Summer Lightning (2 page)

A tiny skittering sound made her glance toward the shrouded cage. She had hardly looked down at the
Bulletin
again, when she heard a soft brushing against the panels of her door. “Who is it?”

“Look under the door,” a muffled voice replied.

On the bare wooden floor, half under her door, lay a sheet of speckled paper. Edith picked it up. On one side it was a laundry list—three shirts, a coat, and several unmentionable items belonging to the male sex. On the other side, written in smooth black ink, was a letter.

To Whom it May Concern:

Jefferson Dane is a decent, hard-working man. He has no vices, other than a drink on social occasions. A widower, he has two daughters, a fair-sized cattle ranch, and lives with his father, a war veteran. He has never, to my certain knowledge, murdered, assaulted, or spoken roughly to any woman, regardless of provocation. Sincerely . . .

The signature at the bottom of the sheet was as plain as washday cake. Jefferson Dane, Richey, Missouri.

Edith couldn’t help smiling at the novelty of this reassurance. Before she opened the door, however, she hastily assumed her usual solemn expression. She must still be on her guard. A white slaver must have some charm, she reasoned, or no woman would ever go with him.

“You can’t come in,” she said before he had a chance to speak. “It’s against the rules of the house.”

“But we can’t talk in the hall. I have personal matters to discuss with you and . . .”

The door opened a crack. “Please, Miss Parker! My headache,” Mrs. Webb said. The single eye at the opening, all that could be seen of Mrs. Webb, looked Mr. Dane over thoroughly.

“Best thing for a headache is fresh air,” he said. His grin was so impudent that Edith was shocked. That was no way to treat an invalid. But Mrs. Webb had almost smiled in answer, a thing that had never happened before.

Edith said, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Webb. Please come in, Mr. Dane. We shall just leave the door open for propriety.”

Jeff halted as soon as he stepped in. If he’d stretched out his arms, he would have touched both stained walls before his hands were at the level of his shoulders. The odor of a thousand years of cooked cabbage lingered in the hot, stale air. He could feel sweat starting to prickle his skin.

Though there was a window at the end of the room, it did not appear to have ever been opened, for thick paint held it fast. It was so grimy on the outside that little light could penetrate.

Nevertheless, he saw that the little bits of furniture were threadbare and could never have been plush.

Loosening his collar with one tugging finger, Jeff said, “I’ll get right to the point, Miss Parker. I’m in a fix, and I’m hoping you can get me out of it.”

“What is the difficulty? You’re not a former client of mine . . . you’re not dissatisfied . . . ? But no, your note said you are a widower. I cannot be held responsible for anyone’s . . .”

“No, I’ve never used your services, Miss Parker. It’s really my father’s idea that I’m here at all. When he saw I was having trouble deciding . . . well, he pointed out your little ad and wondered if you’d make a house-call.”

“A house-call?”

He heard the suspicion reawaken in her voice. Though her veil had obscured her face in the sunny streets, and the light was bad here, he knew she must be near forty, if not more. The sort of scrawny, unappetizing bird who no doubt considered her long existence on the shelf a tribute to her choosiness, rather than admit that no man had ever wanted to catch her.

“You see, Miss Parker, I’m thinking of marrying again. And there are three women in Richey who would make good mothers for my two girls. But I can’t make up my mind which one to take.”

Well, he didn’t think too highly of himself, Edith fumed. Which one to take, indeed! As though the objects of his matrimonial plans had nothing better to do than to wait until he deigned to decide. Why didn’t he just marry each one in turn? Other men had. Bluebeard, and Henry VIII for example.

“No!” brave Lady Jessica said to the fat, leering king. “I shall never wed a man whose hands reek with the blood of his murdered queens.”

Henry rubbed his ringed hands. “Marriage or the block. Lady Jessica! I’ll leave the choice to you. “

“I’m sorry?” Edith said with a clearing shake of her head. The oak-beamed baronial hall faded, his majesty’s voice changing from a bass rumble to a medium baritone, with no trace of an English accent.

“I said, I have no problem in leaving the choice up to you. They’re all nice women, good with the girls.”

“Yes, you mentioned daughters.”

“I’ve got two of ‘em. Maribel, she’s six, and Louise.” He gave a rueful smile. “She’s eight and a real handful. To tell you the truth, Miss Parker, it’s because of Louise that I’m taking this step. She’s growing up wild as a flag iris and I think she’s going to be just as pretty. What’s she going to do without a mother to tell her what’s what when the boys start coming around?”

“Surely if she’s only eight, you have time. You needn’t leap into matrimony. It’s a very serious measure.”

He nodded. “I know it. But I want the girls to have time to get to know their new mama. If I bring in somebody when she’s sixteen or so, there’s no way Louise is ever going to listen to her or trust her.”

For the first time, Edith put aside her bias against Mr. Dane. She looked at him, looked deeply. She saw a man who’d loved one woman profoundly. Her death must have beaten him in a way no living person could have done. He’d probably been so confused and hurt that he’d been unable to give his daughters the attention and affection they deserved. Now he was trying to make amends.

Edith also saw a good-looking man. Most likely still under thirty. His hair was bleached from the sun that had tanned his face. The broad shoulders under the new suit were the kind a woman could lean on and find comfort. His voice had a calming note. She thought he must be good with animals. Anything that had been hurt would turn naturally to him, knowing it would find in him the strength to do what must be done and cherishing after.

“I don’t think I can help you,” she said slowly. “I usually only work with letters.”

“You have my letter.”

“Yes, but the ladies haven’t written ... I need both in order to make a match. You see,” she gestured toward the cabinets that filled one corner of the tiny room. “Someone sends me a letter. Perhaps they are ... Well, take the last couple for whom I arranged an introduction.”

Seeing interest on his face, Edith went on, only vaguely noticing that she’d suddenly become very comfortable with Mr. Dane. “He wrote to me, asking for a nicely bred girl, used to farm work. That’s a fairly typical request. But Mr. Hansen wanted her to like cows. Really like them—their characters, their fondness for the people who care for them—not merely tolerate them because they are a useful animal.”

“I have to admit most cows are likeable. You found someone for him?”

“Oh, yes. I’d received a letter some weeks ago from a girl, a regular churchgoer. Miss Fiske asked me to help her find a respectable husband. She was living not far from here but what she really wanted to do was get to the country. She’d lived for a time in Pennsylvania and she said her favorite part of farm life had been working with the dairy cows. She wrote so beautifully about them, I knew she would do for Mr. Hansen.”

“So you work by happenstance.”

“Sometimes I am very lucky.”

It was more than luck, though no one ever believed the truth. Not even Aunt Edith, though at times Edith could have sworn she saw the same strong intuition at work in the older woman. Aunt Edith always claimed to have an extra-good memory, her explanation for the nearly magical way she had of matching two people exactly.

“They were married two weeks ago,” Edith said. “I think they’ll be very happy.”

“For the first two weeks, anyway.”

“Please don’t be cynical. That’s a very bad way to start.”

Her tone was so serious that Jeff had to respect her for it. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I believe in marriage. It’s the happiest way to live. People weren’t meant to live alone.”

He glanced once more around the appalling little room. There wasn’t even a carpet on the floor, or a decent picture, nothing like the gew-gaws most women collected. No luxury or ease, only a bird cage hanging from a hook. What must it be like to live in such a bleak emptiness? He hated to think how cold it must be in the winter, for he saw no way of heating it.

“By the way,” he said, “we haven’t talked about your compensation. I realize you probably have a lot of calls on your time, Miss Parker . . .” Jeff hesitated for a moment, then boldly doubled the price he’d meant to pay her. “So what do you say I give you fifty dollars for the week, to make up for the other clients you’ll lose. Oh, and room and board’s included, of course. My dad’s a heck of a fine cook.”

Fifty a week? That would pay her rent in a far better boardinghouse for five months, four if she wanted to eat well. She could get away from Maginn and from being stripped naked by his eyes. At the same time, however, a warning bell sounded in her mind. “If a thing is too good to be true,” her aunt had often said, “it undoubtedly isn’t true.”

Fifty a week was an unheard-of sum. Edith doubted the governor made that much. It was fairy-tale money, a pot of gold, and as likely to vanish with the dawn. A man determined to carry a girl into infamy might hold out such golden promises.

All her suspicions returning, Edith let her common sense override her intuition about his decency. “I’m sorry, Mr. Dane. I cannot help you. You will have to decide by yourself.” Orpheus twittered as if in protest.

Mr. Dane accepted her refusal with an understanding nod. “I guess it was a lame idea, anyway. Nobody could expect a nice lady like you to travel off with a stranger. I didn’t even think about a chaperone . . .” he gestured faintly toward her.

‘Thank you for asking me.” She put out her hand, a proper businesswomen concluding a candid discussion. Mr. Dane’s handshake was firm, his fingers warm through her cotton glove.

Edith tottered when she felt the surge of energy ran up her arm. Nothing in her experience could compare to it. It was like a flash racing through her body, as though lightning had struck her. She tingled down to her toes. The excitement burned brightest in her breasts and beneath her skirts. She jerked her hand free of his engulfing one.

“Are you all right?” Mr. Dane asked.

A slow tide of color came and went in her cheeks, as though she had been swallowed and released by a wave. “Perfectly fine.”

He seemed unchanged, untouched by any strange emotional experience. She watched him go out. In the hall, he stopped and turned back. “Listen, I’m staying at the St. Simeon. If you change your mind, you can get in touch with me there. I hope you will come, Miss Parker. I need somebody on my side.”

“Your side?”

“Everybody else . . . those that know about it ... everybody’s got their favorite horse running in the Dane stakes. I can’t get an honest opinion from anybody, not even Dad. If I got an impartial judge, maybe I could start wooing wholeheartedly.”

“I’m sorry,” she said mechanically. “It’s not possible.”

After he was gone, Edith tried to busy herself with little tasks, sewing on buttons, filing, writing notes of reminder. She knew she would have to go down to the
Bulletin
and face Mr. Steadman, to confront him on why the advertisement she relied on was missing from this quarter’s edition.

Her heart failed at the very idea of going all the way down to Grand Boulevard instead of dealing with the problem by mail. There wasn’t time to use the mail, though. If Mr. Steadman was fair, he might refund part of what she’d paid. If he wasn’t, she could always sit on his doorstep and waste away.

Edith straightened her hat to a nicety in the crooked mirror. Trying to wear her aunt’s sternest expression, she went down the stairs. Stepping as quietly as a cat, she edged past Mr. Maginn’s open door. The landlord sprawled in a soiled armchair, his head back and mouth open. A few flies hung over him as they would hover over refuse in the street.

A board creaked beneath Edith’s foot. Maginn’s snuffling snore broke and she heard him grunt. As quietly and as quickly as she could, Edith escaped before he awoke from his stupor.

To take the omnibus meant paying the fare. If she walked to the
Bulletin’s
office she would save two precious nickels, but she’d surely use a quarter’s worth of shoe leather. Her lips tight, Edith chose the cash.

Despite her concentration on surface matters, Edith knew that deep down her mind was busy with something else. What had been that strange connection she’d felt to Mr. Dane? Her hands still felt sparkly, like the Fourth of July. He was in her mind during the entire walk to the business district, more vivid than any champion her imagination had ever created.

Chapter 2

"It’s this new management,” Mr. Steadman said, blowing an exasperated puff of air through his bushy mustache. “They don’t know what they’re doing yet.”

“I see. Still, Mr. Steadman, that doesn’t . . .”

“Several of our advertisers had complained about it. One feed company had their headline matched up with a recipe for mixed pickles. They became awfully shirty about it.”

“At least some portion of their advertisement ran, sir. Mine, on the other hand, wasn’t even there incorrectly.”

He only shrugged.

“I have paid in advance, Mr. Steadman, for a service which I have not received. Surely you can refund some of what I paid.”

“All I can offer you, Miss Parker, is a free ad next time. I’m sorry, but our cash picture’s pretty bad right now. This new management, like I said. ‘Course, you could take us to court and try to recover damages, but after all, Farmer and Maid and the
Bulletin
have been working together for twenty-odd years. It’d be a shame to ruin that association over a simple mistake.”

Edith saw the justice of the managing editor’s viewpoint. Not to mention that there was no way she could afford an expensive court case. She stood up from the hard wooden chair he’d offered her when she’d come in. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Steadman. I trust this mistake will not happen again.”