Groom by Design

by Christine Johnson

  Tillie’s eyes shone at her mother’s trust. Her clumsy hands could barely hold on to the teapot, but with determination she began to pour.

  “You’re so good with Tillie and Branford,” Ruth said softly so she wouldn’t distract the serious business of pouring “tea.”

  “You are, too.” Beattie patted her hand. “You have a loving heart. Any man would be fortunate to have you for his bride.”

  “Bride?” Ruth choked on the unfulfilled wish. From the time she was Tillie’s age, Ruth had dreamed of walking down the aisle to her beloved’s side.

  Beattie’s laugh tinkled on the hot air like a cool breeze. “I believe Jen and Minnie might be right about Mr. Roth’s affections, but there’s only one way to find out.” Beatrice leaned close to whisper. “You need to spend some time together. Friday’s dance will give you an ideal opportunity to ascertain his feelings.”

  His feelings? Ruth’s stomach roiled at the thought of dancing with him in front of everyone. “What am I going to do? He asked me to save him a dance.”

  Beattie’s eyes lit up. “How wonderful.”

  “Not so wonderful. I don’t know how to dance.”

  “You don’t? But...I thought everyone learned in school.”

  A decade later, Ruth was still embarrassed by her failure. She could still hear the laughter. Ribbit. Ribbit. All elbows and knees and nerves. She’d stumbled time after time until the instructor gave up, saying it wouldn’t matter anyway since Ruth would never be asked to dance. “I couldn’t learn.”

  “Done, Mama.” Tillie looked at them with obvious pride.

  Lemonade soaked the blanket and pooled in the saucers. Instead of scolding, Beattie commended her daughter.

  “It looks so pretty,” Ruth added as she scooted forward to join the party.

  Beatrice caught her arm. “Don’t fret. I’ll teach you to dance.”

  Ruth appreciated her sister’s confidence, but she didn’t know how Beattie would succeed where others had failed.

  * * *

  Right after Father ended the call, Sam left to find the one person who could help Ruth’s family. He got Beatrice Kensington’s address from the clerk at the mercantile. Their house was several blocks away, at the foot of what Ruth called “the hill” and others dubbed “Kensington Estates.” The area didn’t have a sign demarking it from the rest of Pearlman, but the distinction was evident from the shift to stately homes and manicured yards.

  The fresh air and brisk walk reinvigorated Sam, but the idea that he might be able to thwart Father’s property deal put a tune on his lips. He nodded at the pastor as they passed. Just off Elm Street stood a large Victorian house with an inviting porch. The wrought-iron gate slipped open easily, and the yard, bursting with blooms, promised a sunny reception.

  Instead, the maid who answered the door informed him, “The missus took the children to the park.”

  Sam thanked her and headed to the site of Sunday’s picnic, where he’d comforted Ruth, only to have her push him aside in an obvious attempt to promote Jen. Then the woman did an about-face and promised him a dance on Friday. He would never understand what went through the female mind. Thankfully, he wouldn’t have to deal with her today.

  Or so he thought.

  The moment he entered the park, he spotted the fashionable Mrs. Beatrice Kensington seated on a blanket in the shade of a tall oak. Her little girl held up a miniature teacup, but the energetic boy appeared to have exhausted himself into a nap. Unfortunately, a fourth figure rounded out the group, and even from a distance he could tell it was Ruth.

  How would he broach the subject in front of Ruth? It was going to be difficult enough to convince Beatrice. If necessary, he’d decided to reveal his father’s involvement, but he couldn’t tell Ruth that. She would put an abrupt and permanent end to their growing friendship. Yet he must speak to Beatrice Kensington today.

  He would wait them out. Perhaps Ruth would leave first. Then he could address Mrs. Kensington without the presence of her sister.

  Spotting a discarded newspaper on a bench, he dropped to the seat and unfolded the paper. He then slid to the other end of the bench, where a lilac bush, its blooms long spent, offered a bit of a screen. The Fox sisters sat less than twenty yards away. The little girl’s squeals of delight reached his ears. He lifted the newspaper and pretended interest in an article on President Harding’s anticipated arrival in Vancouver. Occasionally he peeked at the Fox party. They showed no indication of leaving.

  Something thudded against his shoe.

  “Sorry, mister.”

  Sam lowered the newspaper to see a lad of perhaps twelve. The towheaded boy waved an errant baseball. Sam noted the children on the diamond waiting for the lad to bring back the foul ball.

  “Your team winning?” he asked.

  The youngster burst into a gap-toothed grin. “Ten to nothin’.”

  “Keep up the good work.”

  “Yessir!” The lad sped off with the ball.

  Sam watched the lad return to his chums, and a surprising ache rose inside. He hadn’t thought about children for years. Lillian had miscarried early in their marriage and barred the door to her bedroom afterward. Then she’d died. He’d been resigned to never having a son, but the boy’s grin revived a long-lost hope. A son to play ball with. He sneaked a glance at Ruth.

  The tea party was still under way. The breeze had shifted, however, and now carried the group’s voices his way. Beatrice’s soprano came through more clearly than Ruth’s softer alto, but from one side of the conversation—interspersed with little Tillie’s cries of delight—he could make out the general tenor of their talk.

  “Next you serve the tea cakes.”

  No doubt Beatrice was instructing her daughter.

  After a lengthy pause accented by murmured approval, Tillie shrieked with delight.

  “Hush now. Don’t wake your brother.”

  Good thinking, there. Little Branford would put a smashing end to their little tea party.

  The voices dropped lower, and Sam inched a little closer to the end of the bench. Noting a party of four ambling up from the river, he raised the newspaper. Unfortunately, their laughter drowned out Beatrice and Ruth. One of the women looked familiar. He’d seen that dark bobbed hair and coquettish manner before. Sam racked his memory until he figured out that she was the woman who had foisted herself on him the first afternoon in town. That woman would not hesitate to bring him to everyone’s attention.

  He pulled the paper closer and waited for them to pass. And waited. Surely they would walk this way eventually, but they hadn’t passed yet.

  He hazarded a glance. They’d crossed to the pavilion. A nattily dressed man held the annoying brunette. She cradled her head on his shoulder. He slung an arm around her shoulders. A memory flashed through Sam’s mind. His best friend and his wife in an intimate embrace.

  Sam crumpled the edge of the paper.

  “I don’t know what else to do.” Ruth’s plea interrupted his agonized memories.

  If he could hear her, she must be close. He sneaked a glimpse. Sure enough, Ruth had pulled her sister to the other side of his lilac bush, close to the children but out of earshot.

  Sam shrank behind the newspaper. He shouldn’t listen to this conversation. He should announce his presence or walk away, but either action would reveal that he had been sitting there all this time.

  “Could you please ask?” Ruth said.

  Sam could almost hear Ruth clutch her sister’s arm.

  Beatrice’s voice had grown soft. “Of course I’ll ask, but you know I can’t promise anything.”

  Sam wondered if they were discussing the outstanding debt.

  “I know,” Ruth said, “but I can’t think of any other way. I’m losing hope.”

  Beatrice sucked in
her breath. “You have to have hope. God promised to see us through hard times.”

  “He did, but He didn’t say there wouldn’t be hard times. Do you think Blake will loan us the money?”

  They were discussing the debt.

  A long pause ensued before Beatrice sighed. “I don’t know.”

  Only it sounded more like no.

  Chapter Nine

  Thursday night, after Jen and Minnie had fallen asleep, Ruth crept downstairs to the living room and lit an oil lamp. The warm glow gilded the pages of the ledger but didn’t change the result. No matter how many times she recalculated, the answer was always the same. They were broke.

  Beatrice hadn’t yet asked her husband for help, and Ruth worried that the request might further damage her sister’s marriage. Yesterday, she’d told Beatrice to forget she’d ever asked, but that left her with nowhere else to turn.

  No solution worked. Only the impossible remained—Jen’s idea. That did not promise good results, for the task fell to the least likely sister to win a man’s heart. Ruth wasn’t romantic-minded like Minnie or beautiful like Beatrice. She didn’t captivate a man’s adventurous side like Jen. No, she was plain old Ruth. Dressmaker. Homebody.

  The dance was tomorrow night, and she wasn’t ready. Despite Beattie’s efforts to teach her the basic steps of a waltz, Ruth still tripped over her own feet. Her gown had been cobbled together from Mrs. Vanderloo’s ruined gown and scraps of fabric. Once there, what charming words could she come up with to win over Sam’s heart? Ruth didn’t have Jen’s wit or Beattie’s graciousness. Under duress, her mind went blank.

  “Lord, how is this possible?” she whispered into the still night air.

  The dark room hung heavy with the day’s heat, and the shadows that danced beyond the lamp’s range mocked her.

  Impossible. Hopeless. Worthless.

  She struggled against the flood of doubt. How could she succeed? Yet Daddy’s well-being sat squarely on her shoulders.

  “What do I do?” she whispered into the darkness.

  Read the Word. Mother’s answer to any of life’s problems popped into Ruth’s mind.

  Ruth ran her hand over the dark leather cover of the family Bible, cracked and darkened around the edges. The gilded letters had worn off long ago, leaving only the embossing. Ruth drew strength from the generations that had turned to God’s Word for answers.

  She opened to the Gospel of Luke, her favorite. At first she read from the beginning, but soon began to skim through the pages until her vision blurred.

  She leaned her head against the back of the chair and closed her eyes.

  She was tired, so tired. Her eyes ached. Her brain ached. Every muscle in her body cried for sleep.

  Read the Word.

  Her eyes flew open. Mother’s words rang in her ears, as vivid as if she’d heard them spoken.

  The oil lamp still glowed. The words no longer swam, but nothing stood out, either.

  She flipped the page. Then the next. And the next.

  She read about the prodigal. And the master who entrusted his fortune to three servants. But none of that helped. She turned page after page through Luke and into the Gospel of John.

  Again the words blurred. Again she rested her head against the back of the chair and closed her eyes.

  Tired. So tired. Just a little rest. A few minutes.

  Read the Word.

  Ruth jolted awake. No one had said that, yet the words felt jarringly real. So much so that they’d driven every bit of tiredness from her bones.

  This time when she looked down, her gaze landed on one verse.

  Abide in Me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself, except it abide in the vine; no more can ye, except ye abide in Me.

  She’d heard this passage about the vine and branches many a time, but how did it answer her problem? A vineyard was not a dress shop, nor did this chapter say anything about managing a vineyard except to prune unproductive branches.

  She groaned in frustration. This exercise hadn’t helped one bit. In the end, the only course left to her was the most impossible. And the most difficult.

  “Lord, help me win Sam’s heart.”

  It was her only hope.

  * * *

  Late the following afternoon, Sam tapped the end of a fountain pen on his desk blotter and stared at the telephone. His research had led to an unsettling conclusion. Vanderloo owned the dress-shop property, and Sam could do nothing to help Ruth. All that remained was the call to his father that would seal Ruth’s fate. He’d avoided doing so until now, doubtless incurring Father’s wrath, but he’d reasoned that if he waited until the end of the business week, he would have the weekend to come up with a solution.

  The time to place that call had arrived.

  In the silence of the empty store, his thoughts bounced wildly between impossible scenarios. Beatrice could still come through. He might persuade his father to drop the matter. Vanderloo might not slam the door in his face next time. Each stood less than 1 percent chance of success.

  Most likely Father would buy the property and force the Foxes out of the dress shop. What happened next played over and over in Sam’s mind. Ruth’s father would leave the hospital. The family would descend into poverty. Mr. Fox would die, sending Ruth and her sisters into mourning.

  All because of Sam’s insistence they open a Hutton’s in Pearlman. An unexpected detour a year ago en route to Grand Rapids had brought him here. The quaint town reminded him of his most treasured childhood memory. Their family had been stranded in a small Pennsylvania town at Christmastime due to a snowstorm. With the trains not moving and telephone lines down, they’d had no choice but to celebrate the holiday there. Father had strolled the streets with them. It was the only time Sam could recall his father showing genuine joy. He’d even bought Sam a gift.

  Sam lifted the old kaleidoscope and aimed it at the window, where the descending sun filtered through the leaves of the maple next door. Through the eyepiece he watched the colors and shapes shift with every turn of the tumbler. As a boy, he’d been fascinated with the piece. Its working had seemed wondrous. One day Father explained how mirrors and bits of colored glass created the patterns. On that day Sam lost faith in the unseen, but science could not mend a broken heart.

  He raked a hand through his hair. He’d run out of time and options. The call must be made.

  He lifted the receiver and reached the local operator, who placed the long-distance call. After several rings, Mother answered.

  Her gentle voice always lifted his spirits.

  After the usual inquiries about her health and happiness, he had to relinquish the pleasure for pain. “Is Father home?”

  “Not yet. It’s so good to hear your voice, Samuel.” Mother always used their full names.

  Sam relished his mother’s affection, but as much as he would rather talk to Mother, his father expected a response. “Do you expect him soon?”

  “You know your father.” Her wistful sigh reminded Sam of the countless days she’d waited late into the evening for her husband’s return. At his entrance, she would rush to greet him, only to be brushed aside with some excuse as he stormed to his study. Mother had never complained and never showed any hurt feelings. If Sam remarried, he’d do better by his wife.

  He drew a breath. “I could use your help.”

  “Me?” Her shock could be heard over the static-filled line.

  “With Father.” Then Sam explained the situation with Ruth’s family and that Father wanted to buy their dress shop.

  “I see,” she said slowly. “You must like this Miss Fox a great deal.”

  Like Ruth? Mother’s words thundered over the line. He did like her. He enjoyed every moment in her company, but this wasn’t about his esteem for Ruth. For Mot
her to think that it was meant he’d blathered on too much about Ruth’s fine qualities.

  “That’s not the point,” he said, driving the conversation away from dangerous emotional territory and back to the matter at hand. “The property is inconsequential to Father, but vital to the Fox family. It’s simple charity.” But even as he said the words, he knew they weren’t true. His involvement had passed the bounds of charity days ago. “Can you speak to Father about it?”

  Mother sighed deeply. “He wouldn’t listen to me.”

  Sam heard the pain and isolation behind her words. “I can’t believe that.” But he knew the truth of it. Father didn’t listen to him, either.

  “Oh, it’s all right. I learned long ago that your father only hears what he wants to hear.”

  “It wasn’t always that way. Remember our Christmas in that little town in Pennsylvania? Father laughed back then. I remember him holding me up to look in the shop windows.”

  “People change, Samuel.”

  Lillian’s face flashed through Sam’s mind. People did change, for the worse. “I have stunning proof of that.”

  “Please don’t hold on to bitterness over what happened with Lillian.”

  “I’m not bitter,” he snapped, “and I don’t want to talk about her. It’s over and done.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. Only by letting go and forgiving Lillian can you begin to love another, like your Miss Fox.”

  Love Ruth? Sam’s gut knotted. He wasn’t ready for that sort of commitment. “I’m too busy with the company to think about the future.”

  Mother sighed. “You sound so much like your father.”

  She could not have said anything that cut more deeply. “I’m nothing like Father.”

  “I know, dear. Do remember that you can count on God to get you through whatever may come. His love is steadfast. Place your faith in the Lord, and you’ll never be disappointed.”

  Sam appreciated his mother’s ability to draw peace from her faith, but he couldn’t place all his trust in an unseen God. “I need to change Father’s mind, and I hoped you could make him understand how much the Foxes need that dress shop.”