Paper Roses (25 page)

“I need some advice,” he admitted, “and I hope you can provide it. I’ll pay whatever you ask.”

Though there was nothing remotely amusing about this conversation, Gunther thought he saw a glimmer of a smile in her eyes. “That won’t be necessary,” she assured him. “Advice is one of the few things we don’t charge for.”

The woman who held his future in her hands leaned forward, resting her elbows on the counter, as if she were eager to hear his question. Where should he start? He ought to have rehearsed this, but he hadn’t. Another mistake. Gunther swallowed, trying to compose his thoughts. “Eva needs a mother,” he said at last.

Nodding solemnly, Isabelle agreed. “Yes, she probably does.”

Gunther waited. Was that all she was going to say? Surely she’d offer advice, now that she knew his problem. But all she did was sit there, apparently waiting for his next pronouncement. “Miss Dobbs is your friend.”

Surely she knew what he wanted; surely she’d take the hint. Instead she simply said, “Yes, she is.” Gunther groaned in frustration. Weren’t women supposed to talk all the time? When Frieda had been alive, it had been difficult for him to articulate more than one sentence, or so it seemed. Miss Rousseau was not doing her part.

“Miss Dobbs would be a good mother for Eva.” There! He’d told her what he needed. Gunther waited for advice to begin pouring from Isabelle’s mouth.

“Oh!” Though her face flushed slightly, it appeared that the single syllable would be the extent of her reply.

“Do you agree?” Gunther tried to coax a reaction from her. He needed help, and this woman was his only source.

Removing her arms from the counter, Isabelle straightened her back. The action widened the distance between them, making Gunther sense her disapproval.

“It’s not for me to agree or disagree,” she said quietly. “It seems to me that that’s for you and Sarah to decide.”

“That’s the problem. I don’t know how to ask her. You know how it was done in the Old Country. My parents and Frieda’s decided we should marry and arranged everything. Why, Frieda and I barely saw each other before the wedding. It’s different here.”

“Yes, it is. American women expect to be courted.”

Gunther knew that. That was the reason he was here, baring his soul before this pretty young woman. “I’ll do anything to make Eva happy. The problem is, I don’t know what to do.” He knew how to grind corn and wheat and rye to make the best flours in the county. But women? They were an enigma.

Isabelle slid off her chair and came around the counter. “I’m not sure I can help you, because I’ve never been courted. My parents refused everyone who asked their permission. I think they frightened the others away.” Her words were soft, though there was no one to overhear them, and Gunther sensed she was reluctant to admit her lack of suitors. What was wrong with the French men of Ladreville? Had they no courage? He would not have been so easily discouraged. Though he wished he could reassure her, Gunther reminded himself of his mission.

“Please!” She had to know what he should do. There was no one else he could trust. “You’re Miss Dobbs’s friend. You must know what she’d like.”

Isabelle was silent for a moment, her pensive expression telling him she was trying to find a solution. “When Austin courted Sarah, he wrote letters. I know she liked them.”

Letters! “Why would I write letters? I can speak to her.” If he knew what to say, that is.

Nodding slowly, Isabelle acknowledged the truth of his protest. “Women like pretty words, but there must be something else.” She tilted her head to one side, considering. “I’ve heard of men picking flowers for their sweethearts, and sometimes there are gifts.”

At last she’d suggested something he could do. “A gift.

That’s a good idea. I gave Frieda a hog when we were betrothed.”

Though she tried to control it, Gunther saw Isabelle’s lips twitch. “You might want to start with something . . .” She paused, choosing the word. “Smaller.”

Gunther looked around the store. Surely there was something here that Miss Dobbs would like. He spotted a display in a glass-topped cabinet and pointed toward it. “Frieda favored lace collars.”

The amusement on Isabelle’s face was replaced by horror. “Oh no, Gunther.” She flushed before correcting herself. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Lehman.”

“I would be honored if you would call me by my given name.”

She hesitated, then nodded. “All right, Gunther. But you must not give Sarah any item of clothing. It would be most unseemly.”

He shook his head, trying to understand why a lace collar was less acceptable than a hog. “There are so many rules. It was easier in the Old Country.”

“But we’re not in the Old Country any longer.”

That was true. Gunther took a deep breath, considering everything Isabelle had said. It was true he would have to learn new things, but if Eva could do that, so could he. After all, she was the reason he was enduring this ordeal.

“Thank you, Miss Rousseau.” He now knew where to start. Words, flowers, trinkets. Life had certainly been easier in the Old World.

“I need your help, Wilhelm,” Gunther said as he entered his friend’s shop.

The blond carpenter looked up from the board he was planing. “You’ll have better luck if you remember my name’s William.”

“Sorry.” This was definitely Gunther’s day for mistakes. Soon after they’d arrived in Texas, Wilhelm Goetz had announced that he would henceforth be known by the American version of his name. “I wondered if we could trade services. I know you’ve got some corn you need ground.”

“Are you looking for a new table or a chest?”

“Neither, right now. I need some pretty words.”

William laid the plane on the bench and stared. “Pretty words? For what?”

There was no way around it. He’d have to tell his friend. At least he knew that William could keep a secret. “I need to convince a lady to marry me,” he said, lowering his voice. “Everyone in town knows you read those fancy poets. I figured you could teach me some of the verses.”

With two strides, William reached his side and clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re fixing to court a lady.” It was a statement, not a question. “Good for you. Who is she?”

Gunther shook his head.

“No name, no verses.”

Why did this have to be so difficult? Who’d have thought normally affable William would drive such a hard bargain? “You can’t tell anyone,” Gunther said before he whispered a name.

“What brings you here today?” the town’s barber asked the next morning when Gunther entered his shop. “It’s not Saturday.”

“I need a haircut and shave.” He settled into the chair.

“You goin’ somewhere?”

“Nope.”

The barber said nothing as he wrung out the hot towels, but as he laid one on Gunther’s face, he was grinning. “Who’s the lucky lady?”

Gunther flinched. “How’d you guess?”

“There’s only one reason a man gets himself cleaned up in the middle of the week. So, who is she?”

The shop was empty, save for him. Lowering his voice again, Gunther said, “You can’t tell anyone.”

Sarah dipped the rag into the pail and began to wash the chalkboard. Though it was a task she normally delegated to one of the older students, today she’d dismissed class early and insisted she could straighten the schoolroom. The truth was, she needed time to think.

The first day, she’d believed him. He’d said he had an errand in town, and as long as he was close by, he thought he’d visit the school. It wasn’t difficult to guess what the errand had been, for there was no mistaking the smell of fresh hair oil. As if that weren’t enough, a few errant snips of hair on his shoulder confirmed that Gunther had visited the barber. Sarah had welcomed him and had tried to enlist him in her campaign for a new school. Though his statement that Eva had needs besides the school had raised concerns, Sarah had tried to dismiss them.

But then, in the space of little more than a week, Gunther had come three more times. Once he’d been clutching a bunch of flowers, claiming the classroom would be prettier with them. Another time he’d quoted Keats and Shelley. That had surprised her, for she hadn’t realized he was interested in the romantic poets. Today she’d heard the sound of raised voices outside the school and had seen him apparently confronting David and Jean-Michel. Though she could not distinguish the words, she’d seen the two young men stalking away, their posture leaving no doubt of their anger. And then there was the note from Isabelle, inviting her to come for a cup of coffee. Something strange was going on, and Sarah feared she knew what it was.

“Come upstairs.” Isabelle gave Thea a quick hug, then nodded at her mother. “Maman will watch Thea. She baked brioches.”

“My favorite!” At least one thing was going well today. While Isabelle heated milk and coffee for
café au lait
, Sarah leaned back in the chair and tried to relax. She failed. “I don’t know what to do,” she told her friend. “I thought a separate school building was the answer, but every time I talk to the parents, they insist it’s not a good idea.”

Isabelle carried the two steaming pots to the table and began what Sarah considered the dangerous process of pouring coffee and milk simultaneously. “Perhaps it isn’t a good idea,” Isabelle said as she pushed the cup toward Sarah.

“I thought you were my friend.”

“I am.” Isabelle filled her own cup, then took the seat opposite Sarah. “I want what’s best for you and Thea.” She gestured toward the plate of rich pastries, urging Sarah to take one. “He’s a good man,” she said. “He’d make a fine husband and father to Thea.”

Unsure why the conversation had drifted toward Clay when they’d been discussing the school, Sarah considered her friend’s statements. “I’m not so sure of that. He still mourns his wife.”

“That’s only natural. He loved her very deeply. That doesn’t always happen with arranged marriages.”

“I wasn’t aware it was arranged.” Though she knew Clay had married the daughter of his mentor, Sarah hadn’t realized the marriage was anything other than voluntary.

“Most marriages in the Old Country were.”

“The Old Country?” What did that have to do with Clay and Patience?

“Why, yes.” Isabelle spoke slowly, as if she were explaining a concept to a not too bright child. “That’s where Gunther and Frieda were wed.”