Every Perfect Gift (18 page)

The woman behind the counter looked up when the bell rang and a slow smile spread across her face. “Sophie, I’m so glad you’re here. We never seem to have much time to visit these days, do we?”

“Hello, Mrs. Whiting.” Sophie grinned, overcome with a rush of affection for Robbie’s mother. Though they saw each other briefly around town and in church, they always seemed to be off in opposite directions. Mariah Whiting had grown rounder and her hair was threaded with gray, but her smile was just the same as when she used to come by the orphanage to deliver quilts or
Christmas stockings. Mrs. Whiting had always managed to slip Sophie an extra treat—a piece of hard candy, a hair ribbon, a pastry from the bakery. Those small gifts had made Sophie feel, at least for a moment, as if she mattered.

“Aren’t you looking pretty as a picture?” Mariah Whiting came around the counter and embraced Sophie. “Thank you for coming to see me. Our conversations on Sunday mornings have been much too brief.”

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, knitting 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.