Harmony (55 page)

The door to the store opened and Mrs. Shay Dufresne came in with a purpose to her eyes that he had never seen before. Since marrying Shay, she'd come out of her shell quite a bit. She'd had him over to dinner a couple of times at their modest house off of Birch. She was a good cook, a tidy housekeeper, and could be, to Tom's amazement, a real chatterbox.

In her hand was a handkerchief balled into a white wad, and inside her fist, a tiny bottle.

“M-Mr. W-Wolcott,” she began in a tone that said badger all over it.

He hadn't heard her stutter in longer than he remembered. Something had gotten her fired up but good.

“Yeah, Mrs. Dufresne?”

“You are an a-a-abomination. The 1-lowest of the 1-low . . .” Her vocal cords failed her and she popped the cork off that bottle and waved it beneath her nose. It gave her stamina, whatever it was, and she glared at him head-on. He felt as if she were ripping him a new . . . well . . . new way of thinking about her.

“What did I do?” He didn't want to admit to himself that he was a tad bit on the concerned side with her dander up a mile high. So he tried to make himself look casual and ate another nut.

“You know perfectly well w-what you did to my d-dearest . . . my most . . .”—her eyes watered behind her glasses—“. . . precious friend in all the w-world. You
cad!”
She spat out that last word.

Tom grimaced.

After another quick sniff of the bottle, she proceeded to take him down a notch. “I finally got my Shay to confess what happened between you and Miss Edwina.
I caught him in a weak moment.” In spite of the verve in her tone, her face went red as a holly berry, giving Tom a good idea what the moment was. “He told me that you asked Miss Edwina to marry you but you wouldn't let her keep her school if she did. Your actions are r-reprehensible. Any other m-man would have seen what a good woman he had and been p-proud of her being such an asset to the community! Shame on you, Mr. W-Wolcott! Shame on you!”

Sitting back on the stool, Tom felt as if she'd just slapped him, but there had been no physical blow.

“A woman has the right to be industrious and educated. If she enters m-marriage unprepared, and if p-perchance by some misfortune she is thrown p-penniless upon the world with no means of obtaining a livelihood, she'll not have a single way to survive. Miss Edwina was 1-lucky in that regard, having gotten her education and used it in a v-vocation that did a great service to the young girls of Harmony. And you . . . you n-nincompoop . . .” She lifted the bottle to her nostrils, gasping a little. “You were too blind to see what a wonderful woman she was.
Is
. She loved you. I should have seen just how much. I was too enamored of Shay that I wasn't a compassionate enough friend. But you! You hurt her! You . . . you . . . m-man, you!”

At least they agreed on that. Tom fingered a walnut, not wanting it at all but needing to have something to hold on to; his belly ached from the words and the maple sugar.

Crescencia slammed a pamphlet on the counter, then closed the latch on her purse. “Read that, M-Mr. W-Wolcott—if you dare!”

Tom's gaze skimmed the title “Women Vocations: Voices of the New Century.”

Without thought, Tom put the plump walnut in his mouth, then was left with having to chew it. Slowly, he did so. As his mouth worked the nut, Crescencia got a keen look in her eyes, a knowing kind of glare—like she had him over a barrel, or something worse.

“A woman makes those walnuts you're eating, only men like you keep her from using her first name on the top of the can!” Then after one last inhalation from the bottle, which by now he'd deduced was smelling salts, she jammed the cork home and as a parting shot, shouted, “Put that in your typewriter and ink it, Mr. Wolcott!”

Then she stormed out the store and Tom choked down the mass of crushed nut that had lodged in his throat. Reaching for the open beer he had under the counter, he took a long drink while raising the canister of nuts to inspect it. The lid read
POWELL'S CANDIED WALNUTS
, but once he had the tin high enough to look at the writing on the bottom, he saw that it said:
MRS. ESTELLINE POWELL, LAGRANGE, OREGON.

Lowering the walnuts, Tom mulled over the information. It did seem like a sorry thing that she didn't put her name on the lid as well. He'd never given any thought to the possibility that nuts were packaged by a woman. If he'd analyzed the label, he'd have assumed Powell was a factory owner. And a man.

The pamphlet, its cover stark black with bold white ink, drew his attention. He picked it up, turned to the first page, and began to read.

In this country, women should cultivate a spirit of independence. They should acquire a knowledge of how business is transacted, of the relation between the butcher and the banker. As housekeepers, they would then be saved from many annoyances and mistakes. If they are unwed or widows without possessing the monetary means for support, they will suffer many losses and vexatious experiences by not knowing how to take care of themselves.

This literature is about the women who have made great strides for their sisters. But without the support of their fathers, husbands, or brothers, none of them would be where they are today.

Tom took another sip of warm beer, settled onto the stool, then turned to the next page.

•  •  •

Edwina held her arms from her sides while Madame DeVille basted the seam underneath. The bride who was to wear the suit had been afflicted with a fever and couldn't make her fitting. Since Edwina was closest to her size, Madame had asked her to put the gown on to check for secondary alterations.

The DeVille Salon's Winter Bride, as the creation was named, could only be described as stunning. Its white brocade and plain satin had been cut in the most flattering of styles. The skirt front was brocade; there was a full train of plain satin, five yards long, puffed in back. The waist came to a point in front and had lace and flower trim.

Wearing the lush bridal gown made Edwina sentimental and yearning, but she quickly forced the melancholy from her thoughts. She'd been in Denver nearly a month and so far, she'd gotten on as well as could be expected. The loss of her students and their mothers was a constant source of longing. She was sad that she wouldn't be teaching them ragtime. And there were days still when she couldn't get Tom from her mind, when she thought she'd go crazy from missing him so. But then she reminded herself that it was her own fault for falling in love with him. If she had never allowed him into her heart, it wouldn't be aching for him now. She had to be strong. She had to get him out of her head.

Madame rose from her crouch, stood back, and smiled. “Your figure is made for this style, Edwina. I'll have one sewn for you when you marry.”

“I told you, Madame, I will never marry.”

Madame DeVille, who was somewhere in her fiftieth year but very beautiful and elegant, merely nodded. “I have lost more women to marriages than I care to count. There is something about working in a bridal salon that makes them . . . get married,” she ended with a wave of her hand, a card of pins with fancy heads in her grasp.

Madame moved to the window, paused to gaze out the third-story pane, then observed, “It's stopped raining.”

Edwina had rather liked the steady rain that had been drizzling for the past week. It matched her mood—gray, weepy, damp.

“My, my, my.” The woman's older tone was speculative. “There's a handsome man on the street staring at the building. Probably to see the stockbroker on the second floor, although he doesn't look like the investor type.” Madame had done this often, trying to bring Edwina out of her reserve. Madame DeVille was a hopeless flirt, but resigned not to marry herself for reasons she hadn't divulged to Edwina. She said she'd married hundreds of times already—each time a woman wore one of her dresses on her wedding day.

Edwina didn't care if there was a man on the street—handsome or not. In her heart . . . there was only one, and he wasn't on a Denver street.

“May I put my arms down now?” Edwina asked.

“Certainly. You're basted. I've removed the pins,” Madame said as she left the window, then walked through the spacious fitting booth and out the parted curtains to the workroom with its myriad sewing machines, long tables with bolts and bolts of white cloth, baskets of trimmings, silk roses, and a variety of other notions.

The circular pedestal on which Edwina stood faced three mirrors in different angles. Left alone, she gazed at her reflection.

This was the first time she'd ever worn one of the gowns. Her duties were to keep the seamstresses' hours and account for their wages. Then every other Friday, she wrote the checks from the bank drafts. Madame had a bookkeeper, a very pleasant young woman—a widow—so Edwina could not have that position. Grateful she had employment, she didn't mind.

She'd rented a small furnished apartment on Rocky Mountain Avenue, a half dozen blocks from the salon. She could walk to work each day without having to pay
for a hansom cab. Honey Tiger didn't like being alone all day; the kitty had shown her dissatisfaction by shearing the curtains with her claws the first day Edwina had left her. For all her cat years, Honey Tiger had had company present. Even if the kitty slept most of the time, she must have known the thumping in the house was Marvel-Anne in the kitchen kneading bread, or Mrs. Crane's housemaid making up the beds. Kitty would just have to get used to it. Edwina had plenty to get used to herself.

The room had a small heating stove with a plate for cooking. Most times, Edwina ate dinner with Madame in the restaurant on the corner. On the weekends, she did for herself. Although she was tired from the week, she cleaned her room and took her washing to the Chinese laundry for washing and pressing. It cost plenty, but Edwina had no choice.

Gazing at her image again, she sighed. Her face was pale . . . her eyes were a little sunken. She brought hands to her cheeks and pinched them for some color. Then she wet her lips. She fused with a curl that had come down to cuddle her neck. If she didn't look so forlorn, she would have been a pretty . . . bride.

She'd had the wedding dream again last night. When she woke up alone and crying softly, she told herself it was because she was working at DeVille's and it was only natural to think about bridal gowns. But when she relived the dream, she knew she was missing Tom . . . and that's why she'd filled her mind and heart with him in her sleep.

They were always in the grove, the fall trees their golden cathedral. They stood by an arch of white lattice woven through with a multitude of white roses. The perfect setting for them to exchange vows. She'd tell him she loved him, and he would declare the same toward her. Then Tom would kiss her after they were pronounced man and wife. His bride.

But she wasn't. Not now or ever. It was a dream never to be.

With a wistful sigh, she gathered the front of the skirt, her serviceable black shoes peeking out from the pristine gown. Just about to hop down to the carpet, she froze as an image formed in the mirror. From the corner of her eye she viewed a man's shoulder, broad, wearing a heavy blue flannel coat. Then hair—just the side—freshly cut locks of brown. A half jaw and cheek. Lowering her hands, she straightened fully and saw the man's reflection in whole, behind her and to her side.

Tom Wolcott.

In Denver . . .

Edwina blinked, fearing her mind played tricks on her. She'd conjured him, pathetically . . . hopelessly . . . because she longed for him. But when she focused once more, he was still there. Real. Solid.

Turning slowly, she faced him and stared. She drank in his features, the serious slash of his brows; the haunting blue of eyes that had delved into her soul on more than one occasion; his nose, straight and with nostrils slightly flared; the shape of his mouth . . . set and firm.

He was more handsome than she remembered.

Despite the utter bedlam of her thoughts in which she was drowning, she forced an air of aloofness that she knew she didn't feel. She would not speak first. He had come eight hundred miles; let him explain why. In the mirror, she affixed her gaze to his, and what she saw there startled her.

Misgiving. Faltering hope. Regret.

“Edwina . . . you're getting married.”

His statement confused her until she remembered what she wore. Gazing down at the smooth white bodice with its scooped lace neckline, she then lifted her eyes to his again. “I'm wearing this for someone. She couldn't make her fitting.” Why was she explaining this? It was
he
who should be explaining his being here.

Relief flooded his face, his mouth relaxing and even turning up a hint at the corners. “You still look beautiful in it, no matter who it belongs to.”

Edwina's patience was crumbling. She wanted to remain emotionally distant and remote, but he had a way of filling her with his presence, of making her aware of only him. She should have been more nonchalant, breezy, uncaring. Her breath had caught in her throat, and her legs were numb. Even if she had the inclination, she couldn't run away from him.

Still holding onto her silent avowal not to ask him what he was doing here, she got hold of her disorganized feelings and stepped off the pedestal. Walking around to the other curtained partition where she'd left her serviceable skirt and shirtwaist, she stopped midway to the draperies. She couldn't slip out of the bridal gown unless Madame gave her assistance. Turning, she clasped her hands together and tamped down the helplessness rising within her chest.

Tom unbuttoned his coat, as if he were going to stay awhile, then fumbled inside his shirt's breast pocket and produced a much-handled piece of paper. To her amazement, it had been folded in twelfths, and she watched as he undid each square so the paper became whole. The edges were worn, as if the paper had been referred to quite a bit.