Groom by Design

by Christine Johnson

  “Miss Fox.” Miss Evans held the door for her. “Mr. Shea will see you in his office. Mr. Landers, please follow me. I have your disbursement ready.”

  Ruth plodded toward the bank manager’s heavy oak door. It stood ajar, signaling he was ready for her.

  “Miss Fox.” Mr. Dermott Shea stood when she entered, his middle-aged frame just as heavy as that oak door and his ponderous walnut desk. “Please have a seat.” He motioned to the chair across the massive desktop and waited for her to sit before he retook his seat.

  Before him sat a folder, which he opened and then proceeded to glance through as if he had no idea of its contents.

  After what seemed like minutes, Ruth prompted him. “You did ask to meet this morning.”

  “Yes, yes.” He fiddled with his spectacles, pushing them up the bridge of his nose. “When I sent the letter, I hoped your mother would have returned by now. I had heard she only planned to visit a couple days.”

  “That was her original intent, but in her last letter she indicated she was staying another two weeks.”

  “I see.” He cleared his throat. “Well, then, it can’t be helped.”

  “What can’t be helped?”

  He took off his spectacles and folded them atop the closed folder. “You do have a means to contact your parents?”

  She nodded slowly as her stomach knotted.

  “There is a matter of business that they must address before the end of the month.”

  “But that’s only—” she counted out the days “—nine days including today, and my father cannot travel.”

  Mr. Shea stroked the corners of his mouth. “I feared that would be the case. Can he be reached by telephone?”

  “Not directly. The sanitarium has a telephone, of course, but the doctors have stressed that my father is not to hear anything that might unsettle him.”

  “I see.” Shea drummed his fingers on the folder. “Perhaps your mother can make the decision. Could you contact her this morning?”

  Ruth had no idea how she would pay for a long-distance telephone call, even if she could reach Mother. She had to call the hospital and leave a message. Then Mother would have to spend more to call her back. “If this is a matter of finance, Mother left me in charge of both the personal and business accounts. You may speak to me.” She straightened her spine and did her best to look authoritative.

  The banker paused a good long while. “You will relay this information to your parents?”

  Ruth could barely breathe. “What information, sir?”

  Again he opened the folder and riffled the papers, this time with his spectacles off. “Our records indicate no payments have been made this year on the property loan. Indeed, we cannot find record of any last year, either.”

  That knot in her stomach twisted tighter. She hadn’t checked last year’s records.

  “For the dress shop?” she asked, though she knew the answer.

  Though somber, Mr. Shea exhibited compassion. “If you can find proof of payments, we will check our books.”

  But Ruth knew there would be no proof. She bowed her head. “With my father’s medical bills—” The words caught in her throat. She hated to admit weakness, and poverty was a weakness. Didn’t God promise reward for those who loved Him? And didn’t she love Him? Didn’t she attend church and pray and read her Bible?

  “I understand.” Mr. Shea leaned toward her, all earnestness. “Truly, I do, but the bank doesn’t hold the note on the dress-shop property.”

  Ruth stared. “But I thought...”

  Mr. Shea looked uncomfortable. “It’s an unusual situation involving one of the bank’s board members, who wished to retain ownership of the property until the loan is paid but didn’t want to handle the paperwork.”

  “Does the bank do this often?”

  “No.” Mr. Shea fiddled with the papers in front of him. “And if he hadn’t been on the bank’s board of directors, I doubt such an arrangement would have been approved. But it was done years ago and was to your father’s benefit, since the property owner charged a far lower rate of interest than the bank could offer.”

  “Then the owner is generous.” A tiny bubble of hope took shape. “Perhaps if he knew our situation, he would give us more time. Father needs additional treatment.” She bit her lip, as if that could draw back the private information she’d just spilled. “It’s costly.”

  Mr. Shea looked sympathetic. “I’m very sorry. Truly, I am, but I understand the property owner has received a solid offer from a buyer. A cash offer. He’s anxious to sell.”

  “Can he do that? I thought my father had a contract.”

  “Unfortunately, the agreement stipulates that the property reverts to the seller if payments are delinquent by—” he checked the paperwork “—six months or more. It’s been a year and a half, Miss Fox. The owner has already been quite generous.”

  Ruth felt faint. “Then you’re saying we’ve already lost the dress shop.” The words fell like lead. What would they do? The dress shop was her life. She couldn’t do anything else.

  “The property owner is willing to sign over the deed to your father if the balance—principle and interest—is paid.”

  Ruth choked. “The full amount?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “But that’s impossible. The balance must be over a thousand dollars.”

  Mr. Shea pushed a piece of paper across the desk. The figure he pointed to with his pen made her gasp.

  “But we’ll never be able to pay that much,” she cried. “Not now. Perhaps if I talked to the owner and explained our circumstances, he’d give us more time.”

  “I doubt that would help. He is already aware of your father’s circumstances.”

  The delicate wording didn’t take away the sting. “This other offer, is it better than what we’re paying?”

  The banker leaned back. “I’m not privy to that information.”

  It had to be. Moreover, with the outstanding debt, the owner must fear Daddy would never be able to pay the entire loan. If Daddy died...

  She swallowed hard. “I must try to convince him. Please? The dress shop is our family’s only means of income. Without it, my father would have to leave the sanitarium.” She clutched the handle of her handbag so tightly that the metal bit into her palms.

  Mr. Shea hesitated a long time before finally looking her in the eye. “I had hoped to discuss this with your mother, but it appears there won’t be time for that. Are you in a position to get your parents’ approval?”

  “I am.”

  “Then I believe I can offer you some hope. If you can bring your payments current by the end of the month, the bank will pay off the seller and assume the note at the current rate of interest.”

  Ruth’s hope flickered to life. They owed far more than she could scrape together, but the house mortgage must be nearly paid off. If she could convince her parents to borrow against the house... But why hadn’t they done that already? Or had they? Was that how they planned to pay for the additional treatments? If so, that left no means to pay up the delinquent loan.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Fox, but that is the best we can offer.” Mr. Shea truly did look sorry.

  Ruth stiffened her back. She would not give up without a fight. “Thank you, and thank the bank board. I would still like to speak with the property owner. Perhaps he can give us more time to come up with the money.”

  Mr. Shea stared at the paperwork again, this time tapping the end of the fountain pen against his desk blotter. After a long pause, he blew out his breath. “I wouldn’t ordinarily reveal this information, but your parents likely know that Holst Vanderloo holds the note on that property.”

  The bubble of hope burst. The Vanderloos would never grant an extension. Not now. Not after she’d ruined Mrs. Vand
erloo’s gowns.

  Ruth’s head spun. They had to come up with an exorbitant sum by the end of the month, and there was no money in the accounts. She should call the sanitarium, but if Daddy learned of this, he would leave. She couldn’t let him sacrifice his health. Ruth had to come up with a moneymaking scheme quickly, or she would lose the dress shop.

  * * *

  On Tuesday, Sam walked around the repaired display case while Peter Simmons looked on with a mixture of pride and worry. “It looks good.”

  In fact, the case looked great, and Peter had somehow managed to fix it in a few short days. If Sam hadn’t known where it had broken, he would never see the repair. Both the color and the grain of the new wood blended seamlessly with the old.

  Sam ran a hand over the repair. “How did you manage to match the wood so well?”

  Peter grinned. “Pretty good, huh?”

  Sam could respect a craftsman who wanted to keep his methods to himself. “Best I’ve seen.”

  The lad stood even taller under the well-deserved compliment.

  Sam pulled out his wallet and doled out payment, adding a little for the excellent work. “Where did you learn to craft wood like this?”

  A cloud passed over Peter’s face. “Back at the orphanage. Mr. Galbini—he was one of the guys that came in to help out sometimes—taught me how to do things.”

  Orphanage? Sam couldn’t recall if anyone had mentioned that Peter was an orphan. It did explain why the boy bore no resemblance to Mrs. Simmons.

  “Well, he did a fine job teaching you.” Sam tucked the wallet back in his jacket. “I’ll send the crew over to pick it up.”

  Peter stared at the money in his hand. When he looked up, he had a funny look on his face. “Ya gave me too much, sir.”

  “Consider it a bonus for a job well done.” Sam clapped the lad on the back. “And on short notice. I appreciate you setting aside your other work.”

  Peter looked so hopeful that it nearly broke Sam’s heart. “Then I can keep it all?”

  “Every dollar.”

  Peter’s joy helped make up for the confusion of yesterday and the puzzlement of this morning. One minute he thought Ruth liked him. The next she’d turned away. He’d purposely shown extra deference to Jen to test Ruth’s feelings, but Ruth didn’t react. The image of her calm, unreadable face was burned into his memory. Then this morning he’d called out a greeting as she crossed the street to her shop, but Ruth hadn’t so much as lifted her head. The disappointment had settled into the pit of his stomach like an overly rich meal, unrelieved until Peter’s joy reminded him that happiness could be found in other places than a woman’s approval.

  “Thank you, sir.” Peter held the payment reverently. “It’s a lot more’n I expected.”

  “What will you do with the windfall?”

  “Give a tithe to the church and most of the rest to my ma, but I’m thinking I might spend a little to take a gal to the dance on Friday.”

  “A dance, eh? That sounds like a fine idea. Where will it be held?”

  “Down at the Grange Hall.” Peter pointed to the southeast, a direction Sam hadn’t explored yet.

  “Well, you have a fine time with your girl.”

  “If she’ll go with me.” Peter did not look hopeful, and Sam ached for the lad.

  The boy was beanpole-thin and still all angles. His plain brown hair stuck out, and his orphanage background would not endear him to most girls his age. Sam recalled all too well the way girls gravitated toward the handsome and the rich. Peter had the more enduring qualities that would one day make him a fine husband, but he might have to wait a couple of years for the girls to outgrow their idealistic expectations. That would be tough. To an eighteen-year-old, a couple of years might as well be a million. Peter needed encouragement now.

  “Treat her like she’s the most important person in the world,” Sam suggested, “and she’ll go with you.”

  Peter’s brow furrowed. “How do I do that?”

  Sam stifled a chuckle. “Give her a pretty flower.”

  “A flower?” Peter looked as if Sam had suggested he hand over the British crown jewels.

  “A rose would do. Even a wild lily, as long as you tell her she’s as beautiful as the bloom.”

  Poor Peter looked skeptical.

  Sam tried another idea. “Memorize a poem and recite it to her.” That one might be a stretch. The suggestions rolled off his tongue easily enough, but as he said them, he knew that wasn’t always enough. He’d done all that with Lillian, thinking he was pursuing her only to discover after they wed that the exact opposite was true. But Peter didn’t need to hear about Sam’s sore luck with women. “Anything you do is bound to work as long as it comes from your heart.”

  The lad’s eyes sparked with hope. “I sure hope you’re right. Minnie’s got her heart set on this college fella.”

  Sam’s skin prickled. “Minnie?”

  “Yeah, Minnie Fox.”

  Sam had been giving advice to win over the sister of the woman he hadn’t succeeded in attracting. “So you like Ruth’s little sister.”

  Peter stiffened. “Not so little. She’s eighteen like me.”

  Sam smothered a smile at the lad’s seriousness. “I apologize. I simply meant that she’s younger than Ruth.” Ruth of the honeyed hair. Ruth, whose pride wouldn’t allow her to accept help. Untouchable Ruth. But then he recalled her trembling in his arms. In that moment, she’d shown vulnerability, and he’d wanted so badly to turn her sorrow into laughter.

  “You should go to the dance,” Peter urged.

  Sam suspected the lad wanted moral support, but a dance would only invite problems. “I’m a stranger here. Besides, I don’t have a girl to invite.”

  Peter shrugged. “There’s plenty o’ unattached gals that’ll dance with a fella.”

  Spinsters, no doubt. Heart sinking, he realized that applied to Ruth. He couldn’t let her sit to the side while the other girls danced. Maybe he should go. But a dance was just the sort of social event that would invite questions. He should work late at the store and avoid contact with any of the locals. “I’ll think about it.”

  “It’s the biggest dance of the summer,” Peter said. “After Founder’s Day, that is, but you missed that. Everyone will be there.”

  “Everyone?”

  “Pretty near. Minnie says even her sisters are gonna go.”

  Ruth. Sam imagined whirling her around the dance floor in a pretty new gown. Ice-blue, for her eyes. Her long hair flowing over her shoulders. Her cheeks flushed from the exertion. Nothing like Lillian. Not a hint of deceit or manipulation. Ruth typified goodness and honesty.

  “Maybe I will,” he murmured.

  Maybe he would take one more chance.

  * * *

  Jen burst into the dress shop at the very moment Ruth closed the shears on the front panel of the ruined lace gown. Dressmaking always calmed her nerves, and a sleepless night had left her drained and on edge. Yesterday had been disheartening. First the bank debacle. Then her inability to locate a high-paying night job. At this point, Jen’s plan was their only hope of saving the dress shop, and that showed little promise of success.

  “Do you know what I heard?” Jen panted.

  “It can wait until you catch your breath.” Ruth examined the errant cut. Thankfully, she’d sliced into the stain. “You look like you ran here from the airfield.”

  “I came from the drugstore. Do you know what Mrs. Lawrence said?”

  “I don’t care to hear gossip.” Jen was prone to fanning small flames into raging bonfires, and this sounded like just such an occurrence. Moreover, Mrs. Lawrence, who harbored a speakeasy behind the drugstore, was not the most accurate source of news.

  “It’s not gossip. It’s fact.” Jen took a few more breaths
. “You won’t believe what Mrs. Vanderloo is saying about the dress shop.”

  Ruth didn’t want to hear this. No doubt any unkind words stemmed from her husband’s ownership of the property, but it still irked her that the woman had demanded the three most expensive gowns in Sam’s catalogs. “We shouldn’t pass on rumors.”

  “It’s not a rumor. She’s saying that we’re incompetent. That you ruined her dresses and showed up late with her gowns.”

  The word incompetent stabbed into Ruth more painfully than a needle, but the facts of her statement were unfortunately true. Jen’s crazy plan had so distracted Ruth that she’d finished late. But no, she couldn’t blame Jen. The fault was entirely hers, and that meant accepting Mrs. Vanderloo’s angry criticism.

  So Ruth continued to cut the panel. “Everyone is entitled to her opinion.”

  “You don’t care that she’s spreading lies?” Jen looked aghast.

  “I did ruin her dresses.” The irony that she was cutting one of them to pieces at that very moment stilled her hand. “And I was late.”

  “That doesn’t make you incompetent. You’re the best dressmaker I know.”

  Jen’s rallying to her defense warmed Ruth’s heart. “Thank you, but it doesn’t change the facts.”

  “The fact is that it was an accident. I saw it. You were backing out of the store when Mr. Roth came storming down the boardwalk. He had his head down and didn’t see you. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s his.”

  “Tell me you didn’t say that to Mrs. Lawrence.”

  “Of course I did. Someone has to set the record straight.”

  Oh, dear. Now Sam would be furious with Jen. Ruth’s hope to match them was falling apart. Only one thing could salvage the situation. She must tell Mrs. Lawrence about Sam’s generous offer.

  She rose. “Will you watch the shop for a bit? There’s something I need to do.”

  “But I have to go to the airfield. I promised to get things ready for the new students.”