Annie's Stories (29 page)

She smoothed a hand over the crumpled page and returned to the sofa. Kirsten looked over her shoulder.

“This is about Omah, Kirsten. He used what ability he had to remind the farmer, as the wise rabbit explained, that the land had a purpose beyond his own. The soil was there for him to grow his food and be nourished by it, but so it had been for others for hundreds of years. Everything they needed God provided. They just had to learn to use it.”

“
Ja.
I would like to hear more. Do you know some people say there is a deeper meaning in children’s stories? A moral to learn from. I have heard that about Aesop’s fables. It seems in your book . . .” She picked up Baum’s tale. “He said what that meaning is. The part you read to me,
ja
? Good defeats evil, and good is right here for us to have if we will.”

“I think you are right. My father used the soil, the body of the land of Erin, as a symbol of God’s provision. I see that now. Even the lowly field mouse understood. The rabbit told the story to his children so they would understand. But my father might have had something else in mind when he wrote the tales.”

“What is that, love?” Mrs. Hawkins entered carrying herbal sachets for Annie to put in the drawers.

She collected the wee scented pillows. “My father must have
known what I would need to hear someday. Or . . . God knew. He speaks to me in ways I never would have imagined, and now that I think back on things, I believe he has been speaking all along.”

“Marvelous. All we must do is listen.” She whispered in Annie’s ear. “Certainly God, through my brother, rescued you from that laundry, wouldn’t you say?”

Annie thought about the day Father Weldon had showed up.

Sister Anna Grace, a stern nun who frightened Annie yet had never struck her, beckoned her to the chapel when the other girls went to the dining hall.

When she entered, the doctor greeted her. “I hear you’d like to leave us,” he said, turning his lips into a frown.

Annie said nothing.

“You may go, Sister,” he said to the nun.

“I’ll wait, if you don’t mind,” she said, crossing her bulky arms in front of her.

He rolled his eyes and led Annie to the front pew.

The nun stood in the back.

“Kneel.”

Annie lowered her aching body to the rail.

He inched closer to her. “Be a good girl now.”

She squeezed her hands together and brought them to her lips. “Our Father, who art . . .”

“I did not bring you here to pray. Do you think I’m a priest?”

He pulled her hair.

She continued to pray aloud. Maybe God would hear her that way. “. . . in heaven, hallowed be . . .”

“Stop that. We know why you are here, little Miss Magdalene.” He put a hand around her head.

“. . . thy name . . .” She groaned as she felt him closer to her, felt the tweed of his trousers against her cheek.

A grunt came from the rear. “There!” Sister Anna Grace called out.

The doctor let go of her.

Annie kept her eyes closed and continued praying.

“Why, Dr. Stewart, I did not realize you were so devout as to come to chapel to pray with this young girl.”

Annie looked up. Angels? An army from heaven to her rescue?

Father Weldon.

“I’ve obtained permission to take you out of here, Annie. Shall we go now?”

She could barely feel her legs when she rose. The doctor scrambled out of the room like a water beetle.

“It took some time for me to discover where Neil O’Shannon had taken you. I suspected a laundry, but this one I was not aware of. I would have come sooner if I could have.”

Annie had been so angry with God, she had denied that he actually had rescued her.

Forgive my unbelie
f
!

“Annie?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. Hawkins. I was just remembering, and you are correct. While I was in the laundry, before God sent your brother to rescue me, I believed God was not there but rather was a light at the end of a tunnel that I could not see. All the while, if I had just reached out my hand, I would have found him right there beside me in that dark tunnel.”

The woman smiled. “Ah, so you see why remembering everything can help you find the good. Find God, in fact.”

Annie did see.

“And it seems to me you ought to be sharing those stories your father wrote you.” She pressed her hands together like an opera singer.

“Well, I cannot, not in a large way.”

“Oh, certainly you can. In that library you want to open.”

Annie told Kirsten what she’d had in mind. “But I can no longer afford to purchase a building. I thought I was to be a businesswoman.” She tried to shake the idea from her mind.

Kirsten pointed toward the stairs. “Why don’t you use the third floor?”

Mrs. Hawkins clapped her hands. “An excellent idea, Kirsten. We can all help.”

“All?”

“I’ve got the whole third floor of this house we could fix up for a temporary school for misplaced immigrant girls, until they get jobs and move out. The library could be set up there as well. What do you think, girls?”

“Oh, the extra housework,” Annie said. “I don’t know if this is the best idea.”

“I could help,” Kirsten said.

“Your brother?” Annie asked.

“He can find work. I know he can. And . . . since you all say you will have me . . .”

Mrs. Hawkins hugged her. “Of course, love. You are always welcome here.”

“And the girls who come,” Kirsten said. “While they are living here, they can do work,
ja
?”

“Perhaps we can add another housekeeper. You will be the director, Annie. You won’t have time to keep house for us.” The Hawk smiled at Annie and nodded as she waited for an answer.

Annie rubbed her temples with her fingertips. Perhaps this was the best she could hope for. It was a hard thing to let go of one’s dreams, but this plan seemed feasible enough.

The Hawk touched her shoulder. “And Mr. Adams, perhaps he could help. He enjoys reading, I believe.”

Annie sighed. “As nice as he has been, the truth is, he betrayed my trust. He took those stories without permission.”

“Did he print them?”

“He did not, but
 
—”

“And he apologized?”

“He did.”

“So no harm was done, was it?”

“Trust, Mrs. Hawkins. I have a difficult time with it.”

“Oh, I know.”

The woman folded linen napkins as they spoke, rubbing each crease meticulously as she seemed to consider each word. “Let me see. You were fully prepared to allow Davis Publishing to publish your stories. Then you found out that Stephen Adams and Mr. Davis had anticipated your approval, perhaps because Stephen understood your heart for people and the power of a story
 
—he knows you that well. And he prepared for but did not proceed with the printing. Because of that you decided to shut him out of your life.”

“I . . . uh . . . well.” Annie slumped down on the rocking chair.

The Hawk pointed a perfectly folded napkin at her. “Listen, love, when you find a special man, don’t let him go. When God sends a man into your life to bring you to a place of happiness, it’s best not to look the other way.”

“Like your Harold?”

“Absolutely. Thank the Lord he showed up. I had many wonderful years with my Harold.”

Annie smiled at her.

The Hawk stood and removed her apron. “Think about giving Stephen another chance, love.”

Kirsten spoke up. “Like Jonas has . . . a second chance.”

God’s wisdom presented itself in many forms, it seemed. Annie should start paying better attention.

42

S
TEPHEN LEFT THE POST OFFICE
feeling somewhat relieved. Not only would Jonas now be able to move on with his life, but Annie would be satisfied as well. Even so, there was another person on his mind. But first, he stopped in to see Mrs. Jacobs.

“A dozen sweet buns, Stephen? Are you sure so many?”

“I am. And I won’t pay you a penny less than the restaurant does for them.”

She tapped a hand to the top of her silver-streaked black hair and then bid him to follow her into her kitchen. The yeasty smell reminded him of his mother’s baking.

“I will make it a baker’s dozen then, just for you.”

He waited while she placed the round rolls into a box. “I will eat that extra one myself. How can I resist?”

The kitchen was tiny and poorly illuminated but clean and smelling so good he could almost taste the dough. She waved her hands toward a table pushed up against a window where, outside, a fire escape formed a metal Z shape. “You eat this.” She handed him a twisted confection. “
Rugelach.
You will like. I make these for Hanukkah but I practice early. Go on.” She flipped her fingers at him.

He bit into the sweet, flaky dough and savored the walnut, cinnamon, and raisin filling. “You treat me well, Mrs. Jacobs.
I’ve never tasted anything so wonderful.” The sugar and butter these must have required made them indulgent treats. “I will buy one.”

She shook her head. “Not these. Tomorrow you stop on your way to work and I will have the perfect one for you. For someone special?”

“Perhaps.” He licked his fingers.

When he arrived home, he knocked on Alan Davis’s door to bring him out from his office. A few moments later the man appeared, looking ragged.

“Crickets, Davis. You don’t look so good.”

“Down on my luck, is all. What do you need?”

“I brought you something.”

The man lifted his nose in the air. “Smells delightful.”

“Perhaps you can share these with your staff.”

Davis lifted the lid on the box. “Maybe, or maybe not.” He smiled. “What did I do to deserve such a gift?”

“Nothing.”

Davis shrugged. “True enough. Come in. I’ve got coffee.”

Stephen sat at Davis’s desk. “Look, Davis, I got to thinking . . .”

“Oh, just remembered.” Davis turned his attention to the coffeepot. “Got a bed for you.”

“A bed?”

“That’s right. I know you didn’t get your things back, and I’m truly sorry about that. My niece is moving upstate to join her sister and had to dispose of a few things. The bed’s in the hall upstairs.”

“Incredible. And you didn’t even know I would be bringing sweet rolls.”

Davis licked his fingers. He’d already sampled one.

“Well, what I was thinking about was that Barrows fellow.”

“Yeah, one of the paramount men in this business. I had
hoped I’d find a big book and be able to play ball. Maybe I will one day yet.”

“Yes. I mean he’s a British publisher.”

“He is. Lots of great authors have come out of the British Isles.”

Stephen leaned back in his chair. “True, and many have been published on both sides of the pond.”

“Hold on, Adams. You know the man said he would not allow me to publish the stories.”

“Not without an agreement.”

“What are you getting at?” Davis handed him a steaming cup.

“I wish I knew. There has to be a way. I’m looking to retain an attorney to help Miss Gallagher.”

“You? With what funds?”

Stephen leaned forward. “You are correct that I don’t own a stick of furniture. I’ve sold it all. And I don’t mind it a bit, although I’m surely grateful for the bed. And don’t worry. I’ll pay you back. I do have a job.”

“Not worried about that, Adams, although if things don’t pick up, I will have to raise the rent, like I said.”

“I’ll get by. If I can use the proceeds to get someone to help Annie, it will all be worth it.”

Davis chuckled. “Well, son, you’ve got it bad, struck by Cupid’s arrow.”

Later that day Stephen called for Annie at Hawkins House, explaining his plan to hire an attorney.

“You’ve done this for me?” Annie put her fingers over her mouth.

“Mr. Davis recommended someone.” He held up his hands in surrender. “I know you don’t want us interfering, but I hope you’ll realize the wisdom in getting sound advice on this matter.”

“I am astounded.”

“Shall we?” He held out his arm. “It’s not far, only a four-block walk, and I’ve told the man to expect us.”

Mrs. Hawkins gazed at them, patting her fingers together in front of her face.

“Well, all right.” Annie took his arm and stepped out the door. “Just to have questions answered. I’m not sure this matter needs to become a battle in the courts. All I want . . . Well, let me just say money is not of primary concern.”

That was why he’d fallen for Annie Gallagher. She was independent and confident but also considerate of what really mattered in life
 
—people, not money.

Stephen sat quietly by as Annie battered the poor man with questions.

She scooted to the edge of her chair as though she were preparing to rise. “In conclusion, are you saying, Mr. Dirksen, that I may be able to negotiate with Mr. Barrows for the legal right to publish my father’s stories?”

The man, obviously unsettled by a woman’s inquiry into the business, placed a closed fist on top of his polished desk. “Miss Gallagher, I said no such thing. I proposed that I, as your attorney, may be able to negotiate for the rights to publish your father’s stories. It’s my job. What your . . . your friend there has hired me to do.”

She turned and smiled at Stephen. “Aye, and I am grateful. So much so that I feel compelled to treat his generosity with extreme care. I plan to do the negotiating on my own and employ you to draw up the appropriate contract or whatever legal papers are necessary.”

The man grunted. “As you wish.”

She stood and Stephen followed.

“Therefore, I trust you will refund some of the cost of your services, Mr. Dirksen?”

The man looked none too happy. “Indeed.” He accepted her outstretched hand as they said good-bye.

The next morning Stephen at last felt like whistling “The Stone outside Dan Murphy’s Door” as he approached Hawkins House with a mail delivery. He did not have to be loud to get attention, however. The door swung open to meet him. Jonas Wagner stepped out on the stoop.

“Ah, Mr. Postman. How can I ever thank you?”

Stephen stepped up to the man he had once found imposing. “No need at all. What are your plans, Mr. Wagner?”

“I found work building a railroad. I leave today. Mrs. Hawkins arranged a room for me nearby last night, and she invited me to come for breakfast this morning. I was just about to go hail a carriage, and when I opened the door, there you were.”

“Excellent. I wish you God’s blessing and a safe journey.”

“
Danke.
I will tell the housekeeper, Annie, you have brought the mail.”

“Thank you.” Stephen began whistling as he waited, Mrs. Jacobs’s
rugelach
resting in his pocket.

Annie appeared and waved him inside. “Stay for tea, won’t you?”

“Certainly. Thank you.” She did not seem to be miffed any longer.

When she returned, the gold box lay on the tea tray.

“I . . . I brought you something from my neighbor.”

“Oh?” The copper in her hair seemed to reflect in her eyes.

“You do like her sweets, don’t you, Miss Gallagher?”

She perched on the edge of Mrs. Hawkins’s chair. “You have found my weakness, Mr. Adams.” When she pulled the twist from the brown paper sack, her expression told him he’d done
well. She set it down on a small white china plate and then sprang to her feet when the doorbell chimed.

Stephen stood as Mr. Barrows entered the parlor. Annie was called away after she saw him in, so the two men sat in awkward silence. Stephen had hoped for this opportunity, but now that he had it, he struggled to form his thoughts into words.

“Mr. Barrows, you represent a large British publisher; is that correct?”

“It is.” He crossed his legs at the knees. “I am here to speak with Miss Gallagher about her father’s estate.”

“Estate? There is one?”

The man raised his graying brows.

“I don’t mean to . . . I would never presume to invade Miss Gallagher’s privacy; it’s just that she supposed . . . well, she thought she had no inheritance save for those stories.”

“I see.”

He had to plunge in. Annie would return shortly, and at Hawkins House you never knew how many people might become part of your conversation at any moment. “Mr. Barrows, might I ask, out of consideration for my landlord and Davis Publishing, if you have considered granting the rights to publish those children’s stories to an American publisher?”

“Certainly not.”

“Why?”

“First of all, Mr. . . .”

“Adams. Stephen Adams.”

“Mr. Adams, I guard carefully Luther Redmond’s reputation among readers. I would not publish those tales merely because they would make a lot of money.”

“Oh? Might there be another reason to prompt you, Mr. Barrows?”

“Yes. Miss Gallagher. She speaks on behalf of her father now.”

“If she were amenable to a meeting at Davis Publishing, would you come, today perhaps?”

“I am at Miss Gallagher’s disposal.”

“I don’t think she realizes that.”

Annie returned with Mrs. Hawkins on her heels.

“Good day, gentlemen.” Mrs. Hawkins turned to the man from Dublin. “Mr. Barrows, what can we do for you?”

“I would like to speak to Miss Gallagher. We have business concerning her father’s estate.”

“She is not responsible for that tale being published in that magazine. She didn’t know it was forbidden. She did not even know her father wrote under a pen name. Surely you cannot blame
 
—”

“No, madam.” He turned to Annie, who had begun serving tea. “Miss Gallagher, Mr. Adams has suggested a meeting at Davis Publishing. Is this something that interests you? Perhaps an office would be the best place to discuss this matter.” He gave Mrs. Hawkins a quick glance.

“I would be interested,” Annie said, handing the man a cup of tea.

He grabbed the pastry twist and popped it into his mouth. Stephen and Annie exchanged surprised looks. Stephen mouthed the word
sorry
, and she smiled.

Annie brought her employer a cup. “Can you spare me an hour from my duties, Mrs. Hawkins?”

“Of course. Would you like me to come, love?”

“I can handle this.”

Stephen knew she could.

When they arrived at Davis’s office, Stephen held the door for Annie.

She lowered her voice. “Do you think we might publish the stories still?”

“We might,” he whispered into her hair. “And I will not take a penny.”

After some back-and-forth, during which Annie referenced some letters her father had received from readers, she stood confidently to address them.

“My father’s stories must be handled with great care and consideration for the legacy he has left behind. For that reason, Mr. Barrows, I must insist Davis Publishing produce them, and as soon as possible. This is a neighborhood business, small but efficient. I have visited the premises, and I have come to realize . . .” She looked at Stephen. “Just recently I’ve learned I can trust them. As you have already noted, you do not hold that kind of confidence in the publishers you have been in contact with.”

The man stood. “Very well, Miss Gallagher.”

“And I would like the rights . . . That is to say . . .” She glanced at Stephen, and he nodded. “I would like to retain the American copyright to my father’s work.”

Mr. Barrows licked a finger sticky with pastry sugar from the leftover buns Davis had served him. “As it should be. I never meant to imply that you, as heir, do not have that right. I have just felt obliged to ensure that Mr. Gallagher’s bequest is protected. I do hope you understand that I felt it necessary to protect your father’s interest until I discerned whether his heir was ready to assume his business dealings. And you appear to be more than capable, Miss Gallagher.”

Annie blushed.

“I will have the contracts written up.” The Dubliner pulled something from his pocket. “With that settled, I have funds to deposit into your bank account.” He gave her a small notebook.

When she looked inside, she brought a hand to her lips. “My father had this much money?”

“Indeed he did, but, Miss Gallagher, I feel it is my responsibility to inform you that your father did not enjoy having wealth. He said money never brought him what he truly wanted . . . your mother.”

Tears dripped down Annie’s face. Stephen handed her his handkerchief.

“And there is this.” He handed Annie a paper. “The explanation of your father’s seal. I have no need of it now, but I thought you might want it.”