Reclaimed Love: Banished Saga, Book Two (39 page)

“What else do I have to look forward to here?” I asked after a few moments, wishing to turn the topic and lighten the mood again.

“You’ll see plenty of parades. It seems people like any excuse to march about. And the men always like a pretty lady waving at them as they do,” he said with a grin.

He sat up as he continued talking. “But, missy, I’ll tell you ’bout my favorite memory. It occurred one dark, cold night, when I waited outside the theater to see Mr. Mark Twain.” He sighed. “Now I may not like books much, missy, but that man can make me laugh.”

“You met Mr. Twain?” I set down the books I had been sorting to pay full attention.

He nodded, his eyes full of mischief and glee. “I remember that night like it was yesterday.” He closed his eyes as though to more accurately recapture that moment in time. “The hint of wood smoke in the air, the stars shinin’ overhead.” He opened his eyes, piercing me with an intense gaze. “Ah, missy, I felt so alive!

“I was standin’ outside the theater, hopin’ for a glimpse of the man,” he continued. “There was a small crowd of us there, those of us who either couldn’t get tickets or couldn’t afford ’em. We could hear the crowd, laughin’ and guffawin’ at the man’s talk. Some would try to pass on a story out to us, but, by the time it got to me, it was so wrangled, I saw no humor in it.”

He sighed. “But then it might have just needed to be told by a man like Mr. Twain.” He glanced over my shoulder, lost in his recollection. “I remember standin’ there, enjoyin’ the night sky, wishing I could hear him speak, when all of a sudden I was grabbed and pushed into the theater.”

I gasped, gripping my hands together.

“I sputtered and attempted to break free of the arms, but I wasn’t as strong as I used to be,” he admitted. “Mr. Twain had said he would like to have a drink with any man who had worked the Ol’ Miss, and friends of mine knew I had. They had called out my name and then pushed me forward.

“Next thing I knew, there I was, in the front of the crowd, with Mr. Twain. He seemed right pleased there was a man in Missoula who had worked the Mississippi. I was pushed, prodded and propellered up to the stage, all the time thinkin’ I must be in a dream. Just like one of Mr. Twain’s stories.” Mr. Pickens’s eyes shone with a brilliant light, emanating excitement. “An’ there I stood, little ol’ me, in front of himself, Mr. Twain,” he said in awe.

“I felt a right fool, standin’ on that stage with nothin’ clever to say. I felt like a mute, but Mr. Twain didn’t seem to mind. No, not Mr. Twain. He clapped me on the back, as happy as could be to see a former river rat so far from home,” he said, beaming his nearly toothless grin at me.

I stood still, mesmerized by his tale.

“Mr. Twain spoke a few moments on the splendor of the river, and then I left the stage.” He closed his eyes again, as though imagining the moment. “But Mr. Twain made sure I stayed inside, missy, so as to hear what he had to say rather than count on those hooligans tryin’ and failin’ to get it right.”

He watched me for a moment. “I never did get that drink with Mr. Twain. No, those men from the Fort wanted their own time with him and whiskered him on out of the hall as soon as he finished.” He gave a long sigh, as though imagining what having a drink with Mark Twain would have been like.

“An’ my poor Bessie.” He sighed again, this time with contentment, shaking his head from side to side, his voice filled with no discernable remorse. “Had to live with a trumped-up ol’ goat like me for weeks afterward. I don’t know how many times that woman listened to me tell the same story, but she never complained, not my Bessie.” A peaceful silence remained between the two of us for a few moments.

“Thank you for sharing that story with me, Mr. A.J.”

“You’re welcome, missy. Now my Bessie’s gone, and I’m alone in the world with my memories for company. Some good, some bad. But what’s done is done, an’ there ain’t no goin’ back. Least not for the likes of me,” he muttered.

I shivered at his words and knew that I needed to speak with Gabriel. For Mr. Pickens was correct: there was no going back. Not for me.

CHAPTER 42

AFTER LEAVING THE DEPOSITORY, I wandered along the Higgins boardwalk in the direction of the Missoula Mercantile—or Merc as the locals called it—interested to see if it would compare to the stores in Boston. It stood on the corner of Front and Higgins, about a block from the river and across the street from the Florence Hotel. I wandered inside, impressed at the number of clerks eagerly awaiting my arrival. Everything I could imagine wanting or needing appeared to be available for purchase. Although it didn’t have the grand style of the Hennessy Building in Butte, I was delighted to find such a store in Missoula.

I passed through the children’s department. My eyes lit upon a small baby’s rattle, and I immediately thought of Anne. I decided to buy it for her and opted for a set of tin soldiers for Nicholas. I left the Merc content with my purchase and strolled toward Amelia’s.

While walking down the west side of Front Street, I saw numerous saloons and
hurdy gurly
establishments, as Mr. Pickens would call them. I kept my eyes downcast after seeing one female in a shocking state of undress.

I knocked on Amelia’s door.

“Clarissa, Miss Sullivan,” Amelia said, startled at my arrival.

“Hello, Mrs. Egan. May I come in?” I fidgeted with the bag from the Merc. “I’m sorry to intrude. I know I wasn’t invited.”

“Yes, yes, of course you are welcome. It’s always a pleasure to see you,” she said, opening the door fully. She blushed as I noted the unkempt state of the kitchen.

“How is Anne?” I asked.

“On the mend,” she said with a bright smile as she blinked away tears. “Nicholas has been very demanding and clingy after his days with Mr. Carlin.”

“I imagine he feared losing you too.”

“I know you’re right, but it’s hard to accomplish anything with a toddler attached to your leg.”

“It seems you were finally having a moment’s peace, and I’ve interrupted it,” I said looking around.

“Anne is settled in for her nap, and Nicholas is off playing marbles again with Mr. Carlin. They are having some sort of tournament. He has been very kind,” Amelia said waving toward a dining room chair. She looked toward the kitchen area with distress. “Might I offer you a cup of … a glass of water?” she asked.

“Oh, yes, a glass of water would be lovely,” I said with a smile.

After settling at the dining room table, I opened the parcel I had purchased. “I was walking by the Merc on the way here and thought I’d like to find a little gift for Nicholas and Anne. I saw these and thought they’d like them.” I held out the small rattle I had bought Anne.

“Oh, Anne will love this,” Amelia said with a sigh.

“I found this for Nicholas,” I said, holding up the box of tin soldiers.

She smiled again, gently touching the objects.

“Last I bought a nice packet of English Breakfast tea for you. I thought it would be a nice pick-me-up for you after the worry about Anne.” I gave her a smile, watching hers become more tremulous as tears threatened. I reached out to grip her hand.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “You can’t know what it is like to have a woman’s friendship. Gabriel is wonderful, but…” She sniffled as she fought tears.

“Amelia, I think I can. I left all of my friends behind when I traveled here.” We sat in a companionable silence for a moment. “May I ask you something?” I blurted out. At her nod, I asked, “Why did you not pressure Gabriel to marry you after your husband died?”

“Gabriel is a good man and a wonderful friend. But I know what it is to feel cherished and beloved by a husband. Although I must admit, there have been times, like when we were leaving Butte, that I wanted to marry him to stem the gossip. And yet I knew it would be wrong to snare him into only half a life. Half a marriage.” She paused. “And I’d like more for myself.”

“I would too,” I murmured. I glanced toward the kitchen, deciding to change the subject. “Amelia, you know how to cook.”

“Cook? Yes. Yes, I do. My mother was a great cook and taught me,” she said with a touch of pride.

“Do you think you could teach me?” I asked. “I’m trying to run a house with my brother Colin, but I can’t cook. I’m afraid one of my concoctions someday will do us bodily harm.”

Amelia giggled and sounded girlish for the first time.

“What if you helped me cook by teaching me very basic recipes to start, and, when I learn how to make those, I’ll graduate to more difficult things.” I paused for a moment, thinking further. “We can cook in our rooms, Colin’s and mine, and then we could all have dinner together! I’m used to larger family dinners.”

“That sounds a lovely idea,” she said. “When would you like to start?”

“Is tomorrow too soon?” I asked. “Poor Colin comes home nearly faint with hunger every night, and we can’t continue to go out for meals.”

“Tomorrow is perfect,” she said.

“I leave the Book Depository by four. Why don’t you come by sometime after that?”

“The Book Depository?” she asked. “You work there?”

“Yes, I do. I think you’d enjoy Mr. Pickens. He’s the best thing about the depository. Well, except for all the books.”

“Oh, I’d love to be surrounded by books again. I had to leave almost all of mine behind in Butte, and I miss them. I was a schoolteacher in my old life, and I loved it.”

“So was I!”

“I remember Gabriel talking about you. How proud he was of your teaching. Who is Mr. Pickens?”

“Stop by some day and I’ll introduce you.”

“Mama, Mama, Mama!” Nicholas shouted as he barged into the room. He threw himself against Amelia’s legs. “I won!”

“That’s wonderful, darling,” she murmured with a quick stroke of his hair at the nape of his neck.

“Hello, Mr. Carlin,” I said as I turned to watch Sebastian. He leaned his beanpole frame against the doorjamb, a slight sunburn enhancing the freckles on his face and neck. His light brown eyes shone as he watched the reunion between Amelia and her son.

“Mr. Carlin,” Amelia gasped, standing.

“Mrs. Egan. Always a pleasure to see you,” he said in his deep voice. “Now that Nicky’s home, I must be gettin’ back to the mill. Miss,” he nodded toward me. “Mrs. Egan.” A deeper nod and a longer look, and then he was gone.

Amelia collapsed onto her chair as Nicholas wandered over to play in the small living room near the door.

“Amelia, are you all right? You look like you’re going to faint dead away,” I whispered.

“I’m fine. I just hate that he saw such disorder in my house. I keep a fine home.”

“I’m sure no one worries about such things,” I soothed. “Besides, caring for your daughter was more important than washing dishes.” After an awkward pause, I murmured, “He seems a nice man and has taken to Nicholas. And he’s friends with Gabriel.”

“Are you matchmaking?”

“No, merely pointing out the obvious,” I said with an impish smile.

“I feel disloyal to Liam even considering marrying another man,” she rasped. “He died so recently. And yet I can’t raise them alone. I’m not someone who ever wanted to be alone.”

“Amelia, from all I’ve ever heard about Liam, he was a kind, devoted man who loved you dearly. I like to think such a man would want you happy.” I clasped her hand as she tried to blink away tears.

“Then you don’t think I’m shameless to consider marrying again?”

“No, not at all. Though I hope you can take the time you need to mourn Liam.”

“I will never stop mourning him,” Amelia said with a grief-thickened voice. “And yet I know I can’t live in the past. It’s not fair to the children.”

“Nor to you.” I squeezed her hand and rose. “I’ll pass by the grocer’s tomorrow. I’ll see you around four?”

“That works well. Thank you, Clarissa. I have desperately needed a female friend.”

“So have I, Amelia.”

***

I KNOCKED ON RONAN’S DOOR, hitching a heavy basket from one hand to the other.

“Come in.”

“Hello, Mr. O’Bara,” I said as I entered. “I haven’t visited recently and wanted to see how you were before I returned home for the evening. I just visited Amelia, and then remembered I had books for you, so I went home to collect them.”

He smiled at me as he pushed himself up on his knuckles. “Thank you for all the books you’ve brought me. They help pass the time.”

“Oh, you’re welcome. I brought a few more I thought you might like. I found books by H. G. Wells as I was organizing yesterday, and I thought you might find them interesting.”

“Thank you, Miss Sullivan.”

I set the heavy basket with books next to him on the bed and then turned toward the empty chair. I unpinned my hat, set it at the foot of his bed and sat for a moment.

“Are you well, Miss Sullivan?”

I threw him a nervous glance and then rose to pace the small confines of his room. My heels clicked on the pine planks with each step. “I’ve just invited Amelia to my apartment tomorrow afternoon. She’s to teach me to cook.”

“You couldn’t have picked a better instructor. She always made the best meals in Butte.”

“But that’s just it. I’m a disaster in the kitchen! I’m lucky the entire building hasn’t burned down already with the dinners I’ve attempted to cook.” Ronan laughed and I grinned at him before giggling.

“I have a hard time imagining you’re that bad.”

“Picture the worst cook you can. Then multiply it by ten. That’s me.”

“What has you so worried, Miss Sullivan?” Ronan asked as he continued to chuckle.

I collapsed into the chair in the corner. “I knew what my role was in Boston. Well, until it was taken away from me. I was a teacher and a daughter and a sister. I wasn’t expected to cook or clean or sew. My sewing’s even worse than my cooking if you can believe it.”

“I saw your socks,” Ronan said with a half smile and a shake of his head.

I threw him a disgruntled glare before grinning. “Well, you see what I mean? What do I have to offer Gabriel?”

“Besides your love and friendship, your loyalty and affection?” He raised an eyebrow and watched me with amused humor glinting his brown eyes.

“Mr. O’Bara—”