Sam had pondered her choice of words then, thinking she meant something more romantic, but then he realized that Miss Sinclair only meant he'd be perfect for the job.
He was about to move away from the window when he saw Maggie. She was standing in between a row of dry goods and sewing notions intently studying two bolts of fabric. From the frown on her face it appeared she was having trouble deciding on the right one.
Sam walked over to the door and pulled it open.
Scents of rose oil, spices, and dry goods hit him all at once.
"Oooh! Mr. Jules, can you help me? I can't seem to decide which of these fabrics would be right for the dance hall"
Shaking his head, Sam walked over to where Miss Monroe stood wearing a perplexed look on her face. Fingering the pale muslin and then the softer cotton bolt, he said, "Neither one of these will do."
Shock registered on her face. "I don't believe I asked for your opinion."
He chuckled at her sarcasm.
"And I'm quite sure you didn't come in here to help me choose fabric. I thought you needed to get to the post office"
Leaning against a shelf that held stacks of blue chambray shirts and denim pants, he grinned. "Actually, I decided that could wait. I saw you from the window and knew right away that you were a lady needing my assistance."
Huffing out a breath, she muttered, "How charming. I don't need your help. As a matter of fact, I'm quite capable of handling this by myself."
With those words she hefted the muslin onto a table lined with bolts of brightly colored fabric and stalked off with the cotton cradled in her arms. "Mr. Jules!" she called out to the back of the store. "I'm ready with my purchases."
Spotting a shiny yellow bundle of material compelled him to do something he never would have done if she hadn't presented a challenge to him by deliberately snubbing him.
"Wait!" Grabbing the fabric, he practically raced to the counter ahead of her. Slapping the material on the counter, he smiled. "This will be much better."
"You don't even know what I'm buying this for."
"I was hoping you'd be having some hostess gowns made." He beamed his most charming smile at her.
Light brown eyebrows shot up and her face turned beet red. "I think your assumptions are a bit personal."
It occurred to him then, as it so often did, too late, that he may have just overstepped the boundaries. Offering up fashion advice to a woman he'd just met was probably not the best thing to be doing, leastwise not until he was on better terms with her.
"Let me guess-curtains, tablecloths?" he quickly changed tactics, continuing to badger her.
Pushing aside his choice, she made room for hers. "If you must know I'm having some draperies made for the front windows."
Picking at the filmy material, he grimaced. A plain, puritan choice for a plain woman, he thought. And then he looked at Miss Monroe. Her face was flushed; he didn't know if it was in anger or what he supposed was her frustration at having to deal with him yet again today. Her blue eyes flashed and her hands trembled ever so slightly.
He realized with a start that there was nothing puritan about her. He'd seen something spark within her. Then just as quickly she'd gathered her wits about her.
"Mr. Clay, I'd thank you not to offer your opinion about my purchases again. For that matter, please don't trouble yourself over the dance hall either."
A short thin man with dark hair and spectacles perched high on his thin nose came out from behind the curtained doorway. Samuel assumed this was the owner of the mercantile.
"Is this man bothering you, Miss Maggie?"
Sliding a sly look in his general direction, she replied, "Everything is fine, Mr. Jules."
Noticing the hefty bolt of fabric, he said, "I see you found what you were looking for."
Sticking his hand out, Sam introduced himself. "I'm new to town. Samuel Clay's my name and I was just hired by Margaret Monroe Sinclair to manage the dance hall."
Looking doubtfully from Maggie to Mr. Clay, Mr. Jules frowned. "A manager for the dance hall? That should help things along don't you think, Miss Maggie?"
"Apparently, what I think is of no consequence anymore. If you don't mind, please have this delivered to the seamstress, Mrs. Waring. She'll be expecting it this afternoon"
"I'll see that it gets done," Mr. Jules replied, taking the bolt of fabric off the counter.
Maggie left the store and walked out into the heat of the day. Within minutes, sweat formed along her hairline and moisture gathered between her shoulder blades, making her wonder, as she often did, how it could be so humid in such a mountainous region. With the craggy peaks and valleys of the Catskills surrounding the town one would think that there would always be cool breezes. Well, such was not the case on this particular afternoon.
The brief rainstorm, which had moved through hours ago, left in its wake soggy air, the kind that caused moss to grow under the big boulders found along the edges of the town.
Pushing a damp strand of hair off her forehead, she stewed over Samuel Clay. The pesky man kept turning up. He was smug, self-assured, and well dressed. She felt he came off as a bit overdressed and somewhat overzealous. Walking about in those black dress pants, a crisp white shirt, and the most brilliant vest she'd ever laid eyes upon.
The audacity of him to even suggest what she should be wearing. Of course, the sad truth was she would be in need of some new gowns. But why oh why did he have to be the one to point that out to her? Mentally she added that to the growing list of things to be done.
Walking along the street, Maggie had to step around more than one group of loiterers. The place was booming compared to what it had been when she'd first arrived here months ago. It was hard to believe that almost a full year had gone by.
Abigail and now Lydia had both found the man of their dreams and had married him. Abby was still the sheriff and Lydia the schoolteacher. Who would have guessed those two would have settled into such fine, stable lives? She couldn't help but think, and then there was one.
She knew her future lay in making the dance hall a successful business venture. Under her steady hand it would be done. Aunt Margaret had entrusted her with this challenge and she was more than ready for it. In fact Maggie relished the challenge. She had her plan in place.
Maggie liked to think that the woman she'd been named for, Margaret Monroe Sinclair, her aunt, understood this. Maybe she did, perhaps she didn't. Nonetheless, Maggie was going to be a successful, independent woman and no one was going to deter her.
Margaret Monroe Sinclair stood at her bedroom window. The hustle and bustle of the new Surprise stunned even her, surpassing her modest expectations. She was delighted to see wagons carrying supplies into town, as well as buggies with families. There was even talk of putting a stagecoach stop here in addition to the train depot. Who could have guessed that one well placed advertisement in a city newspaper would have caused such change in one small town?
With a steady hand, she pushed back an errant strand of her thinning gray hair. Sighing, she realized that for the first time in a long time she was truly content. Her town-the one she and her husband had founded more than thirty years ago-was alive and prospering. What more could an old woman hope for?
There was the small matter of seeing her three precious nieces happy, she thought reflectively. That goal had fallen a little short with Maggie, the last one to be wed. She was so busy with the dance hall Margaret feared that if a man were to drop from heaven and land at her feet she'd give him no notice. She'd probably step right over him and continue on with her work.
Maggie was stubborn, she'd give her that. This could be a good trait, but not in the matter of men. Margaret feared there would never be a man suitable for her last unmarried niece.
Where Maggie was concerned, the match had to be with someone extraordinary. Looking out the window, she found herself searching the streets for the man. He was out there, she'd made certain of it.
Aweek after his arrival
, Sam had managed to secure his room at Mrs. Bartholomew's boarding house indefinitely. Today he was waiting at the telegraph office for a response to a message he'd sent out two days ago. Tapping his toe impatiently, he waited.
"I don't see anything here, Mr. Clay"
"Why that's impossible, kind sir. There should be something." Pointing to the small pile of paper, Sam said, "Check again."
Doing as he was told, the small, rotund man with dark hair and a protruding nose shuffled through the stack. "Nothing, sir, I'm sorry. Come back this afternoon, there might be something in by then." With that the man dismissed him, turning back to his work.
Before he'd left Albany, Sam had happened upon a new dance troupe and he thought the hall would be the perfect venue for them. Hoping to hire them before they were completely booked, Sam had sent a message off yesterday. If he didn't hear from them soon there would be no other choice except to find a replacement.
Snapping his fingers, he left the telegraph office and stepped out into the bright sunshine, squinting his eyes against the sudden glare. Like a little boy with time on his hands, he glanced mischievously up and down Main Street.
There must be something he could do to pass the time while he waited for the response.
"Maggie, how many times have I got to tell you that you can't change the color of the paint once it's been picked out?"
"Must you yell so everyone can hear, Cole?"
"That's it. I don't care how much Abby begs me, I'm not going to put up with your stubbornness another minute. I have other customers to deal with, not just you, you know!"
Sam turned to where Miss Maggie and her cousin's husband were having a standoff. The back of the buckboard they were leaning against was filled with buckets of paint, drop cloths, and brushes. Parked in front of the Judson Lumber Company, it looked loaded and ready to be transported across the street to the dance hall.
Color rode high on her cheeks and Cole looked about ready to explode. Hands fisted at his sides, he towered over the young woman. This fact didn't seem to bother her one bit.
Standing toe to toe with him, she leaned close to his face. "I don't think this is the right shade of green for the stage floor. And furthermore, this is not the color I chose"
"Samuel ordered the paint earlier this week. I assumed he'd discussed the decision with you"
"He most certainly did not!" Maggie huffed.
As if sensing his nearness, she turned on him. "You! Get over here right this instant!"
Now most things didn't frighten Samuel, but the look on her face almost sent him running back into the telegraph office. Instead, taking a deep fortifying breath, he exhaled slowly while walking over to her.
He was within three feet of her before she pounced.
"I am not going to use this color on the stage, Mr. Clay"
"I don't care. It's what you're stuck with, Miss Maggie. You're already so far over budget with supplies that I don't think Miss Margaret is going to stand for any more of your work order changes"
Even from where he stood, Sam was sure he heard her teeth grinding together.
Through a clenched jaw, she said, "I'll deal with Aunt Margaret"
"I'm afraid that you're going to have to deal with me. And I'm not changing the paint. It's as simple as that. You either take this order or the floors will be bare" Folding his arms across his chest, Samuel glared down at her.
"I am not taking that paint, Samuel Clay. As far as I'm concerned you can paint the entire town with this hideous shade of green" With that she flounced off, leaving the men to stare after her open-mouthed.
Draping his arms over the side of the wagon, Sam drawled, "Good day, Mr. Stanton."
"It was until she came along." He pointed at Maggie's back.
"She sure is strong-willed," Sam commented.
"You can say that again."
Toying with the top of one of the buckets, Sam kept an eye on Miss Maggie who was now on the other side of the street speaking to a redheaded woman. She was nodding at something Miss Maggie was saying as she gesticulated in the general direction of the lumber company.
The redhead was nodding sympathetically, while a taller woman with long dark hair wearing a sheriff's star pinned to the front of her blouse joined them.
"Oh, shoot." Throwing his hands in the air, Stanton began to backtrack toward the doorway of the building behind them.
"Now she's going to involve both of her cousins in this argument and before you know it the whole day will have been spent smoothing down their ruffled feathers."
Frowning at the trio of women, Sam said, "Since it's me she's mad at, I'll go talk to them. I'm sure Miss Monroe can be persuaded to take the paint."
Stopping, he turned to look at Sam, his eyes narrowed. "You sure you want to do something so dangerous?"
Shrugging his shoulders, he looked at Mr. Stanton and smiled. "Why not? I've got a few hours to kill."
"She's all yours" Cole stalked away, leaving Sam to face Miss Maggie Monroe in all her fury.
"Where's Cole off to?" she snapped, rushing toward him.
"Guess he had some work to do"
"I'm still not taking this paint."
Holding his hands out like a peace offering, Sam said, "Look, it's a great deal of paint. It would be a sinful waste of our precious resources to let the paint go to waste" Flashing her his most charming smile, he figured he'd won the argument.
She appeared to be pondering this. Her arms were neatly folded across her chest and her baby blue eyes were narrowed in concentration. "You're right about that. It would be a terrible waste of time and money"
"Is it too dark or too light?" he asked, curious as to her reason for rejecting the color.
"It's too bright. I was thinking more of a forest green. You know, a deep, rich color, not this unsightly lime green you came up with."
"The color will work on the stage. When the only thing lighting the area during a performance will be lanterns and candlelight from the chandeliers, the color will appear duller."
"I still don't like it."
"You've no other choice, Miss, except to use this paint."
"Fine. I still hate the color and I hate it even more that you're bullying me"
He laughed at her, which only seemed to irk her more. "I'm not a bully, Miss Monroe. I'm just doing the job your aunt is paying me to do"
"And there's another thing-she hired you without even consulting with me. I'd like to know what makes you so qualified for the job"
"I've worked in the business before. Perhaps she thought my experience would be helpful in making this venture as successful as possible."
"I don't think so"
"Well, it's neither here nor there. The stage will be painted by the end of this week. I trust you to oversee the work"
"Where are you going to be?"
"I have some business to attend to that may take me out of town for a day or two" His desire to have the dance troupe booked for the hall was so great that he'd decided rather than waiting for the telegram which might never come, he'd go back to Albany and personally convince them to come here.
She looked to be mulling this over and then a sudden smile illuminated her face. Sam didn't like the looks of it, either. He had a sixth sense when it came to women and their hijinks. And he could tell from the twinkle in her eyes that Miss Maggie was definitely up to something.
"All right, Mr. Clay. You can trust me to see that the job gets done properly"
"Now that's been settled, let's go inside and see where we're at with everything else"
Turning, she walked in the direction of the hall with Sam close behind. Entering the cool room he was satisfied with the changes.
The bar area had been sanded and refinished. Neat rows of tall iced tea glasses lined the flat surface in front of it. On the opposite side were several dozen teapots with gold-rimmed cups and saucers next to them.
A row of tall stools lined the front of the bar. Each was covered with a tufted cushion. Wand
ering behind the bar, Sam saw there was a space for kegs of root beer and sarsaparilla. Unlike the halls he frequented, he knew that Miss Maggie wasn't going to be serving alcoholic beverages. Sam wasn't sure how this would be for the business, but he suspected they'd know soon enough.
After the fight over the paint color he wasn't about to bring up the prospect of serving such libations in this establishment.
"The draperies and tablecloths will be ready by the end of the week." Turning around to face him, she added, "Just a few more finishing touches and then we'll be open for business."
He saw the flicker of worry puckering her brow. "Is there a problem?"
"Not really. I haven't been able to settle on all of the entertainment. The manual says you need to have a dance instructor."
Laughter erupted from him and Maggie desired nothing more than to wrap her hands around his neck and strangle him. She didn't see what was so funny. With hands on her hips, she advanced on him.
"What is so funny, Mr. Clay?"
"You are. I have to tell you, I've been in this business a very long time and never have I had to hire a dance instructor."
"I don't care what you did in the past, Mr. Clay. This is my hall and I'm going to run it the correct way. You probably had floozies and the like running around your establishment."
"I daresay I did not have any such women running my place."
He seemed to be truly insulted by her remark so Maggie tried again. "I want the patrons to be able to have a good time and having someone here to teach them the proper moves would.. she frowned while searching for the right word, "enhance their experience."
That sent him to laughing once more and Maggie felt the hackles on her neck raise in anger. "You should just leave, go someplace else! Find another hall to run because I don't need you here!"
Spreading his arms wide, he looked at her. "Trust me on this. People who come here are not looking for instruction, they are looking to have a good time."
WOMEN OF SURPRISE 03: Making Over Maggie Page 3