Courting Miss Adelaide (14 page)

She glanced at Charles. A telltale crease marked the middle of his brow, a sure sign of his irritation. Her hands fell away.

“My, but you’re a busy bee.”

He touched her hand and tugged her to him.

“The incident upset Emma. Something seemed to be going on, something unspoken between the children.”

He appeared to focus more on her mouth than the words coming out of it, tempting her to forget what mattered—the children and the issues between them. “Where’s Emma now?”

“She’s sitting on the bench outside, talking to her new doll. I didn’t want her to overhear our conversation.”

“So I have you all to myself.” Charles raised a brow and motioned toward the pencils. “Since you’re determined to fix things, how about fixing dinner tonight?” He had a twinkle in his eye, daring her to agree.

If he came to supper, she could work on convincing him to investigate Ed Drummond. “All right.”

Charles’s smile broadened. “Say six-thirty? That gives me time to finish here and still go home to clean up.”

“Six-thirty is fine.” She walked toward the door. “Do you like pot roast?”

Charles blocked her way by leaning against the frame. “It’s my favorite.”

She smiled, enjoying the tease. “I can’t make it if I don’t get home.”

With a grin, he stepped aside, giving her room to pass.

“Why, hello, Charles. Oh, hi, Adelaide.”

Adelaide turned and almost bumped into Fannie Whitehall, who’d appeared out of nowhere. Or perhaps Adelaide was so besotted she’d failed to notice her. “Hello, Fannie.”

Fannie beamed at Charles. “Will you be my guest at our church picnic? It’s the second Saturday in June.” She clapped her gloved hands together. “Please say yes.”

Apparently Fannie had decided not to play possum, her lessons in demureness forgotten. Why hadn’t Adelaide thought to ask Charles herself? Because finding an escort for the church picnic was the least of her priorities. At such gatherings, she felt out of place, a solitary oak at the edge of an evergreen forest.

Without children. Without a husband. A woman alone.

Still, knowing Charles could be going with Fannie poked like a misdirected hatpin. Well, he deserved a woman whose mind didn’t keep up with her mouth. “Goodbye,” Adelaide said.

Fannie took Adelaide by the elbow and walked out a few steps with her. “Was I demure?”

“You were fine.” No need to point out that ladies, when issuing an invitation, didn’t usually clap. She’d best remember Jesus’s command to love her neighbor, instead of having such uncharitable thoughts about Fannie.

Beaming, Fannie rushed back inside, no doubt for Charles’s answer. Adelaide gathered up Emma and her doll and left. He might be coming to supper tonight, but she had no claim on the man. Over the meal, they’d share a conversation about William, about her ideas for future columns. Nothing else.

Before they’d crossed the street, Adelaide had started wading through the menu in her mind. She’d add red-skinned potatoes, carrots and onions to the meat. Applesauce she’d canned last fall would be tasty. This simple meal would give her time to make a pie. Oh, she almost forgot. After bragging to Fannie and Charles, she’d have to serve biscuits, careful not to burn the bottoms.

While Emma played with her doll, Adelaide prepared the meal, then mixed the biscuit dough, vowing that with God’s help and Charles as her ally, she’d get both children out of the Drummond household permanently.

When she’d finished, Adelaide oversaw Emma’s bath, then brushed her hair until it shone and helped her into the new dress she’d made. “You look pretty, sweetheart.”

“That’s ’cause I look like you.”

In the mirror, two blondes with fair skin and blue eyes peered back at them. Heart full, Adelaide hugged Emma. “Thank you. Why don’t you read while I get ready?”

After Adelaide bathed, she donned her finest dress, a rose gown with a tight fitting bodice and enormous puffed sleeves that narrowed to hug her forearms. Pulling her hair up into a chignon, she didn’t have a single, solitary thought in her brain except soon Charles would be in her home, sitting at her table.

In the kitchen, her belly roiling in anticipation, she set the table. Then she walked into the parlor and fluffed the pillows, picked a piece of lint off the love seat and checked the clock on the shelf.

Below, the bell jingled. “He’s here!” Emma called.

“I’ll let him in.” Adelaide hurried to the top of the stairs and to the door. Seeing Charles through the glass, her mouth went dry. Wearing a dark gray suit and crisp white shirt, he was a beautiful sight. She opened the door and stepped back.

“Evening, Addie.” He gave her a dazzling smile, then lifted his nose in the air and sniffed. “Hmm, smells good in here.” His gaze skimmed over her. “Looks good, too. That’s a pretty dress.”

“Thank you.” The admiration in his voice warmed her, but what she wanted to know—and dared not ask—was if he had accepted Fannie’s invitation to the picnic.

They stood gazing at one another, neither saying a word. The way he studied her, a way no man had ever looked at her before, Adelaide forgot all about Fannie’s invitation.

She pivoted on her heel. “If you’ll follow me…”

“Gladly,” he said.

She heard the shop door close and glanced back. He wore a lazy grin. A thrill snaked through Adelaide, making her glad Emma waited upstairs. Instead of being all soft and starry-eyed, she should remember why she’d agreed to this invitation. It had nothing to do with her and Charles, everything to do with Emma and William’s future.

Adelaide led him through the shop. The aroma of pot roast hauled them up the stairs by their noses. “Supper will be ready soon.”

Charles smiled. “I’m starved.”

Could he see her hands shaking? Why couldn’t she feel comfortable entertaining a man?

Emma bounded to them. “Hi, Mr. Graves.”

“Hello, Emma.”

Adelaide motioned to the love seat in the parlor. “Please, make yourself at home.”

He lowered his lanky body onto the dainty furniture, dwarfing the delicate piece. He surely couldn’t feel comfortable, yet he looked at home, self-assured, as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

He crossed an ankle over his knee, and patted the seat beside him. “Can’t you join me, Addie, even for a minute?”

“I…I have things to do. Emma, show Mr. Graves your new doll.” The little girl raced to her room. Adelaide fled almost as fast as Emma.

In the kitchen, Adelaide put her hands to her burning cheeks and glanced around, trying to get her bearings. Her gaze fell on the pan next to the stove. Oh, yes, she needed to bake the biscuits. Having Charles here had taken every rational thought from her mind. She popped the pan in the hot oven and then lifted the lid on the roaster. Perfect. Everything would be ready as soon as the biscuits finished baking.

She returned to the parlor and found Charles sitting beside Emma. He held the new doll, looking about as comfortable as a trapeze artist without a net. Adelaide bit her lip to keep from laughing and perched on the chair across from them.

Emma pointed at Charles. “He’s the daddy.”

“We’re just pretending,” Charles cut in quickly. If the tone of his words hadn’t, the look on his face made it clear Charles had no wish to ever be the daddy.

Adelaide’s smile faded until she realized there wasn’t a bachelor alive who’d want to be caught playing with dolls. Why did she always look for trouble behind Charles’s every word or action? She reminded herself of a hedgehog rolling into a ball to protect its vulnerable underbelly. Not an attractive image.

She could take a lesson from Fannie and gain some of her boldness. As long as she didn’t end up with Fannie’s giggle.

Or end up hurt like her mother.

Chapter Ten

A
delaide’s parlor wasn’t overdone with bric-a-brac like most Charles had been in. Her collection of photographs, books and well-placed items made the room cozy and welcoming.

Emma carried her doll to the piano and fiddled with the keys. She chattered while she did, telling her doll about her made-up tune. Dear, sweet Emma, without a care in the world, so unlike Charles at that age.

“I never realized the furniture in here was so small,” Addie said, taking a chair across from him. “Maybe that’s because Jack wasn’t much taller than I.”

“Jack?” Charles straightened. “Who’s Jack?”

Adelaide waved a hand of dismissal, as if the name meant nothing. “Oh, Jack was a guy who had the notion we should marry.”

It bothered Charles to think Adelaide had once had someone in her life. But why wouldn’t she? Pretty, industrious, smart and apparently a good cook, if the enticing aromas permeating her home were any indication, Addie would snare a man’s attention. “Why didn’t you marry Jack?”

She shrugged. “I didn’t love him.”

Charles leaned forward. “How could you be sure?”

“How much time do you have?”

Charles chortled. “That bad? So what topped the list?”

“Let’s see his conversation was limited to the weather and…well, the weather. He dozed off right after supper. He…” She averted her gaze. “I don’t mean to be unkind. Jack wasn’t a bad person.”

Just then, Emma tried to play “Three Blind Mice” and hit so many wrong notes Charles suspected she’d left off a mouse or two.

Addie winced, but shot Emma an encouraging smile, then turned back to him.

“Is that all you had on your list?” he said.

She lowered her voice and leaned a little closer, even though Emma’s playing threatened to drown out her words. “He…well, he gave me the willies.”

Ridiculously glad, Charles chuckled. “Hmm, the willies. That’s definitely
not
a good basis for marriage.”

“That’s what I thought,” Adelaide said. “Mama insisted I had no one to compare him to, and should just grit my teeth and ignore the effect he had on me.”

“That could get mighty hard on a woman’s teeth.”

“What? Oh!” Addie laughed.

Charles thought the sound enchanting. A desire to pull her into his arms crashed through him, but he didn’t dare.

Addie jumped to her feet. “Oh, no!”

Charles caught a whiff of something burning. He followed Addie to the kitchen where she lifted a smoking pan from the oven. She tossed it onto the breadboard, dismay written all over her face. “This is terrible.”

Turning Addie toward the table, he gently pushed her into a chair then removed his coat. “You sit. I’ll handle the rest.”

“No, you’re my guest.”

“This guest knows his way around a kitchen.” He removed the biscuits from the pan and cut off the blackened bottoms, biting back an urge to tease her. No need to make her feel worse. Burnt or not, he’d rather be eating Addie’s biscuits than Fannie’s. Even gladder she hadn’t married Jack.

He snuffed the thought. Being around Addie made him question everything upon which he’d carefully built his life.

She made him rethink his doubts about church, his anger at God…questions too painful to examine.

Yet despite all that, he still wanted to be with her.

“At least let me serve before the food gets cold.”

He gave her a salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

She rose and grabbed a towel to pull the roast from the oven, then began cutting up the meat. She ladled vegetables around the platter and set the dish on the table.

Emma ran into the kitchen. “Is dinner ready? I’m starving!”

“Yes, it is. Go wash up,” Adelaide said.

Soon, they assembled at the table, an odd put-together group, not a family, exactly, but still, too close to one for comfort. A bouquet of lilacs in the center teased at his nostrils. Addie’s warm, full table held a charm for him he hadn’t found at the Becker House or at his own cheerless table.

Addie and Emma folded their hands and bowed their heads. Charles blinked, then did the same. Addie said a simple prayer.

As they ate, his gaze kept returning to Addie’s, but Emma’s endless chatter kept conversation between them at a minimum.

At last, Emma asked to be excused. Soon the notes of “Mary Had a Little Lamb”—well most of them—drifted through the air.

“The pot roast was delicious, Addie. Everything was. You’re an excellent cook.”

“Thank you. My mother taught me.”

“Well, you know the old saying—the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” Charles patted his. “You’ve created quite a path tonight.”

Addie stacked her silverware on top of her plate. “I’m not sure there’s any truth to that old adage.”

“Why?”

Addie ran her thumb down the handle of her spoon. “My father left when I was a baby. Clearly my mother’s cooking skills didn’t keep him home.”

“Maybe his leaving had more to do with who
he
was, than with her cooking.”

She nodded, then removed the napkin from her lap, laid it on the table and folded it neatly, smoothing it with her fingers until it looked like it had never been used.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked.

She raised her gaze to his. “I feel terrible that my mother jilted your father and caused trouble for you.”

“Well, if she hadn’t, we’d be brother and sister.” He chuckled, and then took her hand. “My father is the one to blame, not your mother. I’m sorry I didn’t see that at first.”

“I can understand why you’d resent my mother, and then me. Especially after hearing the contents of your father’s will.”

“I don’t resent you or your mother.” Charles joined her at the sink. “My family isn’t a topic for good digestion.”

His brow furrowed. He didn’t want to discuss his past.

Charles touched her hand. “It’s hard to talk about.”

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“I couldn’t talk about this with anyone but you.” He gave her a weak smile. “Unlike your father, mine stayed—all the while beating the tar out of us.”

Pain ripped through him, and he flinched.

She touched his arm, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

He smiled and for a moment, covered her hand with his own. “You and I had rough beginnings, but we survived and our pasts brought us together, in an odd way, with the will.”

Charles cleared his throat. He didn’t want to think about his father. “Let’s not talk about any of that.” Just for a moment, he’d wanted to pretend he wasn’t a product of his past. “Let’s talk about you instead.”