All in Good Time (8 page)

“I’m afraid you’re in the wrong place, sir,” Dessa said quietly—calmly—taking one of his arms to turn him back to the door.

“Naw, I remember precisely. And I never forget me debts. Here ya go, missy. For last night.”

To her horror he extended a bill in his hand, one she immediately pushed away. With her free hand she grabbed the edge of the door he’d left open, hoping not only to hide him from the others but to get him to leave before anyone nearby noticed something so terribly amiss.

“You owe me nothing, sir,” she whispered. “Please go.”

“But you showed me a kindness, and I wanted to repay—”

“Is there something wrong?”

To her horror, the words spoken just behind her came from Mr. Hawkins. She closed her eyes in a moment of desperate prayer
for guidance, then did the only thing she could—turned around to face the very curious and obviously disapproving banker.

“No, nothing is wrong,” she said lightly. “I was just saying this gentleman is confused about where he is.”

The man laughed, removing his hat—crumpled with wear—and placing it in the same hand as the dollar bill. He then extended his free hand to Mr. Hawkins, who made no move to accept the friendly gesture.

The man pulled back his rejected hand, wiping it along the side of his stained and dirty jacket. “I don’t blame ya, sir, for not takin’ me hand. Your kind and mine don’t mix very often, now do we?” He winked at Dessa. “He’s a fine-lookin’ one for sure, missy. You can tell he’ll pay ya and pay ya well.”

“He’s not—”

“Just what happened here last night?” Mr. Hawkins pressed.

Both Mr. Ridgeway and Mariadela now stood nearby, Mariadela looking as mortified as Dessa felt, and Mr. Ridgeway considerably more curious than condemning.

“I can explain that, sir.” The caller once again held out the dollar bill, which Dessa still refused to accept. He faced Mr. Hawkins, taking in what looked to be a deep, fortifying breath. “’Tis a fact, me boy, that I was a victim of me own undoing. Ah, but it was a
strong
drink that got me last night. Like a torch going down me throat and straight to me empty belly. When I needed a spot to curl up and sleep, I found me way right here to this very room, because rumor has it to be a refuge of a kind. And this wee slip of a girl helped me to a bed, so I wouldn’t be left in the gutter.”

“On the back porch,” Dessa said, her words barely making it beyond her embarrassment. “To a pile of rags.”

“Still, ’twas a soft pile, and I was out of the night wind, off the pavement so to speak. I came to offer me thanks, and me money. Though . . . if it isn’t too much trouble, might ya make change for
me? I have but this single bill, and don’t ya know I can get a bed down the street for half this. So would two bits be a fair price for a porch, do ya suppose now? A porch not even used ’til I got here, so late as it was?”

“Keep your bill, Mr. . . .” Dessa stopped, not knowing what to call him but having no wish to find out. She grabbed the door once again, hoping he would take his leave. But he was looking beyond them to the dining room, where remnants of lunch only needed clearing away.

“Now that looks as if ’twere a fine meal. Fine indeed.”

Dessa released another breath. She knew what she ought to do—knew, too, that Mr. Hawkins’s disapproval would only increase. Yet she would not ignore the prompting to do right, no matter how deep the banker’s frown.

She went to the table, grabbed two slices of bread and a hefty slice of chicken, then returned to the man at her door.

Handing the sandwich to him, she said, “I must ask you to go now, sir. But let me make it clear since you’re of sobriety. This is a home for women
only
. Please don’t come here again.”

Accepting the sandwich with a grin wide enough to reveal crooked and graying teeth, he placed his hat back upon his head, pocketed his dollar, and with a zealous bite, he gave her another wink before going out the door.

“Feeding him will only bring him back,” Mr. Hawkins said.

“I simply forgot to lock the door last night,” Dessa told him, her spine so rigid it ached. “It won’t happen again.”

With a mix of relief and disappointment, she watched Mr. Hawkins step past her to the hook beside the door. Placing the hat on his head, he faced her, so close she could see for the first time that there was a mix of light- and dark-gray flecks in his eyes. If his hair ever turned gray, it would likely match.

“Banks have a way of foreclosing on loans that are not repaid
on a regular and timely basis. If he was an example of the clientele you’re attracting—” he held out a palm in the direction of the modest box of linens nearby—“and if that is the source of your repayment fund, Miss Caldwell, then I suggest you prepare yourself for foreclosure.”

Then he walked through the front door, calling Mr. Ridgeway’s name over his shoulder.

7

“WAS THAT
really necessary, Henry?”

Tobias plopped his considerable girth on the seat opposite Henry, jostling the entire carriage. He had a look of purest irritation on his normally jovial face.

“Go back if you like,” Henry said, looking out the carriage window. But as the vehicle rolled forward, they both knew it was too late.

“If I’d known you were going to threaten her with foreclosure, and this before her first loan payment is due—”

“The loan was a mistake, Tobias; even you must see that now. She’s a fool to live in this neighborhood, if men like that drunken Irishman are the only people who want anything to do with her. She’s just sitting there sewing and cooking on that stove, and she’s obviously already tapped anyone who will give her the charity she needs. How is it we’ve been foolish enough to make this home a reality before either she or the neighborhood is ready for it?”

“You don’t know that! And you must give her a chance. She’s obviously worked day and night to get settled, and I have no doubt she’ll do exactly as she hopes.”

Henry spared his uncle a glance. Doubt was all over Tobias’s face, despite his words. “At least it’ll be easier to sell, with the improvements she’s made on the place.”

“Huh,” grumbled Tobias, then grumbled again. “Fine and well for you to sit there, hoping she fails. Huh.”

It was nothing to be proud of; even Henry knew that. He attempted a halfhearted smile. “You’re just angry we didn’t get any of that pie.”

“Of course I am!” Tobias said, grinning at last. “Aren’t you?”

The funny thing was, in spite of telling himself his actions had been justified, Henry realized he was indeed missing that very thing.

“Why don’t you suggest she open a café?” Henry asked. “She has the kitchen for it.”

“I cannot believe you begrudge her the purchase of a stove. You heard what she said: appealing food is part of the investment.”

“Yes, if it
were
a café. I want you to tell her that.”

Tobias leaned forward and Henry felt his stare even though he continued to look out the window.

“Tell her yourself.”

“Shh, hush now, Dessa,” soothed Mariadela, having pulled her chair around the table, close to Dessa’s.

“The whole luncheon was a disaster! He—he didn’t have to be so . . . so mean!” Dessa knew she sounded like a child, but that’s exactly how she felt. Chastised as if she’d done something foolish.

The worst part was she still couldn’t help wondering if she’d been every bit as foolish as Mr. Hawkins seemed to believe. The thought brought a fresh supply of tears. “Oh, Mariadela! What if he’s right? I thought—” A hiccup interrupted her; then another sob overtook her. “I thought women would be eager to find a safe place under this roof! And there isn’t one, not a single one, who came!”

“They will,” Mariadela said. “They will.”

A new thought came to mind, one Dessa hadn’t even entertained before now. “And what if the donations don’t continue as regularly as expected? Why, if a single donor decides to go
elsewhere, I won’t be able to make the payments. Because Mr. Hawkins is right! I can’t pay back that loan just from linen sales.”

Dessa used one of her carefully sewn napkins to wipe away tears that were only replaced by more. “What if I’ve misunderstood what God wanted me to do? Why didn’t I wait and work toward more donations the way Sophie would have done, so I wouldn’t have to borrow so much?”

Thoughts of Sophie brought inevitable grief, something Dessa carried despite the nearly nine months she’d been gone. Visions of Sophie going off one day, as she so often did, to the county hospital—better known as the pesthouse—not far away on Wazee and Sixteenth, where poor and indigents came for treatment of any contagious disease. Sophie had gone there often, never with a thought to herself. They couldn’t have guessed God would allow her ministry to end because of one of those visits. Conditions in the almshouse—the greater part of the pesthouse—were what had inspired Sophie to open an alternative in this very neighborhood.

Dessa had never cared for the irony that Sophie died in a city known for its crisp, clean, dry air that promised healing for so many of the infirm.

“If only Sophie were still here,” Dessa whispered, wiping again at her tears, relieved they were beginning to wane. An idea rose that made the last of them stall. “I need to visit her grave. I’ve always been able to imagine better what she would do when I’m near her.”

“Yes, that’s a good idea. When William arrives, he can take you.”

Dessa sighed as they cleared away the remnants of the meal. At least the men had eaten everything on their plates, including seconds.

“William will be pleased there’s more pie left for him,” Mariadela said with a wink.

But the smile Dessa afforded in return was anything but genuine.

Denver City Cemetery wasn’t far from Brown’s Bluff—the spot designated as Capitol Hill after years of delays and disputes. Building had begun on the state capitol just last year. Dessa had visited the cemetery often since Sophie’s death, having fought Sophie’s family for her right to be buried where she wanted—not back in St. Louis in the prestigious family plot, but right here in Denver, with those relegated to the edge of the cemetery, where the remains of the lower classes from respectable to criminal could be found.

At Sophie’s graveside, tears replenished themselves in Dessa’s eyes. She knew Sophie wasn’t here, that this grave was nothing more than a testament to the way Sophie had lived her life trying to help those less fortunate. And yet standing here never failed to bring Dessa closer to her dear friend’s memory.

Sophie hadn’t just been helping those who didn’t seem able to help themselves. She, like Dessa, had carried a sort of obligation to set something right—though in Sophie’s case the wrongdoing had not been her own. But Sophie had felt the need to make up for the wrongs done by a Pierson. Her brother had compromised more than a few women’s virtue. Including Dessa’s.

“Did I fail you, Sophie? Did my impatience once again spoil your plans?” She wiped at a fallen tear, not feeling the dampness on her fingers for the thickness of her glove. An unexpected smile tugged at her lips. “I haven’t forgotten the times my impatience got the best of us. That horrid mail express carriage we took from Greenville to Louisville, or the shortcut we took in Chicago that ended with us hopelessly lost. My fault, both, and you missed important meetings because of my foolishness. Yet you were able to fix it all, weren’t you? And never blamed me, not once.”

A meager laugh escaped, but her tears weren’t banished altogether. “Oh, Sophie, I knew you would comfort me. I didn’t think I’d be able to laugh today, not after the way Mr. Hawkins made me feel.” She hugged her arms to herself. “I know I’ve made mistakes. I know impatience is one of my biggest faults. But this time . . . it’s more than just impatience. Did I misunderstand God’s will? Was I to put your dream in other, more capable hands than mine? I wish I knew.”

If Mr. Hawkins’s visit had done anything, it had surfaced every doubt Dessa had secretly harbored since her unhesitating start. She’d been so convinced no one but she had the same amount of passion and pure doggedness to get the job done that she hadn’t stopped to think she might not be the right person to implement Sophie’s vision.

Sophie had loved even those who’d turned their backs on God, not seeing their sin the way so much of society was wont to do. She saw the weakness and weariness that forced so many into a life that came with pain and loss of choice. Choice, at least, was something Sophie strove to restore.

Raised until she was seven in an institution for orphans and indigents, Dessa knew firsthand how it felt to be bereft of choice. Upon her seventh birthday she’d been sent by train to work. Her brother went to a farm while Dessa was placed into service with the Pierson family in St. Louis. A place that Dessa herself had eventually needed to escape—an escape Sophie provided.

Coming here today had been the right thing to do. Renewed resolve filled her. Even if opening Pierson House had been premature, even if Mr. Hawkins thought it a mistake, it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. Who knew better than Dessa the heartache and loss of everything from faith to dignity when a person was denied all choice, all hope?

It was up to Dessa to prove Mr. Hawkins—and her own doubts—wrong.