Twice a Bride (27 page)

“There’s not a thing wrong with this dress, Susanna.” Helen held up a lovely taffeta gown with a wasp waist. “You would look exquisite in it.”

“You know it isn’t right for me.”

Helen huffed. “Because it isn’t purple?”

“Exactly. Purple is the color of royalty, and I need to feel like a princess when I see Trenton.”

Helen dropped the hanger on the clothing rack. Her green eyes narrowed. “So, do I have this right? You’re not going to Cripple Creek to see Trenton unless you can find a purple dress?”

“I will find a purple dress. I will see Trenton.” Susanna continued her search at another rack. “If shopping is too much work for you, you can go back to your brother’s and leave me to find the correct dress without distraction.”

“Pardon me, ladies.” A full-faced woman shuffled toward them. “I couldn’t help but overhear you.” She smiled at Susanna, revealing a thin scar at her eyebrow. “Did you say you’re looking for a purple dress?”

“I am. Not too frilly but charming.”

“I see. To charm a special young man?”

“Yes.” Pay no mind that Trenton Van Der Veer was seventeen years her senior and hardly considered a young man.

The attendant’s smile widened. “You’re in luck, young lady. I received a shipment from Chicago just this morning. It’s still in the back room, but I remember seeing a very handsome purple dress.”

“I’d love to see it.” Susanna crossed her fingers behind her back and watched the woman shuffle past a curtain.

Quickly returning with a satin treasure draped over her arms, the curvy woman stopped directly in front of Susanna and studied her from hat to shoe. “The dress may need a nip or tuck here or there, but no man will be able to resist you in this dress, dear.”

“Perfect!” Soon Susanna would have Trenton nibbling humble pie from her hand. This time, she wouldn’t do anything stupid to ruin her chances of wearing the new purple dress to charm the stage managers in New York.

That evening, Willow knelt on a rag rug with a wide paintbrush in her hand. The four fresh canvases Trenton had sent last Wednesday lay on old newspapers on the pine floor in her bedchamber. Before she could use them, she needed to undercoat them to avoid any cracks. She dipped the brush into pure white paint and coated the third canvas.

Everyone else in the house had no doubt drifted off to slumber hours ago. Even Cherise was quiet tonight. Willow’s mind, however, refused to give way to such a frivolous activity. Not when the day—the past week, actually—had given her so much to think about.

A vase of cheery sunflowers sat on a round table beside the rocker. When Mr. Baxter brought them to her at the studio as a thank-you gift for her kindness, Trenton treated him as a valued guest, not unwanted riffraff. He’d even engaged in chitchat with Mr. Baxter, calling both the flowers and her lovely. Her face warmed in remembrance.

She’d thought of Trenton Van Der Veer only as her employer until they sat on the bench in front of the post office and talked about Mr. Flinn’s prejudice against them. She’d even teased him some about his apology, and he’d bought her a box of pecan fudge. Not at all what she’d considered customary behavior for business associates.

Setting the brush on the palette, she glanced at the portrait she’d propped in the rocking chair—the likeness of a vibrant twenty-year-old man with a sturdy chin and warm sienna-brown eyes. In some ways, it seemed she’d painted Sam’s image yesterday. But a lifetime had passed. Six years ago, she’d set up her sketch pad and easel at the shore of the San Joaquin River. After they’d enjoyed a picnic lunch, Sam posed for her. She’d presented the portrait to him as a wedding gift.

She still missed him terribly, and she couldn’t think of anything she wouldn’t give to spend one more day with him, to hear his voice again.

“Oh, Sam.” Tears stung her eyes. “I never expected death to part us so soon. Why did you have to go and leave me alone?” She leaned away from the drying canvases.

When she’d finally emerged from the fog of melancholia and been released from the asylum, she was set on reconciling with her family and building a new life. Finding a job. Spending time with her brother and getting to know her new sister-in-law. She’d done all of those things and found pleasure in them. God had even provided her with work that fulfilled her dream of being a painter. She enjoyed Miss Hattie’s company, and her room was comfortable, but a longing for something more niggled at her.

At one time, she’d wanted—expected—a home of her own. A family of her own.

“What am I to do?”

Talking to the painted image of a dead man wasn’t normal. Was it?

Sam couldn’t help her now. He wasn’t hers to hold. Her new life without him and without her father was hers to live. She needed to decide what she wanted.

Right now it was easier to say what she didn’t want. She didn’t want to be alone.

Sam would always hold a special place in her heart, but she refused to let memories and unfulfilled dreams of their life together anchor her to the past.

Tasting salty tears on her lips, she lifted the portrait and kissed Sam’s canvas mouth. She turned the canvas and set it back in the chair, facing away. “Good-bye, Sam.”

Breathing a prayer for strength, she dipped the paintbrush in the white paint.

She was like these canvases. The Lord had applied a thick base coat to her, to prepare her according to His purpose. Only God knew what she’d say hello to, but she surrendered herself for that something more.

H
attie stood in front of her wardrobe, looking through her clothing choices. None of which seemed suitable this morning. Her navy blue dress was too plain. Her red dress, too flashy. Her white shirtwaist with a skirt seemed too stuffy. She hadn’t spent this much time selecting an outfit since the last time George had taken her out for supper at Maggie’s Third Street Café, nearly eleven years ago.

Sighing, she closed her eyes and reached into the wardrobe. The first outfit she touched she pulled off its hook. Opening one eye, she peeked at her choice. Thankfully, she’d chosen her blue calico dress. Not too bold, but not too sedate either. She smiled, remembering that Vivian told her the print made the blue in her blue-gray eyes shine.

After Hattie had dressed and laced her brown boots, she pinned on a navy blue hat, then wrapped a matching wool shawl over her shoulders and took one last look at herself. The mirror had decided to be kind to her today. She glanced at the tin of red talcum on her dressing table. The rouge may have helped too.

Her chance to shop for clothes with an eight-year-old girl came only once in … forty-six years, so far. She smoothed the scalloped collar at her neck one more time.

“Miss Hattie?” Cherise’s voice wafted to the second floor.

Oh, dear, she’d kept them waiting. “
Venez
. Coming.” Hattie plucked her handbag from the round table and rushed to the door, stopping short to take inventory.

Boots, check.

Dress, check.

Hat, check.

Handbag, check.

It seemed like a silly exercise, but lately she hadn’t been thinking clearly. And the distractions had taken hold the same day Harlan Sinclair arrived in town.

Hattie stepped onto the landing and looked toward the bottom of the staircase. Harlan stood beside Cherise, his arm draped on the little girl’s shoulder, looking up at Hattie. He smiled, and her knees weakened. A coincidence? Or was it just another of the mysterious effects this man seemed to have on her?

She rested her hand on the polished pine railing and, as if she were sixteen and he’d come to escort her to a cotillion, she took measured steps toward him.

As she approached the last few steps, Harlan’s eyes widened and a boyish grin reached his silver temples. He held his hand out to her. A dapper gentleman, Mr. Harlan Sinclair.

Shifting her weight to better support her weak knees, Hattie smiled and placed her hand in his as she took the last step. Strong but gentle hands. “Thank you, kind sir.”

Harlan dipped his chin. “My pleasure, my lady.”

“You are beauty, Miss Hattie,” said Cherise.

Harlan looked into her eyes. “Truer words can’t be spoken.”

Heat rushed up her neck, and she stifled the nervous giggle in her throat. “Thank you.”

Harlan looked at their connected hands and let go.

Feeling a sudden chill, Hattie turned her attention to Cherise and cupped the girl’s soft cheek. “Thank you, dear. You are beauty too.”

“I get a pretty dress?”

“We’ll do our best,” Harlan said. “Won’t we, Miss Hattie?”

We
. Hattie swallowed those same cotillion butterflies gathering in her throat and nodded.

“Your buggy awaits you.” Harlan opened the front door. While she’d dithered over which dress to wear, Harlan had gone to the livery and brought her horse and buggy to the house. She could get used to this.

Cherise slipped her hand into Hattie’s, and Hattie practically floated down the porch steps. In the front seat beside Mr. Sinclair, Hattie couldn’t help but think Harlan and George would’ve gotten along well.

Harlan gave the reins a gentle snap. The mare lunged forward, and they were on their way to town for a day of shopping fun.

Hattie glanced back at Cherise. The child’s smile melted her heart. She could get used to this too. But she wasn’t a schoolgirl, and Harlan Sinclair clearly had enough women in his life—four daughters, Cherise, and now
three
granddaughters. Nell had been right about Vivian having twins. Thankfully, Vivian and both her tiny new daughters were faring well.

Hattie looked up at their grandfather. “Harlan, do twins run in your family?”

“My mother was a twin, but unlike Veronica and Victoria, her twin was a brother.” He looked at her. “You and your husband never had children?”

A sweet little face came to her in a memory. “George and I had a daughter, Katie Louise.” Hattie moistened her lips. “She died at eight months old.”

His laugh lines deepened into a frown. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. I awoke one night and the room was too quiet. I rushed to her cradle, but I was too late. She was already in God’s arms.”

“No wonder you are so dear to my daughters.” His blue eyes shimmered. Were the tears for her? “You’re an amazing woman, Hattie Adams.” He was still speaking when he returned his attention to the road.

A rather intimate conversation to have in an open buggy bumping down Fourth Avenue, stopping and starting at each crowded intersection. But Harlan was easy to talk to.

“Can we see the babies today?” Cherise asked.

He glanced back at Cherise. “After our lunch, if Miss Hattie has the time.”

Hattie smiled. “I’d like that.”

All the time in the world didn’t feel like it would be enough.

Thirty minutes later, Hattie was happily squeezed into a fitting room with Cherise. The little girl squirmed as Hattie fastened the buttons on the first of five dresses they’d found for her to try on.

“Miss Hattie?” Cherise looked up, her dark eyes shining.
“Je t’aime.”

Hattie’s fingers stilled and tears clogged her throat. “I love you too, dear.”

“And Monsieur Sinclair?”

“He loves you too.” His actions toward the child clearly told her so.

“You love him?”

Hattie gulped air and coughed. “He is a very nice man.”

“You laugh with him.”

“I do.” Hearing those two words come from her mouth warmed her face.

“You do love him?”

“I’m very fond of Mr. Sinclair. Yes.” Why wouldn’t she love him? After all, they were practically family.

Because of his daughters.