Beauty So Rare, A (A Belmont Mansion Novel Book #2) (13 page)

But the once-faltering heartbeat of this city was gradually regaining its rhythm, and he was determined to be part of that process.

He spotted the familiar yellow-and-white-striped awning of the bakery ahead and was grateful when he didn’t see a line trailing out the door. What awaited inside wasn’t his mother’s homemade apple strudel, God rest her soul, but it was plenty good.

And the coffee . . .

He liked his coffee hot and strong, and Leonard Fitch always kept a fresh pot matching those expectations.

Inside the bakery, Marcus joined the queue of patrons. The aroma of cinnamon and freshly baked bread whetted his appetite.

As he neared the counter, a boy standing off to the side drew his attention. The boy—perhaps eleven or twelve, of average height but thin, and wearing a
Kippah
—had Fitch engaged in conversation. Or perhaps
negotiation
better described it.

“
Three
doughnuts this time, please, Mr. Fitch. I will do everything you request,
and
sweep out the storeroom
and
haul all the trash out to the back.”

Fitch frowned and rubbed his jaw, but Marcus knew the man well
enough to know the look was part of the negotiation. He also recognized the boy’s accent. Salzburg, perhaps. Or maybe one of its surrounding farming communities.

The boy’s English was good, and his balance of respect and cleverness even better. Especially for one so young.

“You drive a hard bargain, Caleb. But . . . I believe we have ourselves a deal.” Fitch shook the boy’s hand and gave him a subtle wink. “Go on now. Get to work.”

The boy didn’t wait to be told twice.

Fitch looked up. “
Guten Morgen
, Marcus! I expected to see you a little earlier.”

Leonard Fitch was the only person in Nashville—in all of America—who addressed him by his Christian name. But Marcus didn’t mind. It felt good to hear his preferred given name spoken aloud every now and then, instead of always Herr or Mr. Geoffrey.

Fitch hadn’t a speck of Austrian in him, yet he’d insisted on learning a few German greetings. Marcus recalled the morning he’d stepped into the bakery—his third or fourth visit, if memory served—only to hear a hearty
“Guten Morgen,
Herr Geoffrey
”
coming from behind the counter. The simple courtesy had connected him to this older gentleman in a way he still found surprising.

Leonard Fitch had proven himself a trustworthy friend, and Marcus had frequented the establishment pretty much every morning since. And since everyone in Nashville addressed the proprietor of the city’s best bakery as Fitch, he did the same.

“
Guten Morgen
, Fitch. How is the world treating you this fine day?”

“Pretty fair. ’Bout as good as I’ve treated it so far, I guess. Coffee?”

“The largest cup you have.”

A moment later, Fitch handed him a steaming mug. “Your regular order?”

Marcus nodded and took a sip, relishing the strong brew. He laid his coins on the counter and raised his cup in silent greeting to Mrs. Fitch, whose expression was kind but harried. Then he moved to a vacant table off to the side.

Soon after, Fitch joined him with his own cup of coffee and two fresh doughnuts. He nudged the doughnuts in Marcus’s direction.

Marcus bit into one, and the sweetness filled his mouth.
Best doughnuts in town.
That’s what the sign above the door said, and it was true. Fitch made them from scratch every morning. And once they were gone, folks were out of luck until the following day.

“You get word?” Fitch asked, eying him over the rim of his cup.

Marcus shook his head, knowing what he was referring to. “Not yet.” Both the
Republican Banner
and the
Union and American
newspapers had published the names of the four companies that initially submitted bids, so that was common knowledge. But he’d further confided in Fitch about his specific designs for the opera house, and knew Fitch had glimpsed his passion. “I was told a fifth bid was submitted at the last moment.” He shared the outcome of his meeting with Barrett, sparing Fitch the details.

Fitch sipped his coffee. “So now, you wait. Again.”

Marcus shrugged. “So it would seem.”

As they talked, the queue at the counter gradually lengthened again, and Fitch stood. He retrieved a copy of the
Republican Banner
from a nearby table and plunked it down in front of Marcus, then tapped a side column.

“In case you haven’t read today’s edition yet.”

Midbite, Marcus read the headline, then scanned the article—and looked up.

Fitch raised a brow. “Maybe there’s an opportunity there.”

Marcus finished chewing. “I desire to build a work of art the beauty of which America has never seen. Not an—”

“I know.” Fitch had the look about him that he always did when he thought he was right but didn’t want to force the issue. “But there’s a lot of money in that group of ladies, Marcus.” He tapped the newspaper again. “Their pockets go deep in the midst of what’s otherwise a pretty shallow pond right now. So maybe nobody outside of Nashville would ever hear about it. But a lot of local people would, and that might stir up something else that—”

“I appreciate what you’re saying. And if my goal were to gain the favor of wealthy females in this city, then perhaps. But my purpose in coming to Nashville is—”

Fitch held up a hand. “’Nuff said. It was just a thought.”

“A passing one, I hope . . . my friend.” Marcus raised a brow.

Fitch offered something that resembled a nod but grinned a little as he walked away, which told Marcus the man hoped he would give the topic further consideration. But Fitch would have to be disappointed on that count.

Marcus sipped his coffee, glancing down at the article again—N
ASHVILLE
W
OMEN
’
S
L
EAGUE
TO
B
UILD
N
EW
T
EA
H
ALL
. A tea hall. For a group of wealthy women, no less. Mrs. Cheatham’s name listed first among them.

He shook his head. Whoever took that job would have at least twenty bosses, all of them wearing skirts, and none of them agreeing on anything.

No,
thank you.

He downed the dregs of his mug and spotted the young negotiator returning from his labors, the satisfied swagger of a job well done in the boy’s demeanor. Caleb collected his payment and devoured one of the doughnuts before he reached the door.

Something about the scene stirred Marcus.

Though Jews in Austria currently enjoyed an equality of sorts with their fellow countrymen, that hadn’t always been the case. He wondered how long Caleb and his family had been in America. Long enough, obviously, for the youth to have learned English.

Odd, but he found himself a little envious of how at home the boy seemed in his own skin. Here he was a grown man of thirty-three, and he still didn’t feel at ease with who he was. Or who he was expected to be.

Marcus stood, not welcoming the path his thoughts had taken. Would he ever truly be the man he wanted to be? Especially when, come next summer, he would leave everything to return to duty, to fulfill the crown’s calling.

Part of him answered emphatically, “
Yes!
” but another part of him seemed to hear another voice, and uttered not a word.

He made eye contact with Fitch as he left, only then noticing that his headache was better. Fitch’s coffee and doughnuts—or maybe it was the man’s company—always seemed to help.

Marcus crossed the busy thoroughfare, then cut down a lesser-used side street. Only a block from the textile mill, the foot traffic thinned, and from somewhere behind him came the sound of scuffling, followed by a groan. He paused, then retraced his steps to the alleyway. . . .

Indignation flooded his chest. His face heated. “Hey!” he called out, and the largest of the four boys—the other three pinning Caleb to the ground—turned his head and looked back. But the boy’s feet remained firmly planted, his stance unchanged.

And Marcus quickly realized why.

 8 

T
he stench of urine on Caleb’s clothes was strong.

The four boys took off running, and Marcus started to give chase, but as soon as the youths reached the street, they split up, and one look at Caleb told Marcus the boy needed his attention. They’d beaten him pretty badly. Multiple cuts and already-purpling bruises marred the boy’s face and neck, but what worried him most was the humiliation the boy had suffered.

Little question existed in Marcus’s mind about
why
the boys had done it. Hearing the degrading names they’d called Caleb revealed much.

Marcus helped the boy up and over to a bench outside the dry-goods store and sat next to him, looking into eyes that seemed years older than the boy’s age.

“Here,” he said, pressing his handkerchief to a gash on Caleb’s chin to stanch the bleeding. “Hold it there. Apply pressure.”

Caleb did as told. “Thank you, sir, for stopping when you did. And for helping me.”

Marcus hesitated, already anticipating the answer to his question before he asked it. “This has . . . happened before?”

Caleb bowed his head. “People must be taught to be kind. It is in their nature to be otherwise.” He lifted his gaze. “That is what my papa used to say.”

“Used to?”

“He died,” the boy said softly. “Earlier this year.”

The starkness in the youth’s voice, the way he stared ahead as though searching for something that wasn’t there and never would be again, robbed Marcus of any response, save a roughly whispered “I’m sorry.”

Caleb nodded but didn’t look up.

“And your mother?” Marcus asked, hoping for the boy’s sake she was still living.

“She misses him,” Caleb whispered. “Same as me.”

The gut-honest reply tugged at Marcus’s heart, while also rekindling his anger.

“Do you know the boys who did this?”

Caleb’s silence spoke loudly enough.

“Would you be willing to tell the authorities their names?”

Gradually, Caleb lifted his gaze, then slowly shook his head. “People who do things like that will not stop simply because you ask them to . . . sir.”

Then it hit Marcus that he hadn’t introduced himself yet. He held out his hand. “I’m Marcus Geoffrey.”

Caleb’s grip was strong and sure. “My name is Caleb Lebenstein.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “Couldn’t hide from that one even if you wanted to.”

The boy grinned, apparently understanding. “And you cannot hide either . . . Herr Gottfried.”

For a brief second, Marcus thought Caleb was referring to his family’s royal lineage. Then he quickly realized the boy was merely referencing their shared heritage, as well as cleverly revealing that he was aware of Marcus’s use of the American-sounding version of his family name. Smart lad.

“You’re right.” Marcus nodded. “We both have things about us that reveal who we are.” He was struck by how true that was. Truer than the boy knew.

“My papa said a name is just a name. That it is the man behind the name that makes the man who he really is.”

Again Marcus stared. Such an old soul in one so young. “I wish I could have known your father, Caleb.”

“I wish you could have too,” he acknowledged.

Seeing the crusted blood on Caleb’s chin brought Marcus back to the previous conversation. “This country has laws, Caleb. Laws to protect people. If the parents of those boys knew what they’d done, the boys would be punished.”

Caleb gave him a doubtful look, then glanced away before turning back again. “Do you know the worst of it?”

Marcus said nothing, but looked down at the boy’s coat, able to guess.

“They took my doughnuts.”

Marcus had to smile at the unexpected answer and the lopsided grin that followed. “Well . . . I think we can remedy that.”

He stood, and Caleb rose with him, but shaking his head.

“I do not have any money, Herr Geoffrey. I—”

“The doughnuts will be a
gift
.”

Caleb looked up at him, and blinked.

“
Ein Geschenk,
” Marcus repeated, motioning for him to follow.

Caleb fell into step beside him. “
Ja, ich weiß ein
Geschenk
. I was surprised by your offer. That is all.
Danke
!
Do you think Mr. Fitch will have any left?”

Marcus shrugged, impressed by the boy’s ease in alternating between languages. Reminded him of another boy about the same age . . . another lifetime ago. “I don’t know. But have you tried the fritters yet?”

Caleb squinted. “What are . . . fritters?”

Marcus laughed softly. “That’s precisely what I said when I first heard about them.” Seeing the boy’s curiosity, he was reminded of how his own Grandfather Marcus, his namesake, had toyed with him in a good-natured way, and how he’d relished it. His maternal grandfather had been able to hold a straight face longer than anyone he’d ever known, even as the promise of a smile lingered at the edges of the old man’s voice. And he’d had the strongest grip of any man Marcus had encountered.

“Fritters are a little larger than a mouse,” Marcus continued, “but not as fat as a rat.” He paused and held his thumb and forefinger apart to indicate the size, and to add a little credence to the story. “They’re hard to catch, but once you do, you fry them right up . . .” He made a satisfied sound. “And they’re delicious.”

Caleb eyed him, cocking his head to one side. Marcus simply waited. Then Caleb began to laugh. A deep, cleansing sound. And though Marcus couldn’t be certain, he wondered if that was the first time the boy had really laughed in months. He knew the feeling. It had taken him months following Rutger’s death to feel joy or truly laugh. But it was returning again. Slowly.

And it felt good.

As they walked on, Marcus explained what a fritter really was.

“And they are good?” Caleb asked, climbing the stairs to the bakery.

“
Very
good.”

“As good as my
Mutter
’s strudel?”

Holding the door open, Marcus paused and stared down. “
Nothing
is ever as good as your
Mutter
’s strudel.”

Having seen almost every square inch of the building—except the room she most wanted to see—Eleanor took a moment to size up the front area again, listening as Mr. Stover finished yet another story. A little rough around the edges and with an endless supply of tall tales, he seemed a kind enough man.

Dust covered the floors and walls, even more so in the second-story’s bedrooms. But nothing that a good sweeping and mopping wouldn’t remedy. She was surprised at how much the thought of cleaning the place appealed to her. She wished she could roll up her sleeves and scrub the building until it shined.

But circumstances quickly reminded her that it wasn’t
her
building. Not anymore.

Mr. Stover brought his boot down hard on the floor. “Darn roaches. Wish winter would come and kill ’em all off again.”

“Cold weather won’t necessarily kill all of them, Mr. Stover. Some species hibernate through the winter, even through the freezing cold. That’s why there are so many of them.”

He looked at her. “Do tell. You one of them women who went to school and everything?”

She smiled at the quirk of his brow. “Yes, I’m one of those.”

He opened his mouth as though to respond, then froze. “The post office!” he said suddenly, rubbing his jaw. “I was supposed to leave the contract there, wasn’t I?”

She nodded. Not that it mattered much now. But how to tell him that . . .

“I’ll get it to you. But first come on in here, Miss Braddock. I’ll show you the kitchen.”

Finally, the room she most wanted to see.

She followed him through a doorway and around a corner and was pleasantly surprised to discover sunlight flooding a spacious kitchen. “Whoever designed this had forethought for utilizing natural light.”

He squinted. “Say again, ma’am?”

Curbing a grin, she gestured to the bank of windows. “The person who designed this building put windows in all the right places.”

“Ah . . .” He nodded. “That
person
would be me.”

She stilled. “You built this, Mr. Stover?”

He laughed. “And I didn’t go to school or
nothin
’.”

She laughed along with him, aware of the extra twang he’d added. For her benefit, no doubt. “School doesn’t teach you everything. Sometimes not even the most important things.”

She admired the workmanship of the cabinets. The drawers slid easily without sticking. The cabinet doors lay flush and square against the shelving. The kitchen even came furnished with pots and pans, bowls and utensils. Everything she needed. It was perfect for her.

She imagined herself cooking there, baking. The sturdy worktable seemed to beckon for a dusting of flour and a yeasty scrap of dough to be kneaded to a glossy shine on its smooth planks. She could almost feel the suppleness beneath her fingers. Baking bread had been a challenge when she was younger. Now it was therapy, almost an addiction.

But . . . this wasn’t meant to be.

“There’s a well out back. The hand pump gets stuck every now and then. But give it some elbow grease, and it works right good.”

Eleanor took it all in. “You did a fine job, Mr. Stover. And what a nice, large kitchen in which to cook.”

His smile dimmed as he looked toward the stove. “My wife always liked it. Made some mighty fine meals in this kitchen.”

Catching the past tense, Eleanor trailed his gaze, trying to imagine what he was seeing in his mind’s eye. She remembered what he’d written in his letter. “You and your wife ran a boardinghouse together here?”

“She did it mostly. I helped some. Back then I was workin’ for the railroad. Then the war came. And she got sick, and . . .”

For a second, it appeared as though he might say more. Then he lowered his head.

Eleanor tried to think of a response, but silence seemed to fit best. Giving him a moment, she continued looking through the kitchen, confronted by the fact that everyone had hurts. No matter who they were, or what kind of home they lived in, or what family they came from, no one was immune.

The thought wasn’t new to her. If not for moments like these, there were times when life’s hurts became so overwhelming, so blinding, that a person could be lulled into believing that he—or she—was the only one.

“Mrs. Stover, she . . .” He swallowed, the sound audible in the silence. “My wife made a buttermilk pie that could warm your belly like nothin’ else. Did it in one of those pans right there.” He motioned to iron skillets and pie tins hanging neatly on the wall. “She always had plans to open up a little eatin’ place, too. A
café
, she called it. Out front
there. So when I got your letter, Miss Braddock, it just seemed to be the right fit.
And
the right time.”

Eleanor looked at him. “Do you mean . . . the building has been empty since . . .” She let the sentence trail off.

He nodded. “She’s been gone almost five years now, ma’am. Just didn’t feel right at first, openin’ up somethin’ else when this was hers. But it’s time. And if you don’t mind me sayin’, Miss Braddock . . . I think my sweet Eloise—I always called her Weezie—would welcome you cookin’ in her kitchen.”