Echoes of Mercy: A Novel (6 page)

Letta grabbed Caroline’s hands, dancing in place. The floorboards moaned in protest. “You did it, Miss Lang! I never would’ve thought he’d say yes, but you did it!”

Caroline squeezed the girl’s hands and offered a bright smile, but then she forced a serious look. “Remember what I told your father about you proving to me you’re learning before I will give you the money. You have to earn those four dollars, Letta, by paying attention and finishing your lessons. Do you understand?”

She nodded, her smile bright. “I understand. An’ I’ll do it, miss. You’ll see.”

Caroline steered the girl off the creaky porch. “Come with me now so you’ll know where I live. I’ll expect you to come by every day when I get off work so I can look at your assignment.”

Letta scurried along beside Caroline, wringing her hands. “If I have trouble, will you help me some? Reckon school’ll be plenty hard, an’ I’m a little scared about how it’s gonna go.”

“I’ll help you,” Caroline said, hoping she could keep the promise. She might be in Sinclair for months or maybe only for weeks. So many things depended on how quickly she uncovered the cause of poor Harmon Bratcher’s demise. For a moment she questioned the wisdom of getting Letta’s hopes so high. She caught Letta’s hand and forced her to stop. “But, Letta, I want you to remember something very important. Your best help in every part of life comes from God. If you ask Him to help you, He will. Every time.”

“God will help me,” Letta recited with a solemn nod, her eyes round. “Yes’m. I’ll remember you said so.”

“Good.” Caroline set her feet in motion, but instead of turning toward the boarding hotel, she aimed herself to town. She had a purchase to make—
something to offer as a reward to Letta for starting school. If the girl was going to learn to lean on God’s strength, she’d need to study God’s very own book. Caroline hoped the general merchandise store carried Bibles.

Oliver tinkered with the hinges on the entry door to the factory floor.
Tap, tap, tap
on the pin with a ball-peen hammer. Push, pull, push, pull on the door while staring at the brass plate. Scowl. Shake his head.
Tap, tap, tap
again. Did he look convincing? His first week he’d felt every bit an inept clod each time he retrieved a tool from his belt, uncertain whether he should use one intended to pound, pinch, or poke. Who could have known that assuming the role of janitor would prove so taxing? But his education hadn’t prepared him for menial labor.

Workers filed past. Men in overalls or trousers and chambray shirts, tin lunchpails in hand and caps tugged low over sleepy eyes. Women with aprons covering their dresses and ruffled mobcaps framing their faces. Children with drooping eyes and dragging heels. In turn, they paused to jam their cards into the punch slot just inside the door and then slip them into the little holder marked with their names. Most acknowledged him with a wave or smile, the occasional “Morning, Ollie” from the fellows and “Good morning, Mr. Moore” from the youngsters and the ladies. He responded to each in kind, calling the names of those he could recall and substituting “sir,” “miss,” and “kiddo” for those he couldn’t.

He continued to mess with those hinges as if fixing them was the most important task on his list of duties. But it was as much a ruse as his carefully chosen working-man’s attire. The hinges were fine. Didn’t even squeak. But what other excuse could he use to loiter near the time clock until Miss Carrie Lang arrived? In three more minutes the shift bell would clang, and he’d have to leave this post whether he wanted to or not. He hoped she arrived on time. Hightower wouldn’t hesitate to deliver a tongue-lashing in front of the other workers if she dared punch in even a few seconds past six o’clock.

Oliver dropped to one knee and shifted his attention to the locking mechanism. The first thing he intended to do after Dinsmore’s World-Famous Chocolates Factory transferred into his hands was to sit down with Hightower and have a long talk about leading without lording. Father had always been satisfied with Hightower’s service, but over the past weeks Oliver had decided the factory manager had a lot to learn.

Three more workers hustled past—two men and a lad of perhaps twelve years. Oliver stifled a groan of frustration. Where was Miss Lang? She’d seemed so eager to get started when he’d given her a quick tour of the factory floor yesterday. He was delighted to add her to the Dinsmore “family,” as Father preferred to call their employees. Her concern about being accused of stealing chocolates hinted at her honesty. Her attentiveness as he explained the time clock, the lunch procedure, and the break schedule showed a true interest in doing things right. He had no doubt she’d be a diligent worker.

He inserted the tip of the screwdriver into the slot of one screwhead on the latch plate, loosened it, then retightened it while he kept one eye on the back alley, hoping to see Miss Lang approach. The tool slipped from his hand, bounced twice, and rolled against the doorjamb. Releasing a disgruntled huff, he snatched it up. Worry nibbled around the edges of his mind. Had she decided not to work here after all? He glanced at the time clock. If she arrived even one minute past six, she’d be written up as a late arrival. She was almost out of time. His hands began to sweat.

Settling back on one heel, he pondered why he cared so much. He hardly knew her, and she was only one of nearly two hundred workers. Yet something about her had touched him. He mulled over the scene in the upstairs landing yesterday—the pair of women carrying trays in a competition to win the privilege of performing the task in exchange for roughly sixty-six cents a day—and he uncovered the reason. Her tender heart. It had hurt her, genuinely hurt her, to see the other woman lose.

The patter of running feet on hard-packed earth reached his ears. He leaped up, the tools in his belt clanking together, and stepped aside as Miss Lang dashed past, dark curls bouncing on her apple cheeks. Card in hand, she whammed it into the machine and pressed the lever. Oliver peeked over her
shoulder as she pulled the card free. Black, smudged numbers proclaimed 6:00 a.m. on the top of the card. She’d made it! He slipped the screwdriver into the leather pouch and stepped up beside her.

She swept a small hand across her brow, pushing one springy coil aside. It dangled beguilingly along her temple. “I feared I’d be late.”

He followed her as she moved to the card rack and slipped hers into place. He waited for her to offer an excuse—an alarm that failed to ring, a trolley car blocking her pathway—but she offered none. He continued to trail her, double-stepping to keep up, as she turned and headed for the candy-making center.

A dimple flashed in her cheek as she sent a quick grin in his direction. “I hoped I would see you.”

Father would berate him if he knew how much her statement pleased him. “Oh?”

“I wanted to return your handkerchief.” She whisked it from the pocket of her swirling skirt and held it out to him. “I laundered it last night. Well, I washed it in my sink with a little lye soap. I didn’t have an iron, so it’s rather rumpled. But no chocolate stains, see?”

He held it to the light and pretended to examine it, but truthfully he was admiring the tawny freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose. “I see.” He tucked the handkerchief into his pocket. “I trust that you—” He nearly slapped his forehead. Her sweet, mellifluous voice, devoid of the common slang of the other workers, encouraged him to drop his guard and speak like the educated man he was. But he didn’t dare. He rubbed the end of his nose, pretending to fight off a sneeze, then said, “So … didja enjoy those chocolates?”

She laughed, a delicate trickle of merriment that broadened his smile. “I didn’t eat a one. I gave the pocketful to some children who were playing in the street and the handkerchief’s contents to a girl named Letta to share with her brothers.”

Another example of her tender heart. “That was right kind of you, Carrie.”

She shrugged and didn’t reply. When they reached the candy-making area, stacks of trays, no doubt filled by the previous shift’s workers, waited for
transport. “It looks like I’d better get to work. Thank you again for sharing the vanilla creams. The children were delighted to receive them.”

He should leave, but he wasn’t ready to go. He searched for a reason to continue talking with her, and he realized she hadn’t carried in a dinner bucket. “You didn’t bring your lunch.”

An odd smile quirked her lips. Her shoulders rose in a tiny shrug—the right one slightly higher than the left. “I suppose one day without lunch won’t hurt me.” She lifted the top three trays from the nearest stack and turned.

He found himself blocking her pathway. “Join me.”

Her eyebrows shot up.

He shrugged, imitating her gesture by raising his right shoulder nearly to his earlobe. “I have plenty, and I’d like to share. Meet me in the break room at eleven.” He held his breath. Would she see him as too forward? He sweetened the invitation. “Ham and cheese sandwiches, deviled eggs, and strawberry tarts. With cream.”

“Oh my …”

He hid a grin. She still hadn’t agreed, but he needed to let her get to work before Hightower spotted them chatting. He inched backward, allowing her to ease past. He called to her as she walked away, “Eleven o’clock. I’ll be waiting.”

A single bob of her mobcap sent his pulse stuttering into happy hiccups. He spun, a grin stretching his cheeks, and came face to face with Gordon Hightower. The man’s scowl chased away Oliver’s elation.

“Moore, I’d like a word with you.”

Gordon watched Carrie Lang’s dangling apron ties bounce against the full gathers of her skirt as she scurried away. She didn’t flout her figure the way some women did, exaggerating the swing of her hips. But her natural sway was enticing enough.

The sound of someone clearing his throat pulled Gordon’s focus from Miss Lang’s delightful curves. Ollie Moore stood staring at him, his lips set in a near scowl and his narrowed eyes seeming to look beneath Gordon’s exterior to the thoughts roiling in his brain. Gordon adjusted the lapels of his jacket, lifting his chin in a manner used to cow the lesser workers. Moore didn’t flinch.

“You wanted to speak with me?” Moore spoke genially, but his eyes continued to glint like steel.

Gordon gritted his teeth. How he’d love to remove Ollie Moore from the employment books. Every other worker in this factory kowtowed to him. But this one—this one wore arrogance like a shield. He’d disliked Moore the moment he’d entered Gordon’s office, his hat in his hand but his shoulders set bold and square as if his being hired was a right rather than a privilege. Gordon had wanted to refuse to hire the man, but the owner, Fulton Dinsmore, had specifically recommended Moore—his first time to intrude upon Gordon’s hiring process. Consequently, he didn’t dare ax Moore. But he could make the worker’s life so difficult he chose to find another place to work. Then old man Dinsmore couldn’t hold Gordon accountable.

“One of the overnight workers came in drunk and lost his supper in the melting room. Go mop up the mess.” He paused, waiting for the man to blanch. He didn’t. Gordon swallowed a curse. “When you’re done there, grease the conveyor belt cogs.”

Moore angled his head to the side. “I greased those cogs yesterday.” He glanced down at his tan britches as if the grease smudges on his thighs were a badge.

Gordon pasted on his fiercest scowl. “Their infernal squeak gives me a headache. Do it again, and this time do it right.” He barked the command, puffing out his chest with as much pomposity as he could gather. “Then mop the candy-making floor and scrub the sorting tables. I walked through there this morning and found caramel stuck everywhere.” An exaggeration. He’d found a tiny smudge of caramel on the leg of one table.

A slight frown marred Moore’s brow—the first hint that Gordon might be breaking through his seemingly impenetrable control. “The night-shift janitor scrubs the tables because they’re never empty during the day.”

“They are during the sorters’ lunch break.”

Moore’s frown deepened. “My lunch break’s the same time as the sorters’.”