Every Perfect Gift Page 13

  Sophie smiled. “They have indeed. I keep hoping you’ll take me up on my invitation to come by and see the office.”

  “And I’ve meant to, but”—she swept a hand around the cluttered premises—“it’s hard for me to leave the shop these days. Between keeping things going here and looking after Sage, I barely have time to breathe.”

  “His accident must have been hard for you both,” Sophie said. “How is Mr. Whiting?”

  Mrs. Whiting shook her head. “His leg has healed as much as Doc Spencer says it’s going to. It’s his spirit that seems to be permanently broken . . .” She looked up and smiled. “But you didn’t come here to be burdened by my troubles, I’m sure. Tell me, what do you hear from Ada and Wyatt? It’s been months since I’ve had a letter.”

  “They’re well. Lilly is turning ten and going away to school next term. Wade is growing up so fast, helping Wyatt on the ranch.”

  “Yes, Ada mentioned that in her last letter to me. It seems her hat business is still thriving.” Mrs. Whiting crossed the shop to a small table beneath the dusty window. “I’ve just made tea and I have some shortbread. I seem to remember you’re partial to it.”

  “I’d love some. I was too busy at the paper today to stop for lunch.”

  Mrs. Whiting found two cups and poured tea. “I was in Mrs. Pruitt’s dress shop yesterday dropping off a shirtwaist to be repaired, and everyone was talking about those opinion pieces you’ve been writing about Sabrina Gilman’s infirmary. They say that Mayor Scott and the town council have finally agreed to let Sabrina make her case.”

  “Really? That’s wonderful news. I hadn’t heard a single thing about it.”

  “It only just happened is what Mrs. Pruitt said. I’m not sure even Sabrina herself knows yet.”

  “I’m sure she doesn’t, or she would have told me right away. It’s all she’s thought about for months.” Sophie accepted the tea and took a long sip. “On my way here this afternoon I ran into a young boy whose mother has been ill for a week, and all the treatment she’s getting is mustard plasters. We desperately need a way to get up-to-date medicine to more people. Don’t you agree?”

  “I do. But even if we open the infirmary, some folks still will prefer the old ways. My granny used to prescribe sassafras tea and mustard plasters for everything from a cough to a stomachache. Eugenie Spencer says Ennis sometimes has a terrible time convincing folks to try the newest medicines.”

  “We’re lucky to have him, but he can’t be everywhere at once. If people will give the infirmary a chance, perhaps minor illnesses can be cured before they become much more serious.”

  Mrs. Whiting set her cup down and nodded. “A couple of years ago one of the boys at the mill cut his hand pretty badly. Sage sent for the doctor, but by the time he arrived, it was nearly dark and the boy had gone home. His mother treated the cut with soot and coal oil, but before the boy could get back down the mountain and into town, an infection developed and Doc had to amputate.”

  Sophie shuddered. “Maybe the infirmary can prevent such things from happening again. If it ever becomes a reality.”

  “I’m proud of you for speaking out and forcing the mayor to stop stalling. There was no excuse to make Sabrina wait this long.” Mrs. Whiting sipped her tea. “The Gazette seems to be doing well. I noticed last week’s edition went from four pages to six.”

  “Yes. The advertising notices have increased since Blue Smoke officially opened. I suppose the local merchants want to attract visitors to their shops. At least that’s what Mr. Pruitt says.”

  “I should place a notice myself.” Mrs. Whiting passed the plate of shortbread to Sophie. “I’ve recently received the latest editions of Ladies’ Home Journal and Harper’s Bazaar and the sheet music for a wonderful new song. ‘Oh My Darling, Clementine.’ Do you know it?”

  Sophie, her mouth full of shortbread, shook her head and swallowed.

  “Well, it’s just the most fun to sing. I’ll bet the guests up at Blue Smoke would enjoy it. And I’ve copies of two of Mr. Twain’s books. Though the latest one is mostly about the exploits of an illiterate Negro and a wayward orphan.”

  Sophie’s face heated. She dropped her gaze.

  “It’s called Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. The title is compelling enough, but I can’t imagine many people will be interested in two such unsavory characters. I— Oh dear.” Mrs. Whiting’s cup clattered onto her saucer. Her cheeks reddened. “How thoughtless of me. I didn’t mean . . . Sophie, you must forgive me.”

  Sophie’s eyes burned. Everything—and nothing—had changed. The old prejudices were alive and well, even among those she counted as friends. She set down her cup. “I should go. Thank you for the tea. I’ll be sure to remember you to Wyatt and Ada in my next letter.”

  Mrs. Whiting’s brown eyes filled. “I’ve hurt you, and I didn’t mean to.”

  Sophie stood and busied herself with her reticule, avoiding the older woman’s eyes.

  “You may not believe it,” Mrs. Whiting added, “but since so many outsiders have come to town, Hickory Ridge has become a little more progressive. We’ve had to, with all sorts of folks coming and going.” She paused and laid a hand on Sophie’s arm. “Have you met Mr. Rutledge yet? He’s in charge of the equestrian program at Blue Smoke.”

  “Yes, I’ve been out to their farm. I liked him very much.”

  “We all do now. But when he first arrived here, some folks—including me, I regret to say—held his background against him for a time. He was a known gambler who blew into town with no visible means of support and immediately fell for Carrie.”

  Sophie nodded, remembering Ada’s joy when Carrie’s letter requesting a wedding hat arrived in Texas. Carrie had fallen hard for Mr. Rutledge too.

  “We feared he wasn’t the kind of citizen our town wanted, that he wouldn’t do right by her, but of course he did. He donated money to hire Mr. Webster to return to our school. Griff Rutledge was a reminder to all of us that God calls us not to judgment, but to acceptance and love.” Mrs. Whiting patted Sophie’s arm. “I should not have made such a thoughtless remark. After all, we know nothing for certain about who your parents were, and even if we did, it shouldn’t matter.”

  No, it shouldn’t. But it did. And to some people, it always would.

  Sophie bade Mrs. Whiting good-bye and headed for the Verandah. She had been looking forward to attending the Founders Day fireworks show with Ethan. But today’s visit was a harsh reminder of the secret that would always keep them apart.

  She sighed. The more she saw of Ethan Heyward, the more she liked and admired him.

  And the harder it became to tell him the truth.

  “Ah. There you are.”

  Sophie turned to find Ethan standing behind her, holding a wicker picnic basket. Dressed for Founders Day in a white shirt, dungarees, and brown boots instead of his customary gray suit, he seemed boyish and even more appealing. “I hope you haven’t had supper yet.”

  She shook her head and indicated the tables set beneath the trees, each of them covered with dishes, pots, cake stands, and boxes filled with leftovers from the noon meal. Plenty of food was left for the crowd of revelers who were sticking around for tonight’s fireworks display. “I’m still full from dinner. Gillie and I each had two pieces of Carrie Rutledge’s pecan pie.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t get away from Blue Smoke sooner. Horace has come up with another scheme for the resort. And once he makes up his mind about something, there’s no choice but to hear him out.”

  Remembering the long list of activities on the fliers she printed for him, Sophie shook her head. “I can’t imagine what else there could possibly be. Lectures, garden tours, teas, hiking, horseback riding. Sounds like a full agenda already if you ask me.”

  They walked together across the crowded park, nodding to friends and acquaintances. Gillie stood next to Caleb Stanhope in the lengthening shadows, chatting with her parents and Doc Spencer and his wife. Mariah Whiting sat on a blanket nearby, k
nitting and laughing with Carrie and Griff Rutledge. Their daughter, Charlotte, had fallen asleep with her head on her father’s knee, a wooden toy horse clutched in one hand.

  Earlier, Sophie had spotted Robbie and Ethelinda, but they’d been quickly surrounded by members of Robbie’s church. Now Robbie and Sheriff McCracken and some of the men from the mill were engaged in a boisterous game of horseshoes, while children darted behind trees, playing games of hide-and-seek.

  Sophie smiled, remembering the day Ada played with her and Robbie among those same trees. Rain had turned the ground wet and slippery, but Ada hiked her skirts and chased them until they collapsed on the wet grass, laughing and breathless. Mrs. Lowell, the director of the orphanage, and Miss Lillian Willis, Wyatt’s irascible aunt, frowned and harrumphed from the sidelines. The disapproval of the grown-ups made the game seem all the more delicious.

  “I agree with you about the agenda,” Ethan said. “Our guests already have plenty to occupy their time, but Horace worries about money even when things are going well. He thinks we should set up a photography studio at the top of Hickory Ridge and charge folks for having souvenir portraits taken there. Bring in some extra income.”

  Sophie nodded. “If he’s bound and determined to do it, I don’t see why it wouldn’t be successful. Tourists at Niagara Falls always want a souvenir, don’t they?”

  “I reckon so. I remember seeing an old photograph of people walking across the falls the year it froze over. Not that I expect anything that dramatic to happen here.”

  Mayor Scott rang a cowbell and the crowd moved toward the tables, loading up plates for supper. A few minutes later a wagon rattled along the road and stopped beneath the trees, and men piled off like ants from an anthill. Ethan frowned. “What in blazes is Lutrell Crocker doing here? I thought he went to Alabama to get married.”

  Sophie studied the men, who were unloading supplies for the fireworks show. “Who’s Lutrell Crocker?”

  “He was on the construction crew. Claimed one of the other men stole his money. More than likely he spent it all on liquor and was too drunk to remember it.” He switched the basket to his other hand. “It’ll be dark soon. Let’s head down to the river and find a good spot to watch the fireworks.” He indicated the basket. “I asked Li Chung to pack something special.”

  He led the way along the narrow path paralleling the river. Sophie noticed that one back pocket held his leather notebook, while the other bulged with a sack of penny candies. Twists of shiny black licorice protruded from the top of the bag as he walked. She hid a smile as they wound through the trees and found a flat spot on a bluff overlooking the river.

  “Is this all right?” Ethan indicated a spot near the edge.

  Sophie looked around. Long shadows dappled the ground. Water bugs skittered and buzzed across the river’s sun-burnished surface. A fish jumped, a flash of silver in the waning light. “It’s perfect.” She waved away a cloud of gnats and settled herself on the soft grass, glad now that she had worn a pretty but older calico skirt with her new blue shirtwaist. No sense in getting grass stains on one of her better frocks.

  Ethan fished his notebook from his pocket and began sketching.

  She watched the quick movement of his hands across the heavy vellum pages. “An idea for the photographer’s hut?”

  He shook his head. “I was just noticing that house across the river—the one with the gingerbread trim. What it needs is a much deeper porch, raised a bit higher and cantilevered out over the river. Like so.” With a few more pencil strokes he finished the drawing and passed her the notebook.

  “That’s wonderful. Sitting there would be like sitting in a boat on the water.”

  “Without the danger of leaks.” He grinned. “Ah, well, maybe someday I can build what I want.”

  Others began arriving along the river, the children whooping and tossing rocks into the water while their parents juggled blankets, baskets, and plates of food. Several men had brought banjos and fiddles, and soon the air was filled with music. Sophie spotted Robbie and Ethelinda and the elder Whitings arriving for the fireworks. She’d seen Mrs. Whiting in church only once since her visit to the bookshop. She had forgiven Ada’s old friend for her thoughtless remark, but the memory still rankled.

  She and Robbie hadn’t spoken again about the secret she was keeping from Ethan. Now, watching the last of the sunlight glinting on Ethan’s rich brown hair, she was overcome again with regret. Ethan was becoming more important to her as the summer went on. One day she would have to tell him the truth, and then he would want nothing more to do with her. But not now. Not yet.

  Ethan set aside his notebook, opened the basket, and took out a small white cloth bearing the Blue Smoke monogram. He opened a silver carafe and poured lemonade into two stemmed goblets. Touching his glass to hers, he smiled into her eyes. “To Founders Day. And to a lovely evening.”

  The lemonade was ice cold, tart, and lightly sweet. Sophie savored the taste of it and watched translucent bits of lemon pulp settling in the bottom of the glass. She took another sip before setting her glass onto the small silver tray Ethan had taken from the basket. After that came small water biscuits topped with glistening caviar, three kinds of cheese on crusty bread, tiny rolls of paper-thin ham, slices of fresh melon, and for dessert a feather-light pastry filled with warm chocolate.

  “This was delicious, Ethan.” Sophie held out her glass for a refill of the lemonade. “Please tell the cook I enjoyed every single bite.”

  Footsteps sounded behind them, and Mayor Scott appeared, towering over them. “There you are, Miss Caldwell.”

  Sophie licked the last of the chocolate from her fingers and dabbed at her lips with a thick linen napkin. “Good evening, Mayor.” She inclined her head toward Ethan. “I’m sure you know Mr. Heyward.”

  “Of course.” The mayor nodded to Ethan. “But it’s you I wanted to see.”

  “Oh?”

  “I thought you’d want to know the council plans to hear Miss Gilman’s harebrained scheme for that infirmary of hers. A week from Thursday. I’m sure you’ll want to be there to gloat.”

  “To gloat, Mr. Scott?” She set her glass onto the tray.

  “Well, you kept harassing me and the boys with those editorials of yours until you got our womenfolk all stirred up, and now can’t any of us have a moment’s peace in our own homes.”

  Sophie bit back a laugh. “If I’ve caused people to talk about the important issues in our town, then I’ve done my job. But I hope you won’t decide that the plan is harebrained until you’ve heard what Miss Gilman has to say.”

  “Hiram?” Molly Scott ambled over and took her husband’s arm. “The music is startin’. Are you going to sit with me for the fireworks or ain’t you?” She nodded to Sophie. “Hello, Miss Caldwell.”

  “Mrs. Scott.”

  Ethan got to his feet and dusted off the seat of his dungarees. “Evening, Mrs. Scott.”

  “Don’t be getting up on my account, boy.” Molly motioned Ethan back to his spot on the grass. “I only come to fetch the mayor. The Pruitts came with us, and they’ll be wonderin’ where we got to.”

  The mayor offered a curt nod, then turned and walked away. Molly winked at Sophie. “Reckon I’ll see you at that hearin’.”

  When they had gone, Ethan packed up the remains of their feast and stowed the glasses, trays, and plates in the basket. Then they sat side by side, shoulders almost touching. The first of the fireworks exploded over the river in a shower of bright white sparks that winked out one by one as they fell. The music gave way to exclamations of awe and delight from the assembled crowd.

  “I’ve been meaning to go up on the ridge,” Ethan said, “to look for a spot for the photography studio. Why don’t you come with me? We’ll start early and make a day of it.”

  “I’d love to, but it depends on which day. The paper—”

  “Stanhope can take over for one day, can’t he?”

  They watched another shower of red and bl
ue sparklers streak across the dark sky.

  “Perhaps. I’m caught up on your printing orders, and we’ve started setting type for the next issue. But I promised the Ladies Benevolent Society an article about the quilt raffle they’re organizing for the harvest festival. And Mr. Webster asked me to write a piece about the new curriculum he’s planning for the next school term. He’s hoping parents will encourage the older children to get a head start on the required reading.” She wrinkled her nose. “I told him I’d print it, but I can’t imagine even the most serious students giving up their summer trying to decipher Macbeth. Honestly, the least he could have done was to choose one of Mr. Shakespeare’s comedies.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. The scene with the witches and the cauldron and the spooky chant holds a certain appeal.”

  She laughed. “Maybe you’re right.”

  Another burst of color lit the sky. The music began again.

  “That’s the last of the fireworks,” Ethan said. “We should start back.”

  He held out his hand and drew her to her feet. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready to make the trip. You’ll come with me, then?”

  “If Caleb is available to look after things.”

  “Good. I’ll ask the cook to pack another basket for us.” He bent his head to hers. “Congratulations, S. R. Caldwell.”

  “What for?”

  “For convincing the mayor and the council to let Miss Gilman speak.” He clasped her hand and held it. “I’m proud of you, Sophie.”

  She couldn’t meet his gaze. As much as she wanted Ethan’s approval, his words were like shards of glass in her heart. Would he be proud of her if he knew the truth?

  FIFTEEN

  The smells of cornbread and beef stew wafted up the Verandah’s stairwell, teasing Sophie’s nose. Although she’d had an unusually busy day and eaten nothing since breakfast, she was too nervous to eat now. In an hour the mayor and council would convene at Sheriff McCracken’s office, which doubled as the town hall, to consider Gillie’s request for her infirmary. Though Sophie had done little more than write the inciting editorials, because of her friendship with Gillie, she almost felt as if it were her project too.