The Kitchen Marriage

by Gina Welborn

  What she loved most were the birds.

  “Zey are happy to live in zis heaven,” she said as she sensed Mr. Gunderson quietly drawing up behind her.

  “Are you talking to me?”

  “Of course. Who else would I be talking to?” When he failed to answer, she asked, “What kind of birds are ze?”

  “Finches.” Then he was silent again for a long moment. “How can you tell they’re happy?”

  “Close your eyes and listen to zem sing,” she said, and she did exactly that. “Zey sing with wondrous joy and with hope and loveliness.” Curious to see if he had done what she asked, she looked over her shoulder. He stood there, right behind her, his eyes closed. Like his brother, he had thick lashes, darker and—

  His eyes opened, and he looked sheepish at having been caught listening to the birds. “They . . . uh.” He cleared his throat. “They chirp because that’s what birds do.”

  “Oh, Mr. Gunderson, you are most—”

  His hand rested in the middle of Zoe’s lower back, sending a tingle up her spine, and it took all her fortitude not to move and give him any cause to believe his touch affected her so. Yet her heart beat so loudly she swore he had to hear it.

  “Don’t just stand there,” he grumbled, along with a nudge, yet his hand stayed on her back, as if the action was natural to him.

  Something tightened within her.

  Zoe jolted into motion. She strolled down the right aisle to put needed space between them, peering at the various plants as she walked. He should not affect her so. He was the brother of the man courting her. He was the brother of the man who never made her feel uncomfortable in his presence.

  She found the raised bed filled with fragrant herbs. Smiling, she ran the tips of her fingers along the tops, some recently trimmed. “Someone has been enjoying zese.”

  Mr. Gunderson drew up next to her, again closer than necessary. “Our housekeeper has access to the greenhouse,” he said with none of the earlier gruffness. He offered a wicker basket.

  Zoe took it. “Zank you.”

  “Fill it with as much as you want for . . .” His words trailed off as he stared at her.

  As she stared at him.

  It was the oddest, warmest, strangely familiar thing, standing there looking up at him and waiting for him to speak. Missing Jakob had caused her to feel this way. That was all the tingle was. That explained it.

  Twins, yes. But not identical.

  One could not be substituted for the other.

  She lowered her gaze to Mr. Gunderson’s tweed waistcoat, to the top button, the one that was directly eye level with her. “I apologize,” she said in sincere penitence, “for keeping you from your meeting and for not being appreciative of your escort.” She winced. “It has been two days since I have seen Jakob. I wish for his presence. And you are not him.”

  “I know.”

  It was not his words but his tone that drew her attention.

  Zoe looked up at him, confused by the sadness she heard in his voice. Nothing about his vacant expression testified to him being sad. Or lonely. Or wishful for something more.

  Yet his response had sounded . . . woeful.

  Perhaps Mrs. Forsythe had been correct in her belief that he was jealous of Jakob. It was possible. People loved being around Jakob. Zoe had yet to see a crowd cocooning Mr. Gunderson like those that would seek out Jakob. Did Mr. Gunderson wish he had his brother’s celebrity? What Zoe knew for certain was that Isaak Gunderson was unhappy. How she knew, she could not fathom. Nor could she fathom why that realization about him made her chest tighten or want to comfort him.

  “I am sorry zat you feel a—” Zoe bit back her words before she embarrassed him by admitting she knew he felt alone. She gave him a weak smile. “I am sorry zat you were forced to escort me here. You should not have to be with me, should you not wish it.”

  He nodded in acceptance of her apology. Yet she knew he knew that was not what she had originally intended to say.

  His gaze shifted to the herbs. “We couldn’t have you molested.”

  Zoe studied his profile, unsure if he was jesting.

  Mr. Gunderson stood there, saying nothing.

  She glanced around the raised bed, searching for sheers to trim the herbs.

  A pair appeared before her, held by Mr. Gunderson.

  “Zank you.” She took them from him, careful not to touch his hand. As deftly as she could, she trimmed the needed amount of parsley and added it to the basket Mr. Gunderson held with one hand while he checked his pocket watch with the other.

  “That’s all?” he asked, sliding the timepiece back into his waistcoat pocket.

  “It is enough.”

  His troubled gaze shifted to the handful of stalks in the basket.

  “Is something amiss?” she asked.

  “You have a wealth of fresh herbs at your fingertips, and yet enough is all you choose to take. I don’t know what to make of you.”

  Zoe stayed silent, unsure what to make of him. She wished to believe his words were a compliment, but for that to be the cause, his perception of her would have had to change. Isaak Gunderson, she had been told, rarely changed his mind because rarely was his opinion wrong. He was, though. Wrong about her.

  She was not the schemer, liar, and fraud he believed she was.

  That little pain above her heart returned.

  She looked down at the herb garden.

  One day, she would learn how to be unaffected by his words and touch. One day, she would have no care what he felt about her. One day, he would look her way and she would not sense his presence, because she had learned to be indifferent to him as she was to . . . to . . . to Yancey’s brother, Geddes. Never did Zoe wonder anything about Mr. Geddes Palmer. Never did she hear sadness in his tone or see loneliness in his eyes or care what he thought of her.

  Zoe laid the sheers next to the raised bed. “Papa taught me to live with enough. I am content with life.”

  “Are you?” she thought she heard Mr. Gunderson whisper.

  Regardless if he had or not, she had to share the words bubbling from her heart. “My life is good. What more should I want?”

  “That, Miss de Fleur, is a question for another day.” Perspiration beaded under the brim of his hat, his face glistening. Not surprising considering the temperature in the greenhouse. “We should go. I have a committee meeting.”

  “You are a kind and generous man for serving on ze Widows and Orphans Committee,” she said as she followed him to the double doors. “Is it always zis warm in here?”

  “It is.”

  “Your mother must enjoy zis in ze winter.”

  “She does. So do her chickens. I’ll escort you to the boardinghouse.”

  “Zere is no need. I am staying ze night in ze Forsythes’ guest room.”

  He stopped at the entrance, his scowl returning. “Why?”

  “Mrs. Forsythe said it was unsafe for me to travel alone at five in ze morning. I must begin cooking before dawn.”

  “Jakob didn’t offer to escort you?”

  “I did not wish to impose,” she explained. “He has been working late. He needs his slumber.”

  “He needs—” His words broke off. “Last chance, Miss de Fleur. Is there anything else you need for tomorrow’s breakfast feast?”

  She looked over her shoulder. Among the citrus trees at the southern end of the greenhouse stood a lemon tree. In gratitude for the Forsythes inviting her to stay in their home tonight—to convey the depth of love she bore for the couple who were as doting on her as Papa had been—she could make lemon pots de crème for them to enjoy after she returned to the boardinghouse.

  She could make them if she had some fresh fruit. Because he was offering . . .

  She touched Mr. Gunderson’s arm. “May I have four lemons?”

  His brows rose. “What are you going to cook?”

  “Something wonderful.”

  “A dessert?”

  Zoe nodded. “Pots de
crème. It is a French custard zat can be flavored with coffee or a favorite liqueur, but I prefer lemon topped with fresh whipped cream best. I will make enough for you to enjoy, too, if you like.”

  After a quick “I would,” he strode back into the greenhouse.

  Zoe felt her lips curve into a smile. For all Isaak Gunderson’s gruffness, he could be helpful and endearing when he wished to be.

  Or he merely had a weakness for sweets.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Monday afternoon, April 9

  De Fleur-Gunderson Courtship Contract, Day 31

  “Which one I like doesn’t matter,” Jakob responded in a tone sharper than Zoe had ever heard him use before. “I want your opinion.” He tapped wallpaper samples against The Import Company’s eastern wall. “Which one of these do you like best?”

  Zoe glanced back and forth between the samples Jakob held . . . and did her best to ignore the workmen standing on the stairs overhearing her and Jakob’s conversation. “Zey are both lovely.” She tried a new tactic to avoid answering because asking which wallpaper Jakob liked had failed to distract him from badgering her for an opinion. “But I zink you should ask your brother which he prefers.”

  “I don’t care what Isaak prefers. I care what you prefer.” There it was again—that why-won’t-you-comply-to-what-I-ask edge to his voice. Jakob’s blue eyes focused on her in expectation of a response. No, in expectation of a decision. A decision he should make.

  Zoe clasped her gloved hands together and maintained a polite expression to cover her growing annoyance with him. His desire for her to choose from the wallpaper samples—like with the ceiling tiles and paint—in no way obligated her to give it, especially when his brother should be helping him decide. That Jakob continued to ask her opinion vexed her. Literally and figuratively speaking, this was the Gunderson brothers’ business, not hers. Save for wallpaper, the store was ready to be stocked with cabinets and merchandise. If Jakob wished not to make decorating decisions, he should have left the choices to his brother.

  Isaak Gunderson could be counted on to make an immediate decision. The man had proven to her how quick he was to rush to judgment about her being a schemer, a liar, and a fraud. Oh, but he had also been so kind and gracious in giving her lemons from his mother’s greenhouse. Perhaps he now realized how he had misjudged her.

  But if that were so, why had he avoided her yesterday at church? Why not sit next to her and Jakob? Why not join them for lunch with the Forsythes? She had prepared extra lemon pots de crème for Mr. Gunderson to enjoy. She wished to know what he thought of her cooking. She wished to know why he felt so alone. He had a family who loved him. He had friends.

  In truth, she had no knowledge of his friendships. Having no confidantes could be why he felt alone.

  “Zoe?” Jakob’s voice drew her from her musings.

  She looked his way. “Yes?”

  “I don’t know why you’re making this difficult. Just tell me which sample you like best.”

  Was this what Jakob would be like if she married him? Insistent that she make the decisions he was too unsure to make on his own? Critical of her when she refused to comply with his wishes? Too focused on his own life to be aware of her obligations?

  True, he had been appreciative earlier, when she arrived unexpectedly with lunch. True, he had cleaned up the remains. True, he had seemed sincerely apologetic about not being able to accompany her this afternoon to Mrs. Hollenbeck’s home for tea.

  What time was it? She looked to the grandfather clock Jakob had moved over from The Resale Company after she recommended bringing in a clock to help him better keep track of time while he worked.

  “I need to leave,” she said, “or I will be late.”

  “Mrs. Hollenbeck won’t mind.” Jakob waved the wallpaper samples. “Which one?”

  “Ask your brother!” Zoe flinched at her harsh tone. No matter how vexed she was with him, she should not have been short. The poor man was upset about work, about deadlines, about his parents returning in a few weeks.

  Shamed at her outburst, she began an apology. “Jakob, I should not have—”

  Something between a snort and a chuckle came from one of the workmen.

  Jakob’s eyes narrowed into a targeted glare, first at the workmen and then at her. “I don’t need anyone’s help making a decision.”

  Zoe gave a sad shake of her head. “If zat was possible, you would not have asked for my opinion. It is not a sign of weakness to ask for your brother’s assistance. He cares about you.”

  Hurt flittered across his expression. “Give Mrs. Hollenbeck my apologies, will you?”

  Zoe nodded.

  He turned his back to her and focused on the samples.

  “Which one costs more?” she asked softly.

  He raised the cream one with the gold-foil stripes.

  “Does cost matter?”

  “We’re under budget.”

  “Do either have to be ordered?”

  “Charlie Cannon has both in stock, but only enough of the expensive one to cover two walls. I’d have to order more, which would put us behind schedule again.” He paused for a long moment. “If I purchase the more expensive one, Cannon will spread the word that we’re sparing no expense on this storefront.”

  “Zat would not be good.”

  “You’re right, it wouldn’t—” He swung around to face her, his eyes widening, the samples slipping out of his hands. “That’s exactly what we want.” He dashed to his notebook sitting atop a stool, grabbed the pencil he had stuck behind an ear, and began to write.

  Zoe waited a few moments for him to say more. When he did not, she strolled to the door. After one final look in Jakob’s direction, she stepped outside and headed down the sidewalk in the direction of Mrs. Hollenbeck’s house. Zoe stopped at the first intersection, waited for a lull in traffic, then crossed the street and turned north.

  She still had the train ticket to return to Denver if the courtship floundered. If? It was already floundering. The kindest thing might be to end it now, instead of debating whether she should end it.

  She wanted love. She wanted marriage, a home, and a family. She had hoped she would find that with Jakob, but with each passing day she felt less sure she wanted a future with him. She liked Jakob. She did.

  But nothing in her heart spoke of love.

  What was the proper etiquette in America for ending a contracted courtship? Should she be the one to speak first?

  Zoe stopped at the next intersection. Closing her eyes, she allowed the afternoon sun to warm her face.

  Tomorrow night, if Jakob failed to join her for dinner with Lily Forsythe, she would seek Mrs. Forsythe’s wisdom about ending the courtship. If only Mr. Forsythe were here, Zoe would ask him, too. Both a maternal and a paternal perspective would be helpful. Of course, if she ended the contract, then what? While she had the train ticket back to Denver, she was under no obligation to return to the Archer Matrimonial Company and consider other suitors. She could create a life for herself here in Helena. Staying would be awkward at first, but she had the Forsythes, who had taken her under their wing. In time, she and Jakob could become friends, like he was with Yancey and Carline.

  But Isaak Gunderson lived in Helena. If she stayed, avoiding him forever would be impossible.

  Why did he dislike her so? She was likable.

  While she would miss the Forsythes, returning to Denver was the wiser course of action. Because of Isaak Gunderson.

  “Miss de Fleur?”

  Zoe tensed. The sound of her name spoken by the very man she was thinking about increased the swish of her pulse. Unable to think of a logical reason to pretend she had not heard Mr. Gunderson speak her name—or to explain the breathless unease she felt in his presence—she reluctantly opened her eyes. He stood next to her, holding a crate of vegetables and looking none too pleased to see her.

  In a voice that sounded as nonplussed as she intended, she said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Gunderson.”


  He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Afternoon.”

  A wagon rolled past . . . and then two buggies and a youth pushing a wheelbarrow while they stood side by side in cumbrous silence, waiting to cross.

  “Good day.” She lifted the front of her red plaid dress and stepped into the street. To her surprise, he followed. Zoe stopped on the sidewalk and, in her annoyance that he viewed her as an obligation, swiveled to face him. “Zis is considerate of you to walk with me, Mr. Gunderson, but I have no need of an escort.”

  His face reddened. “I wasn’t walking with you, Miss de Fleur. We merely crossed the street at the same time.”

  “Oh.” Zoe moistened her bottom lip. “Mrs. Hollenbeck invited me for afternoon tea. And Jakob, too, but he cannot leave work.”

  “She invited you to tea today?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now?”

  “At four,” she told him. “Is zere a problem?”

  With a grim slant to his mouth, Mr. Gunderson shook his head, then started forward . . . in the same direction Zoe needed to walk.

  She hurried to match his pace. “Did she invite you to tea, too?”

  “No.” He drew in a breath deep enough to expand the wide chest beneath his black coat and matching waistcoat. “She has a dried ham to add to the food the Widows and Orphans Committee is providing to the Sundin family.”

  “I zink it is admirable, ze way you and your brother have worked together to provide for Timmy and his mother.”

  “Jakob often finds people in distress. I then take it to the committee to determine the next step. A problem at The Resale Company prevented me from delivering the food sooner.” And then he said no more . . . which was Mr. Gunderson’s not-so-subtle way of warning Zoe not to engage in conversation with him.

  And so she stayed silent as they walked to the next intersection, passing numerous grand homes along the road. They walked another block in silence.