I do, I do, I do (4 page)

Clara recognized opportunity when it came knocking at her door. She'd sent Jean Jacques to Seattle with her nest egg and instructions to purchase a place that could be converted into a boardinghouse.

"We made the decision to sell together, but it was my decision to sell the inn now instead of waiting." Jean Jacques would probably be annoyed that she hadn't delayed the sale until he wrote that he'd purchased a new place. That was how they had agreed to handle things. But it was taking him so long to find the right property that she'd grown impatient. She missed him more than she could possibly have imagined and wanted to be in his arms again.

Hugo Bosch looked shocked. "You're a married woman now. You should not have made such a decision, much less acted upon it, without your husband's knowledge! If he's half a man, he'll beat you for disobedience."

Uh-huh. She saw now that if she had married Hugo
Bosch, they would have spent the next fifty years plotting to kill each other.

"Seattle is a big city. You do know where Villette is staying, don't you?"

Well, no. But she would find him. She and her Jean Jacques were like two magnets exerting an irresistible attraction that would sweep aside all obstacles. Theirs was a joyous, exuberant marriage welded by two people wildly, madly, passionately in love. If they were in the same hemisphere, she had no doubt they could find each other.

Like most redheads, Clara blushed easily and violently. When Herr Bosch stared at her with raised eyebrows, she turned away from his gaze.

"Well. Here comes the stage."

"Clara, I beg you. Divorce this Frenchman."

"Divorce?" She considered herself a modern woman, but she wasn't modern enough to consider divorce. The idea horrified her.

"I could make you happy. I would feed you tortes and strudels, paprika noodles. Sauerbraten." His eyes glowed as he continued to list her favorite foods and desserts.

Clara sighed. She was big, but not as big as she would be if Hugo Bosch had his way. She was big shouldered, big breasted, big hipped, and she had big hands. But she curved in where she should and out where she should; she wasn't fat. Her papa had said she was a good German girl, big boned and a beauty. But, as far as she knew, no one else had thought her a beauty until Jean Jacques Villette.

"I have to meet the stage," she said gently, placing her hand on Hugo's sleeve. He meant well, she knew that. And who could say? Maybe if Jean Jacques hadn't swept her off her feet… maybe she would eventually have married the best strudel she'd ever tasted and Hugo Bosch would have married her inn. Maybe she would have persuaded herself that it didn't matter that he couldn't recall her eye color or that he thought wives deserved an occasional beating.

She left him standing under the maple tree biting on his cigar and hurried inside to remove her apron, smooth her skirts, and pat down her flyaway hair. Then she arranged a smile on her lips and stepped out on the front veranda to greet her guests.

Only one woman climbed down from the stage, which made Clara decide that she had sold the inn not a moment too soon. In her papa's time, the stage had arrived twice daily and deposited a half dozen guests on the inn's doorstep at each stop.

Suppressing a sigh, she examined the slender woman who had turned to look beyond the inn toward a sweeping view of the sea. The woman impressed Clara as anxious and nervous, but she didn't know why. Her guest was smartly turned out in a well-cut traveling suit that appeared to defy wrinkles. Beneath a small, neat hat, every hair was perfectly in place, her gloves were immaculate, and she didn't fidget.

"She's the only one?" Clara asked Ole Peterson after he'd placed the woman's tapestry bags on the veranda.

"The rest of the passengers are continuing on," Ole said. He sounded apologetic.

Clara nodded and wished him a safe trip, hesitated, then walked across the lawn to join her guest. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" she asked pleasantly, glancing toward the ocean.

"It's amazing. Wonderful. Magnificent. Words fail me." She glanced at Clara, then back at the ocean. "The colors are so vivid here in Oregon. The blues aren't as blue nor the greens as green in California, I'm sure of it. And the ocean! My husband promised I would love the sea, but I never imagined it would be so big, so overwhelming, or so fascinating."

As the Pacific had always been in Clara's backyard, she tended to take it for granted. Seeing the landscape anew through her guests' eyes was always a refreshing experience.

"This must be your first trip to the coast."

The woman's slender figure stiffened, and her spine pulled ramrod straight. She folded her gloved hands one over the other at her waist and frowned straight ahead.

Clara had seen this before. Stuffy little women who mistook friendliness for prying because the silly books on etiquette said a person didn't discuss personal matters with strangers, didn't reveal anything of themselves.

"Well," Clara said, watching dots of color burning on the woman's cheeks. "Please come inside. I have a room I think you'll find to your liking. Dinner will be served in the dining room promptly at seven. You'll have time to freshen up."

"You are the proprietor?"

"Yes." Until tomorrow when the new owners arrived. She paused on the veranda to collect the woman's tapestry bags.

"Shouldn't you call someone to handle the bags?"

"There's no need," Clara said brightly. "I'm not a little thing like you." She could almost hear Papa saying:
My Clara, she's as strong as an ox
. He'd been gone for almost two years, but she still missed him. She wished they could sit down together over steins of beer and she could explain why she'd sold the inn.

She led the way past Papa's cuckoo clocks and Mama's collection of tiny china cups into a homey lobby where she set down the tapestry bags and stepped behind the counter.

Apparently the woman from the stage hadn't arranged her own accommodations often enough to be comfortable with the process. She blushed deeply and didn't meet Clara's gaze.

"I wonder…" The color deepened in the woman's cheeks, and she blinked rapidly, her words coming in an anguished rush. "I know this will sound like a strange request, but I wonder if I might examine your guest book from nine months ago. You see, there's someone who might have stayed at your inn. It would be helpful to me to know if he did stay here."

All was explained. Clara would have wagered the money in the cash drawer that the woman's husband had left her and that she was attempting to find him. She had heard this sad tale before. There wasn't much that she had not seen while growing up in the hostelry business.

Sympathy softened her gaze. The poor soul wasn't a beauty, but who was? She was pretty in a cautious sort of way, as if she felt it more virtuous not to turn men's heads. Clara thought the woman's eyes were her best feature. She had lovely, heavily lashed gray eyes—one might even say soulful eyes. Certainly she had a sense of style. Her traveling ensemble was well coordinated and the quality of workmanship was good. But Clara sensed her guest's timidity and discomfort. This woman traveled alone out of necessity, not by choice. And asking after her husband was clearly agony for her.

Carefully suppressing any hint of pity, Clara turned the register to face the woman and extended a pen, saying, "Of course you can examine the register from last year. I'd be happy to show—" She stopped talking and stared.

The woman's horrified gaze had fixed on Clara's wedding ring. She gripped the edge of the counter as if to hold herself upright and the color abruptly drained from her face, leaving her as white as a new towel.

"Your ring!" She sounded as if she were strangling.

"It's my wedding ring," Clara explained slowly, wondering if the woman was having some sort of fit. "It's a family heirloom. My husband's grandfather designed the ring, and his grandmother wore it all her married life. Then his mother wore it."

The woman shook her head. "No. This can't be. No."

"Ma'am? Can I get you something? A glass of water?"

"You don't understand. But look." She tore at her gloves, clawing at her left hand. "It has to be a coincidence. Yes, that's it, it must be a very strange coincidence." She thrust out a shaking hand and the counter lamp gleamed down on her wedding ring. Clara gasped, and her heart stopped beating. Her eyes widened until they ached.

The woman wore the same ring. Two bands of twisted silver enclosing filigreed silver hearts. But how could the rings be identical? Jean Jacques had said the ring was one of a kind, an original design.

"Oh!" The word became a wail, stretching on and on until Clara ran out of breath. She reeled backward a step, vigorously shaking her head in denial. "No. This cannot be. I won't believe this."

"Please," the woman whispered. "Tell me your husband's name."

"Jean Jacques Villette." The name choked her because one look at the woman's sickly ashen face confirmed an unfolding nightmare. "
Mein Gott
! We're married to the same man!" The words came from a great distance. Her ears rang and her knees shook. She felt nauseated.

If ever a situation had called for someone to faint, this was it. So Clara was glad to see the other Mrs. Villette sink below the countertop and hit the floor.

Somehow Clara stumbled through the dinner hour, seating her guests, overseeing the service, smiling and nodding good night as the guests exited the dining room. When everyone had departed, Clara discovered she couldn't recall a word she had spoken or anything she had done since Juliette March Villette fainted on the lobby floor.

She found herself standing in the middle of the dining room, staring stupidly at Hans and Gerhard as they set the tables for the breakfast service. Now and then they slid a glance toward her, then lifted eyebrows at each other as if she had gone daft and they didn't know what they should do about her.

Abruptly, she turned on her heel and returned to the lobby to pace in front of the counter.

What should she do now? Was there any point in going to Seattle as she had planned? But she couldn't stay here. The new owners would move into the personal quarters tomorrow, and her belongings were already in storage. The only items left to pack were the cuckoo clocks and Mama's tiny cups.

But wait. Stiffening, she stared into space. Why was she worrying about where she would lay her head? Her shocked mind had stopped on the questions: How can this be? Where will I go? But there were other equally important concerns.

Was she the first or the second wife? Was she married or not married? And what about her money? The money! Jean Jacques, her passionate, dearly beloved, no-good thieving scoundrel of a husband, had taken her nest egg.

Was it his thievery that made her so furious? That in the end, Jean Jacques had been like all her suitors, enamored by what she owned?

But that could not be true. Jean Jacques had chased her all over the inn, swearing that he would make love to her in every bed. And, laughing, she had let him catch her, and they had indeed made love in every bed. Closing her eyes, Clara swayed on her feet. A man couldn't fake desiring a woman. Jean Jacques had loved her. He must have loved her. But if he loved her, then surely he couldn't have loved Juliette March Villette.

Turning, she
gazed
toward the landing at the top of the staircase. She'd put it off long enough; they had to talk. And Miss March should be recovered by now.

She poured two steins of stout German ale strong enough to numb pain and carried them upstairs to room three. At first she thought Miss March wouldn't respond to her knock, then she heard a resigned voice bid her to enter.

Miss March was already in bed, wearing a plain, unadorned nightgown that circled high around her throat. She'd brushed out her hair and braided it for sleeping, but Clara doubted either of them would sleep tonight.

"Are you feeling better?"

"I'm sick at heart." The other Mrs. Villette's face remained waxy white, making her eyelids appear more red and swollen. "I can't move. I can't think. It's like my mind is paralyzed and my body is too heavy to lift. I've never hurt this much in my life. I can't bear it that Aunt Kibble was right."

So much for not revealing oneself to strangers. Shock and devastation had eroded Juliette March Villette's reserve. Unhappily, Clara foresaw that she and her husband's other wife would become intimates before this evening ended. "I brought you some ale."

She simply could not think of this woman as Mrs. Villette. It was repugnant, impossible. And she couldn't continue thinking of her as Jean Jacques's other wife. That was too painful. She decided to think of her as Miss March.

Miss March's eyebrows arched, and she sniffed in distaste. "I don't drink spirits."

"Well, it's time you started. I can promise you, this ale will make you feel better than the tea did," Clara stated, looking at the teapot Miss Reeves had brought up earlier. She set one of the steins on the edge of the bed and watched Miss March lurch forward to grab the handle before the ale toppled, then pulled a chair next to the bed.

Now that she was here, Clara couldn't remember the questions she had intended to ask. She was too distracted by the inevitable misery of comparing herself to Miss March. Judging by the way Miss March stared back, she, too, was making comparisons.

As far as Clara could see, they didn't share a single physical likeness. Where Clara was sturdy and big-boned, Miss March was slender and delicate. Clara's hair was curly auburn red; Miss March's hair was a smooth medium brown. Miss March had gray eyes; Clara's eyes were light brown. She was apple-cheeked and quick to laugh, whereas Miss March was fashionably pale and slow to smile. Clara sensed their backgrounds would prove as dissimilar as their personalities and appearance.

"It was the money," Miss March blurted in an anguished voice. Fighting tears, she sipped from the stein, then gasped and pursed her lips with a shudder. "Aunt Kibble warned me, but I didn't want to believe it."

"The second swallow goes down smoother."

"He said he was temporarily embarrassed. He said he only needed a loan." She gave her head a shake and swallowed another draft of the ale. She gasped again, but not as loudly. "Did Mr. Villette take money from you, too?" Her gaze pleaded with Clara to say yes.