The Men of Pride County: The Pretender (15 page)

Dodge stood. “Let’s go look at some storefront property, shall we?”

The first place they went all agreed was unsuitable: too small, no room for expansion. The second was next to the livery on the far end of town: too far from the flow of commerce and too close to the smell of manure. The third was a soon-to-be-abandoned building originally constructed with the traditional two-storied square front of a mercantile. Deacon remembered the storekeeper, a Jewish immigrant named Rosen. He’d begun his trade from a humble peddler’s pack, traversing the muddy roads at first on foot, then in a one-horse wagon to reach potential customers. Deacon recalled the excitement of gathering around as the strange little man with his funny accent who unlaced the awning-striped cover of his pack, opening a tantalizing world to them with a flourish. Out came the
rush of scents: soaps, leather goods, cheap perfume, sachets and spices. How they looked forward to his visits until the day he’d earned enough to put his sway-backed horse out to pasture with the opening of his own store.

When in town as a boy, Deacon headed straight for the square box front, with its narrow front porch, rusting sign and pungent smells reminiscent of childhood. He’d lost himself amongst the cluttered countertops, awed by the stacks of merchandise and lured by the tall jars filled with striped candy. He’d bought his first pair of long pants from Rosen’s, had posted his first letter there. He’d stood for long minutes reading the notices of pending auctions and camp meetings, funeral handbills, and the intriguing “Dead or Alive” posters. Now among that bristle of nails and tack heads studding the wood siding, a “For Sale” sign hung proclaiming hard times. Imagining the large room emptied of all but dust and memories left an odd ache inside him. When had the old man decided to close his doors?

And if Rosen had failed in business, what would keep them from doing the same?

The heavy double doors were still shut and locked, the shutters bolted behind vertical bars. Dodge withdrew a massive key and opened the store for their inspection.

It was just as Deacon remembered, with the post office off to the right behind its homemade bars, only there was no postmaster now. Beyond stretched the heavy sectional counter
locally fashioned from heart-pine paneling that was built to last for centuries. It housed tilt-out bins for flour, rice, and seeds and rows of heavy drawers with sturdy pulls, and across the aisle taking up the front half of the store were glass showcases displaying fancy merchandise. Only the cases stood nearly bare.

The back half of the store was for the storage of barrels and dry goods. It, too, was sadly undersupplied. The center aisle which should have been crowded with the harbingers of spring: plows, horse collars and onion starts, were all but vacant. Even the aromas Deacon recalled so fondly; those heady smells of apples, cheeses, tobacco, salt mackerel, axle grease, soap and kerosene, were muted into an indistinguishable blend.

“This is wonderful,” Garnet commented, unaware in her enthusiasm of the history she overlooked. “What’s off to the side?”

“Feed rooms,” Deacon murmured, remembering how his father and Rosen would slip back into them to whisper of crop predictions and chuckle over ribald jokes not meant for delicate ears.

“And upstairs?”

Dodge rifled through an untidy stack of overalls, then conscientiously straightened them. “It used to house meetings of the Masonic lodges, but it’s vacant now. You could let the space out to any number of endeavors.”

“What happened to Mr. Rosen?”

“Who?” Garnet gave Deacon a puzzled glance.

“Herschel Rosen. He started this store from the goods in his peddler’s wagon when I was just a boy. What happened to him? Did he fall ill?”

“More like he fell prey to overextended credit,” Dodge said. He wouldn’t give the particulars to betray client privilege.

“Probably didn’t have Mrs. Prior’s deep pockets.”

Dodge ignored the wry observation. “The bank took his mortgage last month and he’s been trying to move the remaining inventory to cover some of his losses. I’m sure he’d let you buy it up for next to nothing.”

Garnet wound up and down the aisles, trailing her fingertips along the dusty display cases. Calculating possible profits with that mathematical mind of hers, Deacon surmised, from the concentration furrowing her brow.

“How much to get us in business, Mr. Dodge, building, back taxes, stock, and all?”

Dodge nodded toward the door. “C’mon back to the bank and I’ll run some figures by you. Deacon, you coming?”

“I think I’ll poke around here a bit longer.”

He caught the heavy key Dodge tossed him.

“Lock up when you’re done.”

In the ensuing silence, Deacon could almost hear the past return in echoed whispers from where yarn spinners gathered around the huge pot-bellied stove, whittling and spitting and making up bigger and more fantastic tales. He
half-expected to see Rosen standing behind the long counter. Deacon could picture him clearly trimming off a nickel’s worth of cheese with a snick of the mechanical cutter, then dipping into the twenty-four-pound box for a handful measure of crackers as customers filled bowls from a selection of cove oysters, sardines, and link sausages, disguising the taste of cottonseed oil with liberal dashes of pepper sauce, catsup, and vinegar. The cutter was now quiet, the cracked bowls sitting in forgotten stacks.

And Deacon was struck anew by how easily a man’s dream died.

The two boys left Sadie’s boardinghouse comparing scratches left by needlelike claws.

“I like that little gray one. How ‘bout you, Willy? You think your mama will let you get one, too?”

William sucked at the back of his hand before answering. “I like the black one with all the toes.” And he was hoping.

“Think of all them claws!”

William just smiled, then said, “We had best be getting back.”

Christien caught at his sleeve. His tone lowered. “Hey, you want to see a dead squirrel?”

His childish curiosity warring with a strong sense of dread, William balked. “I don’t know. I’m supposed to go right back. My mama worries.”

“You chicken? Gotta do everything your mama tells you?”

The mocking challenge brought a prideful bristling. “Don’t you?”

“Hell, no.”

William’s jaw dropped. “You swore!”

Christien just grinned. “Learned me all sorts a words from my uncle’s friends.” His voice became cajoling. “C’mon, William. Don’t be a sissy-boy.”

William hesitated, then said, “Well, maybe just a peek.”

Wanting the companionship more than the morbid satisfaction of seeing his first really dead thing, William galloped after the other boy, following him to the end of the main street, then toward a large warehouse building. There, caution returned.

“Christien, what is this place? Are we supposed to be here?”

A flash of his charming grin. “Why, sure. It’s my granddaddy’s place.”

“What’s that smell?”

“They’re making liquor.” He leaned forward to intimate, “It tastes worse than it smells.”

Shocked that his new friend not only knew and used bad words but had sampled the forbidden drink as well, William regarded him with a mix of respect and reluctance. Maybe his mother wouldn’t want him to have a friend like this. But he’d met no other boys his age and he was desperately lonely.

“Where’s the squirrel?”

With a victorious smile, Christien led the way
around to a rear loading dock. Sure enough, squished flat by a delivery wagon was the intriguing carcass. Stomach knotting up, William bent to get a closer look and was assaulted by a smell worse than anything he could have imagined. He turned just in time to chuck up his breakfast, then was mortified. Surely the other boy would ridicule him. But Christien observed him with a strange smile of sympathy and gratification.

“Pretty stinky, huh?”

William gave a weak nod.

Christien glanced about to make sure no one was looking, then fixed a bright green-eyed stare upon his friend. “What say we have some fun?”

Alerted by the gleam of mischief, William again held back. “I don’t know. It’s getting kinda late.”

Scowling, Christien hissed, “You’re no better’n a baby. Go on and run back to your mama.”

Provoked by the taunt, William squared his shoulders. “I’m no baby.”

The sly look returned. “Then you keep a lookout.”

“What’re you gonna do?” Both alarmed and fascinated by the dark turnings of Christien’s mind, William began casting about for any sign of adults. Then he shuddered as Christien picked up the dead animal by the tail and slipped inside the building. Caught up in the skulduggery, William followed. He drew up in horror as Christien opened one of the big smelly
vats and dropped the squirrel inside. It gave a rewarding splash.

“What’d you do that for?” William squeaked.

“For fun. Why else?”

Concerned now with consequence, William said, “Your daddy’s gonna beat you but good when he finds out what you done.”

“You mean what
we
done.”

The emphasis wasn’t lost on William.

Christien gave a cocky smile as he led the way back outside. “Besides, my daddy don’t like my granddad anyways. And he ain’t really my daddy. My daddy died a hero in the war.”

Taking a deep breath to flush the strong fermenting stench and fear from his system, William was impressed. “A hero? Really?”

“Yep. How ‘bout your daddy? He in the war?”

Hanging his head slightly, William mumbled, “Nope. My daddy’s from England.”

Christien’s opinion definitely dropped by the way he said one word: “Oh.”

Feeling like an outsider again, William shuffled back toward the bank, his heart heavy. After a moment, Christien trotted up beside him, his animation returned.

“Hey, wanna see a two-headed turtle?”

William brightened. “You bet!”

“Ain’t you afraid of what your mama will say?”

“Hell, no.”

Grinning, Christien gripped his elbow. “C’mon, then.”

Chapter 11

A
fter exacting Dodge’s promise that he’d watch out for the boys upon their return, Garnet led a reluctant Deacon to the boardinghouse restaurant to meet with Tyler Fairfax. Tyler’s flattery was a balm after Deacon’s acidic disapproval. He might have been a rogue but he was a charming one with his dazzling green eyes, sly smile and swarthy Creole coloring.

“Why, Mrs. Prior, you look lovely. How did your business venture go? Successfully, I trust?”

“I’ve decided to buy Rosen’s Mercantile. Mr. Sinclair will run it for me.”

Tyler grinned at the stoic aristocrat. “Clerking? An admirable profession. I understand that nine out of ten planters’ sons are going into that business, making it a true gentleman’s trade.”

“More respectable than some things I could name.”

Tyler’s grin never faltered in recognition of that slur. He turned back to Garnet. “Is your fine husband coming into town to sign papers,
then? I should like the chance to renew our acquaintance.”

“Monty’s given me full authority to handle our business pursuits while he attends his own interests.”

“And what might those be?”

“He enjoys sketching and dabbling in politics.”

Tyler’s eyes glittered like fresh-cut emeralds. “Really? How fortunate that I know of some very influential fellows in the political arena. Shall I make the necessary introductions?”

Noting Deacon’s tension, Garnet graced Tyler with a nod. “That would be kind of you, Mr. Fairfax.”

“Tyler, please. I like to think that we will become friends as well as associates.”

Feeling the chill of Deacon’s stare, Garnet smiled. “I would like that, too. Shall we discuss pricing for this coming year’s crop?”

“Mixing business with pleasure has never been more rewarding.” Tyler lifted his coffee cup in a salute to Garnet before sliding a glance in Deacon’s direction.

And that look was pure venom.

If the Priors were aware of the impropriety of inviting their hired help to dine with them, they were equally ignorant of the strange looks from both staff and the Sinclairs as mother and son sat down at the big table. The extravagance of the meal emphasized the leanness of the past months as course after course was delivered and
generously served. Garnet spent her time clucking over her son, cutting his portions and encouraging him to eat. Monty played the host, his interest fixed upon Hannah, whose beauty may have faded slightly with the years but returned with a glow at the Englishman’s flattery. He was plying her for information on her formal gardens. Deacon sat stiff and silent, his plate mostly untouched, his thoughts his own.

“Mama, can I have a kitty?”

Used to the surprises that came with motherhood, she answered with a smile and a gentle cautioning. “Don’t you think Boone would get jealous?” She could imagine the havoc the big dog and one small kitten could wreak upon the hardwood floor and delicate furnishings in the Manor. Seeing the child’s lip begin to quiver in distress, she scrambled for a solution. “I suppose we could keep it at the store. Every store needs a cat. How would that be?”

“At the store? And I could go play with him there?”

“As long as you didn’t bother Mr. Sinclair.”

“I wouldn’t be no bother. Please say yes.”

“I guess it would be up to Mr. Sinclair.” She deferred to Deacon to see how he would handle the matter. The remote aristocrat had little more success in holding firm against one little boy than she herself did.

“If you promise to feed and clean up after it.”

William beamed.

“It’s a big responsibility,” Deacon warned in
all seriousness. “One you should think about carefully.”

“I have. I will.”

“Have you? Have you thought about those days when you’d rather be playing or those days when you just don’t want to, and what happens when the cute little creature becomes a big cat and is not nearly as much fun? You’ve thought about those things and you still say yes? A man doesn’t commit to what he doesn’t mean to carry through.”

Garnet frowned. For heaven’s sakes, it was just a pet! She didn’t understand the weight Deacon put upon such an insignificant thing until William pondered somberly, then said, “I wouldn’t want to do that, sir. Maybe you could help me a little.”