The Kitchen Marriage

by Gina Welborn

  Words he should have ignored. Maybe he would have, were it not for the way Yancey had poked fun at his lists and schedules nine days ago.

  Still, as the older brother and the future mayor of Helena, it was up to him to set an example of—

  Benevolent arrogance.

  Isaak winced as Yancey’s description stabbed his inner ear. “I’ll leave. As you said, I have my own work to do.” He turned around.

  “Yes. You’ve done enough damage,” followed him out the door.

  Chapter Ten

  Monday, April 2

  De Fleur-Gunderson Courtship Contract, Day 24

  “Poisson is fish. F-I-S-H,” Zoe spelled aloud while covering the shopping list—written in both French and English—on her lap with both hands.

  “Fish is poisson. P-O-I-S-S-O-N. If we remove an s from poisson, the word becomes poison. Hm.” Mrs. Forsythe turned away from the carriage’s right-side window to look at Zoe, who was sitting to her left. “What’s the word for poison in French?”

  “Poison,” Zoe answered without pause. “It is spelled P-O-I-S-O-N. La méchante reine mit du poison sur la pomme qu’elle donna à Blanche-Neige. Which means?”

  Mrs. Forsythe’s brow furrowed, her lips moving in silent speech. And then she smiled. “The wicked queen put poison on the apple she gave Snow White.”

  “Gave to Snow White.”

  “Oh, that’s right. The word poison must have originated in French and the English adopted it, much like fiancé, chic, and . . .”

  As Mrs. Forsythe shared additional words, Zoe’s gaze fell to the sheet of stationery resting in the lap of her sapphire silk day dress. The sheet contained a list of foods she needed to cook for Mrs. Forsythe’s breakfast party. Who would have expected that the first meal Zoe and Jakob had shared with the Forsythes three weeks ago would turn into an every-Tuesday-and-Saturday occurrence? Or that the divine and gracious Mrs. Forsythe would be the one to recognize Zoe’s inability to read and write English?

  Their agreement to help each other improve fluency in the other’s native language had birthed a treasured friendship. Like Zoe, Mrs. Forsythe preferred attention on others instead of on herself. To watch and listen. Jakob and Mr. Forsythe always carried the meal conversation. Zoe appreciated that the judge never seemed put out with his wife’s gentle demeanor or lack of opinions.

  The judge would never demand his wife speak her mind.

  The judge would never demand his wife explain her thoughts.

  Nor would Jakob.

  He was a good man. And kind. He knew how to laugh and smile and make a girl feel at ease in taking time to enjoy the beauty of the world around them. Whenever Zoe visited him at The Import Company, he would stop work and talk with her. She had seen him do the same with others. Jakob truly cared about people.

  She had felt such happiness when they were together that first week.

  But now? She must bore him. What else would explain his absence? In the last seven days, she had spent more than a few minutes in conversation with Jakob only twice: Tuesday supper and Saturday lunch with the Forsythes. During those moments, Jakob had been distracted. After she recommended a breakfast feast to welcome home Mrs. Forsythe’s friend, Mrs. Pauline Hollenbeck, when she returned from her six-month European tour, Mr. Forsythe had been the one to declare it “unusual” yet “a novel idea.” Jakob had heartily agreed.

  Yet Zoe wondered if he had even been paying attention to the discussion. Perhaps he was more like his brother than she thought.

  You drop the R sound in words like people born and raised in New York do.

  Ha! The man’s ability to distinguish accents was as poor as his palate.

  Zoe shifted on the carriage bench.

  “What’s wrong, dear?” Mrs. Forsythe said gently. “You suddenly seem troubled.”

  “A disturbing thought came to mind.”

  “Ah.” She said nothing more as the carriage slowed to turn a corner, and Zoe knew the elegant woman had no intention of pressuring her into offering a confidence. She also knew Mrs. Forsythe was not concerned about the “disturbing thought” being about her. Lily Forsythe never assumed the worst of anyone.

  Nor did Zoe.

  Except with Isaak Gunderson.

  That familiar ache she had experienced of late started again in her chest.

  Weary of it, Zoe shifted on the carriage bench so she could face Mrs. Forsythe. “A disturbing thought plagues me. I wish to know how to never zink of zis zing again.”

  “How often does the thought come to mind?”

  “Mornings are ze worst times . . . except for when I try to sleep. Zen I lie awake unable to zink of other zings. I replay zee moment in my mind, and it causes pain”—Zoe touched the spot right over her heart—“here.”

  A long beat of silence passed before Mrs. Forsythe said, “And you’ve now started having this disturbing thought during the day?”

  Zoe nodded.

  “Most likely it is fear, worry, or unresolved conflict.” Mrs. Forsythe fell silent as she studied Zoe’s face. She spoke in a gentle manner. “My dear child, love could just as well be the culprit.”

  “Love?” Zoe blurted out in revulsion.

  Mrs. Forsythe chuckled softly. “I take it Jakob isn’t involved.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Then I recommend you face whatever’s causing you this pain. Confront it head-on. Win the battle.”

  The carriage rolled to a stop.

  A trio of ladies passed by the carriage window. One lady wore a calico day dress like the one Zoe had seen at breakfast on the newest boarder at Deal’s Boardinghouse.

  “Another French word zat is the same in English is menu. M-E-N-U.” She handed the breakfast menu to Mrs. Forsythe. “Zank you for taking me shopping with you. I enjoy zese precious moments together.”

  “I feel the same.”

  Zoe nodded. “I will see you Sunday.”

  Mrs. Forsythe folded the parchment in quarters, then slid it into her reticule, just as the carriage door opened. “The day isn’t over yet. Before I return you to the boardinghouse, I need to see if the Minton china is still for sale.”

  “Ma’am,” the hired driver said before taking her hand to assist her out of the carriage. He repeated the action for Zoe. The moment she stepped onto the sidewalk, her gaze caught on the words etched into the front window: THE RESALE COMPANY.

  Zoe hesitated, having no inclination to face the cause of her pain.

  Mrs. Forsythe wrapped her left arm around Zoe’s right one. “This won’t take long.”

  When Mrs. Forsythe walked forward, Zoe had no choice but to comply. Isaak Gunderson may not be at work. Jakob said his brother had many responsibilities, some of them requiring him to leave his employee to run the store.

  She hoped now was one of those times.

  The moment they strolled into the store, a petite brunette whom Zoe had yet to meet stopped petting the plump tabby cat resting on the service counter. Her curious gaze flickered for a moment on Zoe before she said, “Mrs. Forsythe, it’s a joy to see you!”

  “I heard you and Mac had returned. How was St. Louis?”

  “Wonderful,” the brunette said, then cringed. “And rainy. Mac lost three umbrellas. I didn’t know he was so forgetful.”

  “A man on his honeymoon is more likely to be distracted than forgetful,” Mrs. Forsythe remarked with a smile. “Emilia, let me introduce Miss Zoe de Fleur of Paris by way of New York City. Zoe, this is Emilia McCall. She’s newly married to our county sheriff.”

  Zoe and Mrs. McCall exchanged pleasantries.

  “What brings you to Helena?” asked Mrs. McCall.

  Mrs. Forsythe answered for Zoe. “Jakob is courting her.”

  Mrs. McCall blinked repeatedly. “Jakob, as in Jakob Gunderson?”

  Zoe nodded. “I am his bride by mail delivery.”

  “Not his bride yet,” Mrs. Forsythe clarified. “They met through the Archer Matrimonial Company in Denver. Zoe is helping me improve
my French. Jonas promised me a trip to Paris for our tenth anniversary this December.”

  “That’s wonderful!” Mrs. McCall focused on Zoe. “I was a mail-order—”

  “—walk you to the door.”

  Zoe tensed at the sound of Mr. Gunderson’s deep voice. She looked toward his office, where he stood half-in, half-out. Twenty-two days of avoiding him ruined. Ruined! Unless she ran. To her misfortune, dashing out of the store was impossible with Mrs. Forsythe holding tight.

  Mr. Gunderson strolled out of his office, his attention on the talkative dark-haired woman in a gray-and-yellow-floral day dress. A mustached man holding a top hat and a wrapped package strolled behind them.

  “I certainly will,” Mr. Gunderson answered the woman.

  And then he looked up.

  If he was surprised to see Zoe, he was good at playacting, because nothing in his expression resembled the animosity she had last seen on his arrogant and, to her annoyance, handsome face.

  Zoe raised her chin. She breathed slowly through her nose and let the air out just as slowly, hoping to calm her rapid heartbeat. If he could be so indifferent to her presence, she could reciprocate. And there was nothing to worry about. Manners dictated he would be kind and gracious because of the other women present, and because this was his place of business.

  As the trio neared them, Mrs. McCall stepped to Zoe’s side to clear the aisle. “Have a nice day,” she said with a smile.

  Instead of continuing past, they stopped. Or at least the unfamiliar woman did first; the two men, in good form, followed suit.

  Her brown-eyed gaze settled on Zoe. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  Mrs. Forsythe’s right hand clenched her left wrist, thereby pinning Zoe’s arm and keeping her from shaking anyone’s hand. “May I present Miss Zoe de Fleur? Zoe, this is Mr. and Mrs. Kendrick. He is the current mayor of Helena.”

  Zoe dipped her chin in acknowledgment. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Oh, you’re French!” exclaimed Mrs. Kendrick. “I’ve yet to meet someone truly from France.” She looked at her husband. “Did you hear that accent? She’s from France.”

  “I—”

  “Zoe was born in Paris,” Mrs. Forsythe interjected, cutting off Mr. Kendrick’s response to his wife. “Her father was a chef for the . . .”

  As Mrs. Forsythe shared Papa’s culinary accomplishments, Zoe nodded. She should say something. She ought to take part in the conversation, but even without glancing up at the man towering over them all, she knew he was looking at her. She could verily feel Mr. Gunderson’s gaze. She shivered; the action caused her shoulders to shift and squirm.

  Mrs. Forsythe stopped speaking and gave Zoe a strange look.

  “Miss de Fleur,” began Mrs. Kendrick, “would you care to join Harold and me for Easter lunch? We would love to hear—”

  “She and Jakob are spending the day with us.” Mrs. Forsythe’s words held a crisp edge. “Jonas will be giving Zoe lessons on how to ride a horse. Our godson is courting her.”

  Mrs. Kendrick’s surprised gaze shifted to Mr. Gunderson, who stood as still and silent as a statue, and then to Zoe, and then back to Mrs. Forsythe. “Oh, you mean Jakob is courting her.”

  “Jonas and I are quite pleased with Jakob’s choice, as David and Marilyn will be once they meet Zoe,” Mrs. Forsythe said with great feeling. “We couldn’t adore her more if she were our own daughter.”

  An awkward silence stretched.

  Zoe’s pulse raced.

  Mrs. Kendrick kept glancing between Mrs. Forsythe, Zoe, and Mr. Gunderson.

  Eyes narrowed, Mr. Kendrick tapped his top hat against his thigh. He said nothing, but Zoe knew he was intently thinking. As his wife was. Why? There was nothing suspicious or odd or interesting about anything said.

  Mrs. Forsythe drew Zoe back a step before saying, “We won’t keep you.”

  The Kendricks nodded and continued to the door, Mr. Gunderson walking with them.

  Zoe stared at the planked floorboards to keep from giving in to the desire to look Mr. Gunderson’s way. Her heart continued to pound. Was he remorseful over his behavior? His bland expression had given nothing away, nor did he seem disapproving of her. Perhaps he realized how judgmental, unfair, and wrong his presumptions about her were.

  Mrs. Forsythe released her grip on Zoe. “I can’t believe their audacity,” she said in a terse, low voice. “You’d think with Isaak running for mayor against Kendrick—” She broke off. “Jonas will want to hear about this. He distrusts Kendrick greatly.”

  A humph came from Mrs. McCall. “Mac warned Isaak that Kendrick or one of his supporters would try to bribe him to drop out of the race.”

  “Is Lestraude still backing Kendrick?”

  “Yes.”

  “That can’t please Mac.”

  “They’ve agreed not to discuss politics.”

  “How are things between the three of you?”

  “As best as can be under the circumstances.”

  Zoe looked back and forth between the two women, expecting one of them to offer an explanation of who this Lestraude fellow was. Both stayed silent, which only added to Zoe’s confusion. The Kendricks seemed a pleasant couple. Mr. Gunderson seemed at ease with them. How could they be political opponents? There was much about American politics she failed to—nor wished to—understand.

  Mrs. McCall suddenly smiled. “What brings you two by?”

  “Does Isaak still have that set of Minton tableware?” Mrs. Forsythe asked.

  “Which ones are those?”

  “White bone china with blue-printed, Chinese-inspired landscapes. Twelve place settings.”

  Mrs. McCall frowned. “I don’t remember ever seeing anything like that.” She glanced around the shop, which was strange, considering how her petite height limited her view. She looked to the front door, her eyes narrowing.

  Zoe glanced over her shoulder. Mr. Gunderson stood outside under the portico talking to the Kendricks, his broad back to the store’s entrance. Mrs. Kendrick’s head turned in Zoe’s direction. Zoe lifted the corners of her mouth in a polite smile. Mrs. Kendrick nodded, then returned her attention to the two men.

  Mrs. McCall sighed, drawing Zoe’s attention away from Mr. Gunderson. “Mrs. Forsythe, would you by chance remember when and where you saw those dishes last?”

  “Last Friday,” she said without pause. “That table that now holds clocks was set with four place settings, serving pieces, crystal goblets, and a silver candelabra. I first noticed the table arrangement the day after your wedding.”

  “No wonder I don’t remember them. Isaak said he and Carline were adding new stock that weekend. Let me check the sales log.” Mrs. McCall strolled to the counter, then pulled out a leather-bound book. After flipping through several pages, she said, “There’s no record of a sale. Is there anything else you can tell me about the china?”

  While the two women talked, Zoe glanced around the shop and up at the loft. Her breath caught. There on the second floor were several filled-to-the-ceiling bookcases.

  “Zoe, dear, Emilia and I are going to check the storage room for the china. Would you like to stay here and look around, or come with us?”

  Zoe continued to stare up at the loft. “Zere are books up zere.”

  “Isaak bought Edward Tandy’s entire library,” Mrs. McCall said. “Doubled our inventory, but I offer no complaint. Most of the books have been shelved.”

  “Any McGuffey Readers?” asked Mrs. Forsythe.

  “We have at least one per level. They’re a quarter each.”

  Mrs. Forsythe touched Zoe’s arm. “McGuffey is spelled M-C-G-U-F-F-E-Y. If you’re going up there, find us a second-level primer.”

  Mrs. McCall smiled at Zoe. “Look on the second bookshelf from the left, bottom shelf. Mr. Tandy’s library begins on the far right.”

  “Zank you.” After a glance to see Mr. Gunderson still outside with the Kendricks, Zoe hurried to the staircase. She raised the front of her s
kirts, then dashed upstairs. Two recipe books and Papa’s Holy Bible were the only books she owned. While she would love to read anything written in her native tongue, she would settle for a children’s primer to help her learn to read English.

  The bookshelves ran along the building’s west wall and curved onto the north wall, ending next to a closed door. Like the first floor, household goods sat on and below the tables, filling the loft.

  Second case, bottom shelf.

  Zoe knelt to read the book spines to be sure they were McGuffey Readers. She pulled out a second-level primer. For good measure—and because she could afford it—she added a first level and a third one, too. She stood and rested her reticule atop the pile of books on the nearest table before strolling to the far-right bookshelf. The door next to the bookshelf had intricate hand carving. She eyed the doorknob. It was likely another storage room.

  “See something interesting?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Zoe flinched. She turned her head enough to see Mr. Gunderson leaning against the loft’s iron railing, his arms folded across his broad chest. The tight fabric of his suit coat emphasized his muscular build. The man clearly did not spend his workday sitting behind a desk.

  The tabby cat weaved around his legs, arched back and purring.

  Mr. Gunderson’s brows rose—a clear indication he knew she was studying him.

  Cheeks warm, she turned back to the bookshelf. “I am looking for a book. Nothing more.”

  “But you are curious about what’s behind that door.”

  “A little,” she admitted in truth, “but it is none of my business.”

  “Have a gander. Door’s not locked. I have nothing to hide.”

  At that, she turned to look at him again.

  He was mocking her. She could feel it down to her bones. If Jakob were here, there would be no awkward silences. Jakob always knew what to say to make people feel comfortable. It was one of the traits she appreciated most in him.

  Instead, she was stuck in the mire called Isaak Gunderson.