.
“No, she won’t.” Jen withdrew a crumpled envelope from her pocket and handed it to Ruth. “She’s staying two more weeks.”
“Two weeks?” Ruth yanked the letter from the envelope and scanned her mother’s sprawling writing. Jen was correct. Two more weeks. The family couldn’t afford the costs that had already piled up. If Mother knew they were in such dire straits, she would never have decided to stay in Battle Creek. But Daddy had always handled the bookkeeping. After he went to the sanitarium, Mother had tried to manage, but judging from the lack of ledger entries and number of addition errors, she had no head for figures.
“So you see, there’s plenty of time,” Jen said as she headed to the door, “for you and Sam.”
Before Ruth could scold her, Jen ducked outside.
Ruth lifted her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Her head pounded, and she still had to finish opening the bills. She halfheartedly leafed through them until she got to the last. From Kensington Bank and Trust. Her heart stopped. If the ledger was correct, Mother hadn’t made a payment on the dress shop’s loan in months.
She ripped open the envelope and unfolded the letter. A single sentence greeted her: We request your presence the morning of Monday, July 23rd at 9:00 a.m.
Her stomach dropped. What if the bank demanded they bring their payments current? She couldn’t scrape together enough for a single payment, least of all the total owed. It was impossible.
Panic raced up and down her spine. What would she do?
She stared at Mother and Daddy’s wedding photograph. They looked so young and solemn on their happy day. She pressed a finger to the handmade frame.
“What do I do, Daddy?”
He couldn’t possibly answer, but an idea sprang to mind. The bank wouldn’t expect her to do anything in her parents’ absence. Any paperwork would require Daddy’s signature.
She took a deep breath. All would come out well. She would simply go to the bank Monday morning and listen to what the banker had to say. Then she would convey his message to her mother, who would tell Daddy. That would settle the matter.
* * *
Though Father would not approve of hiring a local, in the morning Sam approached young Peter Simmons about repairing the display case. Considering the job did not require Peter to enter the store, Father shouldn’t fly into a rage. The town fathers already knew he was opening some type of retail establishment. One display case wouldn’t give away that it was a Hutton’s Department Store.
Sam stood inside the garage watching Peter assess the damage to the case. The lad looked rather young to be an expert carpenter, yet his blackened mechanic’s hands tenderly stroked the oak framing. His solemn, almost reverent expression contradicted the cowlick springing from the crown of his head. Tall and beanpole-thin, he looked like a boy trying to be a man.
“That’s a pretty bad split,” Peter said slowly as he pointed out the worst of the fractures. “It’s at the joint. I’d hafta replace three pieces. Here, here and here.” He indicated each one. “But this is old oak. I can’t match it.”
Father’s sharp eyes would notice the repair unless Peter could make it seamless. “What can’t you match? The color?”
“I’ll try, but it’ll be tough.”
Sam chewed on that. “Can you get close enough that people won’t notice?”
“Can try.”
Apparently that was the best Sam could hope for. He’d checked out the shelving and counter at the bookstore and found the workmanship first-rate. If Peter met those standards, he just might pull this off. “And the glass?”
“Got some out back that’d do. It’s not quite this clear, though. If you want the same kinda glass, we’ll hafta order it.”
Sam didn’t have the time or money to order new glass. He was going to have to pay for the repairs himself. Father didn’t accept additional costs. Period. “We’ll use what you have on hand. Your rate?”
Soon enough they settled on a reasonable fee. Sam paid half in advance, but Peter seemed less interested in the money than the work. Soon he resumed running his hands along the breaks and examining the joinery.
“I saw your work at the bookstore,” Sam commented as he tucked his wallet b
ack into his suit jacket. “You planning on going into carpentry? You’re young. What? Twenty?”
“Eighteen.”
Just a boy. At eighteen, Sam had been ready to conquer the world. College and sport beckoned. Girls flocked to his side. Those were carefree times. He’d made friends, garnered accolades and met Lillian. Again he shoved away the thought. “So why work at the garage?”
Peter’s attention never left the display case. “It’s the family business.”
“Ah, I understand.” All too well. Families could be both a blessing and a curse. Like Peter, Sam was tied to the family business. His brother was champing at the bit to join the Hutton empire, and his father loved to pit the brothers against each other. Survival of the fittest, Father claimed. Fine. Sam would prove he deserved to inherit the business. He’d make his mark with the Pearlman store.
Ruth Fox had it easy. Sisters had to be kinder than brothers. Her father wouldn’t force the girls to fight for survival. They’d be expected to work together to make the dress shop succeed.
“Do you know the Fox family?” Since that walk yesterday, Sam had been unable to get Ruth out of his head.
Peter looked up. “Why?”
“I met one of the daughters yesterday.”
Peter stiffened. “Which one?”
“Ruth.”
“Oh.” Peter’s shoulders relaxed, and he went back to his examination of the case. “She runs the dress shop down the street.”
“Then it’s her business.”
Peter’s brow furrowed. “She tell you that? I didn’t take her for one to put on airs.”
“No, no.” Sam quickly backtracked, feeling as if he’d betrayed her. “I assumed she owned it, because she seemed to be in charge.”
“It’s her pa’s.”
“I see. So she’s managing it for now.” Sam couldn’t bring himself to say aloud that he’d heard Ruth’s father was in the hospital, even though Peter no doubt knew it. “She seemed nice.”
Peter shrugged. “I suppose.”
That was just the sort of answer he should have expected from an eighteen-year-old, but Sam wanted to learn more about Ruth. “She has pretty features. Probably draws a lot of attention at dances and church suppers.”
“We talkin’ about the same woman? The Ruth Fox I know don’t go to dances. I ain’t never seen her with a fella, neither. Maybe you mean one of her sisters. They’re all friendly as can be.”
“And Ruth’s not?”
He shrugged. “Jess quiet, is all. Kinda hard to get to know.”
Sam couldn’t deny that. He’d sensed her reserve, and the one time she’d stated her opinion, she’d quickly retreated behind self-deprecation. Why? What held her back? Why didn’t she trust people? Of course, if she knew who he was, she’d have good reason not to trust him. But she didn’t know, and he’d done everything he could to charm her. He’d even given her his most expensive catalogs for that Vanderloo woman’s replacement gowns. Yet she’d acted as if they were coated in curare, dropping them on the dress shop’s worktable without so much as a thank-you.
Well, if that was what she thought of his generosity, why did he bother?
“Something wrong?” Peter was staring at him.
“No. No.” Sam patted his jacket as if he’d forgotten something. “I should get back to work.”
“Yeah, me, too.”
After one last handshake, they parted. Nice, clean business deal. Exactly the way he should be dealing with Ruth Fox. But her face kept coming to mind. Those pale blue eyes, the translucent complexion, the honeyed hair. The worry creasing her forehead.
Sam hurried his step. He needed to stop thinking about her. She wasn’t his problem. Her father wasn’t his problem. Their dress shop wasn’t his problem.
He barreled down the boardwalk. Unfortunately, he had to pass the dress shop to get to his store. Despite it being a Saturday, Ruth was hard at work, her back to him as she pieced fabric at the large worktable. He slowed to take it all in: the dress form draped in voile, the bolts of fabric piled on shelves and sketches tacked to the walls. He slowed when one drawing caught his eye. He’d never seen such an exquisite gown. Who had drawn it? Ruth? Or someone else in the family? He had to know. Whoever it was, he or she displayed remarkable talent.
His fingers grazed the door handle. Her sisters weren’t there. Just Ruth. If she’d drawn the sketches, the compliment might bring her out of her reserve. His gaze flitted to the sketch of a stunning peacock-inspired gown. Ruth would glow in such a dress. He envisioned entering the finest ballrooms in New York with her on his arm. Heads would turn. The grand dames would wonder who she was. The younger ladies would ask where they could purchase such a gown.
Sam sucked in his breath. This was lunacy. He needed to get control of himself.
“Oh, good. You’re back,” called out a female voice.
Heels tapped the boardwalk, punctuated by breathless gasps.
Sam dragged his gaze away from Ruth. “Miss Harris.”
The store’s secretary hobbled toward him gingerly. Each step brought a grimace.
“Mr. Roth—”
“What is it?” he snapped before she blurted out his whole name.
She patted her bobbed brunette hair. “Your father is on the telephone. Long distance.”
Of course it was long distance. Father was in New York. At least Sam hoped he was. “What does he want?”
“I don’t know.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, wincing with each movement. “He wouldn’t tell me anything except that he needs to talk to you right now.”
“All right.” He motioned her ahead. “Let’s go.”
“You go ahead.” Again she winced. “I’ll follow in a bit.” She grabbed the frame of the dress-shop window for support. The poor woman must have developed blisters.
He sighed and offered her his arm. “Father can wait a minute or two longer.”
“Thank you.” Miss Harris offered a teary smile. “You’re a real gentleman.”
Then why did he feel like a heel for wishing it was Ruth’s hand on his arm? Though pretty by conventional standards, Miss Harris didn’t inspire the slightest interest. Ruth, on the other hand...
He glanced one last time into the dress-shop window, only to see Ruth staring at him, a stunned expression on her face.
* * *
Sam had a wife. Or a girl.
Ruth looked away the moment his gaze landed on her, but she’d seen his dismay. Not only was he married, but he also didn’t want her to know about it. If he hadn’t wanted to keep his wife a secret, he would have told Ruth about her. He’d had ample opportunity. He might have mentioned he was married when she invited him to church. Any decent man would, and she’d thought him thoroughly decent.
Maybe she was wrong. Maybe he wasn’t married. Maybe that woman was a mere acquaintance. Except she didn’t look like an acquaintance. The pretty woman hung on his arm, her head practically against his shoulder.
Feeling slightly nauseous, Ruth sank onto her stool. What had she been thinking? Daydreaming was more like it. She took a deep breath and chased away the disappointment. Rich men did not look twice at poor, plain women. This incident proved that fact. At least she’d discovered the truth before introducing him to Jen. No wonder he’d hesitated to accept her invitation to Sunday worship.
With a clatter, Jen and Minnie burst into the shop.
“Did you see that?” Jen said as she plopped onto one of the wooden stools opposite Ruth. Minnie took the other.
Ruth couldn’t discuss this calmly, so she began pinning together the panels of the blouse that she had just cut. “I can’t imagine what you mean.”
“Your Sam helping that woman.”
“He’s not my Sam,” Ruth said. “He’s simply a new acquai
ntance.”
“He’s more than an acquaintance, silly goose. He looked for your approval before helping her.”
“What he does or doesn’t do is none of my concern.” Ruth smoothed the tricky voile before matching edges and pinning.
“I thought you liked him,” Minnie said.
“He’s a pleasant gentleman.”
“Pleasant?” Jen snorted. “That’s not going to get his attention. If you like him, you have to go after him. Let him know how you feel.”
“Go after him? You must stop listening to this modern-girl nonsense. Nice women do not chase after men.”
Ruth reached for another pin, but Jen yanked the pincushion away. “She’s not his girl.”
“Who’s not whose girl?” Ruth motioned for the pincushion.
Jen moved it farther away. “That woman. She might like your Sam, but he’s not the least bit interested in her.”
Ruth dropped her hand to the tabletop. “How do you know?”
Jen grinned. “He called her ‘Miss Harris.’ He was only helping her because she’d hurt her feet in those ridiculous shoes. If you ask me, anyone who wears such impractical footwear deserves to get blisters.”
Ruth felt such relief that she didn’t bother to scold her sister for her lack of compassion. Sam had addressed the woman formally. That meant... “She must work with him.”
“That would be my guess.” Jen leaned forward to whisper. “It leaves the door open for you.”
As always, heat flooded Ruth’s cheeks. “I am not pursuing a man. I—I couldn’t.”
“That’s where we come in. In fact, we’ve already set things in motion.”
Ruth stared at Jen. “What have you done?”
“Nothing much.” But Jen’s impish grin said otherwise. “We just talked to Beattie and came up with a plan. What you need is a pretty new ball gown, one that will catch Sam’s eye.”
“A ball gown? For me?” Though she secretly longed to someday wear a fancy gown, the stack of unpaid bills came to mind. “I’d rather spend the money on Daddy’s treatments.”
That sobered Jen for only a second. “We’ll use leftovers, scraps. You can work miracles with fabric. You design the gown. We’ll help put it together. But we have to do it quickly.”
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