It Happened at the Fair

PRAISE FOR DEEANNE GIST

“Gist’s work is comical, sassy, and sweet.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Gist’s historical romances have increasingly gained popularity, combining witty dialog, well-balanced plots, and fully developed characters who seem almost real.”

—Library Journal

“Gist takes intriguing historical facts and creates a world of fascinating characters, lighthearted moments, and timeless crises that we can still relate to today.”

—Romantic Times

“With her knowledge of history, attention to detail, and lively humor, talented Gist . . . has written a story about a man at the end of his rope and a very stubborn woman sure to delight readers.”

—
Booklist
(Starred Review) on
A Bride in the Bargain

AERIAL VIEW OF THE 1893 WORLD’S COLUMBIAN EXPOSITION

“ ‘Do you know where it is?’ Cullen asked. ‘The fair is huge, over six hundred acres according to the guidebooks. “Over that way” could mean yards or it could mean miles.’ ”

To view a map of the fair, go to
www.DeeanneGist.com/WCEmap.pdf

To my PIT Crew

(Personal Intercessory Team)

Julie Ashton

Victor and Kendra Belfi

Lisa Gettys

John and Pat Kane

who committed to daily stand in the gap for me as I labored to fill five hundred blank pages with the first draft of
It Happened at the Fair
. Your support, encouragement, and unfailing diligence made the most difficult part of the process an absolute delight. I love you, admire you, treasure you, and thank you.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This year I celebrated thirty years of marriage with the love of my life, Greg Gist. As a young man, it was his fantasy to have a woman who would one day stay at home, raise his children, cook his meals, and be his helpmate. Well, I’ve definitely stayed at home, helped raise the kids, and even managed to cook a few meals. It’s the helpmate part that I seem to struggle with the most.

You see, I have ideas. Lots of ideas. And over the years, I’ve tried to turn those ideas into realities. I’ve done chain letters, Amway, 900 numbers (remember those?), started an antiques business, produced and manufactured parenting products, dabbled in journalism, and ended up settling into this profession of novel writing—all from the comforts of home.

I’d always seen Greg as being, well, tolerant of my many escapades. Until now. As I reflect on our thirty years together, I realize he has been way more than tolerant—he’s been downright supportive. He has done more than his share of carting kids to and fro, of hiring a housekeeper to free up my time, of blessing me with a lovely and comfortable home—as well as my current office, with floor-to-ceiling windows in front of me and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves behind me—of paying for all the aforementioned ideas (all of which have cost him not a little bit of money), of sharing his frequent-flyer miles, of bringing me flowers “just because,” of putting up with my eighty-hour work weeks when I’m on deadline, of giving up football games to sit through very, very long award ceremonies, and of taking charge of the household while I gallivant around the country to conferences and events.

So to you, my beloved, wonderful, handsome man, I say thank you. Thank you for being an incredible father, an amazing provider, a wonderfully romantic partner, and a staunch supporter of all my wild ideas. I love you so, so much. Happy anniversary, my sweet.

CHAPTER

1

Cullen’s eyes swelled to mere slits, his roughened cheeks itched, and a sharp line separated the raw skin on his neck from the skin protected by his shirt. It had happened every planting season for his entire twenty-seven years and it would happen for the next.

He yanked off his gloves, shirt, and undershirt, worked the pump, then stuck his whole head beneath the water. The icy stream stung and soothed all at the same time. He dared not dither, though. Those cotton seeds rode on the breeze and any exposed skin would begin to itch within a day’s time.

Rearing up, he combed his fingers through his hair. Water drizzled down his back, mingling with the sweat collecting between his shoulder blades. The hinges on the back-door screen squeaked. His stepmother clomped out, her plump body listing with the weight of the pail she toted.

“You ready to throw that out, Alice?”

She nodded, dirty water sloshing over the sides of the bucket. “I’ve got it. You get on inside. You know better than to be out here without a shirt on.”

“A few more minutes won’t hurt.” Taking it from her, he retraced his steps, tossed the pail’s contents, and pumped fresh water into it.

She stood at the door, her back holding the screen open. Her auburn bun sagged, as streaked with muted white as a song sparrow’s wing. “Come on,” she said. “Ya look a fright.”

Pulling off a boot, he glanced inside. His father already sat at the head of their hand-hewn table, shaking out his napkin. Three plates balanced across its slightly slanted surface. The table had been Cullen’s first attempt at making a real piece of furniture. He’d presented it to his mother on his eleventh Christmas, prouder than any rooster in the henhouse.

By the time he realized her other table was not only level but also nicer, she’d already passed away. She never let on, though—just stroked it as if it were made of mahogany and asked Dad if he didn’t think it was the grandest table he’d ever seen. Dad would give Cullen a wink and agree that it surely was. To this day, Cullen didn’t know what had happened to their good table.

“Ya gonna stand out there all day or cm in so we can eat?” Dad tucked a napkin into the collarless neckline beneath his bushy black beard.

“Coming.” Dropping his boots outside, he stepped in, plucked an undershirt from the wall peg, and pulled it over his head. At least his arms and chest still held a healthy glow. Two strips of startling white skin dissected his coppery torso, delineating the spots where his suspenders rode. Going shirtless during the plowing was not a problem, it was the planting, weeding, and harvesting that bothered him most. “Smells good, Alice.”

The door banged shut behind her. “Made ya some bean kttl soup.”

He suppressed a cringe. Bean kettle soup. Again. It was the third time in as many weeks.

Shrugging into a shirt, he secured the buttons, snapped his suspenders into place, scraped back his chair, and froze. A letter from the National Commission of the World’s Columbian Exposition sat beside his plate. “What’s that?”

Dad scratched the back of his head, fluffing his wiry curls, the same black color as Cullen’s.

“Yer the reader in the family,” he said.

Cullen jerked his gaze to Dad’s. “Why’s it addressed to me?”

Alice plopped a cast-iron pot on the table. Dad handed her his bowl.

“It’s been opened.” Cullen lowered himself into his chair, being careful to keep his hands clear of the table and envelope.

“I had Luther read it to me,” Dad said.

If the store clerk had read it, then the whole county would know of its contents by now. Everybody but Cullen, that is.

“What did it say?” he asked.

Alice served up bowls for the three of them.

“Accordin’ to Lthr, it said you’ve been accepted as an exhibitor at the World’s Fair.”

He wheezed in a breath, his swollen airways in as bad a shape as his face. “An exhibitor? Of what?”

“An automatic fire sprinkler system.”

A prickling sensation began behind his eyes. “How did they find out about my sprinkler system?”

“I told ’em.” Dad took a spoonful of soup, chewed the ham, and swallowed.

“Told them? How?”

“I sent in an application fer ya.”

The headache that had danced along the edges of Cullen’s skull began to make inroads. “You can’t read or write well enough to do that.”

Dad shrugged. “Got me some hlp from the preacher.”

Cullen started to rub his forehead, then stopped when he encountered tender skin. “And why would you do a fool thing like that?”

“Watch yer mouth.”

“I want to know why, Dad.”

He leaned his chair back on two legs. “I found the World’s Fair ad for exhibitors underneath yer mattress last spring when I took it outside fer Alice to beat clean.”

Moisture began to collect on Cullen’s neck and hairline. “So what? The entire world’s been reading about the fair since it was awarded to Chicago in ’90.”

“The entire world ain’t hiding it under their mattress.”

“I wasn’t hiding it. I just, I don’t know, didn’t have anyplace else to put it.” Even to his own ears, his excuse sounded feeble. “Besides, I forgot all about it.”

“I looked at it again when I got hm today. Its edges are frayed and it’s been opened and closed so many times the paper is splittin’ along the creases.”

Cullen placed his arms on both sides of his bowl. “Look, Dad. I’m a farmer, just like you. Just like Granddad. And just like Great-Granddaddy before him. A little boy who mourned the loss of his mother rigged up that stupid thing.”

“A little boy who became a man overnight.”

“It’s nothing but a toy.”

“Ya spent years perfectin’ it.”

Cullen fisted his hands. “And it didn’t help one iota when I spent heaven knows how much of your harvest money installing it in the cowshed. The thing still burnt straight to the ground and very nearly caught the barn on fire.”

“Ya fixed that when ya added them fusible joints.”

Cullen slammed his fist, rattling the dishware and causing Alice to start. “I’m not going to the World’s Fair, Dad. I appreciate the gesture. I know your intentions are good. But I’m not going. Especially not now. It’s the planting season, for crying out loud.”

Dad’s chair thumped to the ground. “Don’t ya thnk I know what time o’ year it is? I may not read so well, but I can sure tell the difference in the seasons.”

Closing his eyes, Cullen tried to calm himself. But his pulse was ticking, his breath was coming in spurts, and the prickles behind his eyes had turned into hammers. “You’re missing the point. I meant no insult.”

“Then at least give me enough credit to see when a fella ain’t cut out for farmin’. Look at ya. Ya can’t see in the spring. Ya can’t breathe in the summer. And ya can’t hrdly stay standing during the harvest. Never have, never will. You know it. I know it. And yer mama certainly knew it. Why do ya thnk she spent so much time givin’ you all that book learnin’? So you could hide ads under yer mattress while ya killed yourself in the cotton fields?”

Cullen surged to his feet. Dad made it to his just as fast.

Alice rapped her spoon on the table. “Sit down. Both of ya. I spent all day on this soup and if ya don’t eat every last bit, I’m gonna make nothin’ but mush for a month of Sundays.”

A bird preparing for nightfall landed on the windowsill, pecked at the curtains, then took off with a chirp. One of the dogs out front barked, the others responding in kind.

The tension eased from Dad’s shoulders. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Alice. We’ll be glad to sit down. Cullen, tuck yer napkin in.”

He sat, stuffed his napkin in his collar, then shoveled mouthful after mouthful of the soup into his mouth. The sooner he finished, the sooner he could escape to his room. He was reading The Farmer’s Encyclopedia and had just gotten to the section on tongueless plows.

He could feel Dad’s gaze but refused to acknowledge it. Swallowing was an effort, though. He cursed himself for even saving that ad. He didn’t know why he had. He certainly didn’t expect anyone to ever find out about it.

Heat began to rise up his neck. Had Dad told Luther about the ad? Did the whole county know about it?

Dad cleared his throat. “Luther said the folks runnin’ the fair turned away all but a third o’ the applicants. That to be chosen is not only a grt honor for ya but for all o’ Mecklenburg County.”

He kept his head down. “I’m not going.”

“I’m asking ya, son. Fer me.”

Dropping his spoon in the bowl, Cullen whipped up the envelope, yanked out the letter, and shook it open. He skimmed it, quickly finding what he was looking for, then held it up for his dad. “Did Luther mention exhibitors are responsible for the costs of transporting, handling, arranging, and removing their exhibits?”

“He did. He also said them fair folks weren’t chargin’ ya fer the space.”

“Even still, do you have any idea how much it will cost just to transport the equipment?”

Dad scratched his chin beneath his beard. “Seein’ as the railroad will let ya carry a hundred pounds fer free, I reckon it shouldn’t cost ya nothin’.”

“Nothing but the packing crates, the fare to and from, my room for six months, my meals for six months, a suit that fits, city boots, extraneous expenses, and who knows what else.”

Dad raised his brows. “Since ya seem to know so much about it, maybe ya oughta be tellin’ me how much it costs.”

“I have no idea.”

“Well, I do. Somewheres around three hundred dollars.”