Twice a Bride (3 page)

“Thank you.” The two words jerked out as one.

“You’re welcome.” Not seeming at all put off by his stammering, she returned her fan to her reticule and pulled out the balance she owed.

After writing out a receipt, he slid the print into a crisp manila envelope, hoping the mine owner had the kind of influence that would bring him business.

She held the photograph as if it were a fragile baby. “Do you know what else would help to make your business boom, Mr. Van Der Veer?”

An articulate spokesman wouldn’t hurt.

“Painted portraits are all the talk now, you know. You need to hire someone who can paint portraits from your photographs. The time saved from a portrait sitting would be a wonderful selling point.”

He rubbed his jaw. He’d read all about photographic portraiture in
Peterson’s National Magazine
but hadn’t given it any thought.

“Mark my words, Mr. Van Der Veer. You hire someone who can paint mantel portraits from your prints, and your quiet little business will boom.”

“I’ll g-give it some thought, Mrs. Gortner, and let you know wh-what I decide.”

Trenton opened the door for her, then looked at the clock above the door. He had a sitting in thirty minutes. Inside the studio, he set up his tripod six feet from the Greek column he used as a stationary elbow rest.

The more he thought about Mrs. Gortner’s suggestion—almost a demand, really—the more he liked the idea of partnering with someone who could paint portraits from his photographs. It’d be all the better if the artist could also colorize existing prints. That, too, was a popular service in the bigger cities. Two months in business may be too short a time to be considering expansion, but if he could find the right man for the job, they’d both benefit.

While waiting for his two o’clock appointment, he made a mental list of the artists he’d met. Jorgensen and McGregor in New York, and several in Chicago and Kansas City. It was doubtful he could lure any of them to Cripple Creek. From his darkroom, he pulled out the plates for this sitting, then returned to the studio and inserted the first plate into the back of the wooden box on the tripod.

It’d be better to solicit help from someone local, anyway. Someone with connections in the district could help stir interest in the Photography Studio. His friend Jesse had been in Cripple Creek for several years and was certainly doing his part to help spread the word, but as much as Trenton appreciated his friend’s enthusiasm, a blacksmith and livery owner’s sphere of influence in the arts was admittedly limited.

He’d write out an advertisement for the
Cripple Creek Times
and deliver it to the newspaper this afternoon. He might even pen a letter to Susanna while he was at it.

When the studio met his satisfaction for the next client, Trenton pulled a sheet of scrap paper and a fountain pen from the top drawer of his desk. He needed just a short advertisement, direct enough that he wouldn’t waste his time with anyone who wasn’t qualified for the job.

Painter Wanted: A skilled portrait painter to work with photographer.

Send letter of application and a sample of your painting to The

Photography Studio at North First Street.

He returned the pen to its cradle in the desk and greeted Mr. and Mrs. Updike as they arrived for their sitting.

The rope of bells on the door jangled, and Susanna looked up from the tray of chocolate-dipped strawberries.

Helen bounced into the confectionary with a newspaper tucked under her arm. Her pointy nose sniffed the air. “Oh, I do love the smell of warm chocolate.” She glanced at the strawberries, only a slightly brighter red than her braid, then jabbed a boney finger toward the door behind the counter.

“My father went to the bank,” Susanna said in answer to Helen’s silent question. “But you still can’t have one.”

“We’ll see about that.” Helen studied her the way one would a butterfly specimen. “Have you been sour all day, or did you save it all for me?”

Sighing, Susanna returned the last strawberry to the tray and wiped her hands on her apron. “You do this every day, week after week.
Then
tell me how you feel about sticky, gooey candy and the people who rot their teeth eating it.”

Helen’s tongue darted out. “You didn’t seem to mind it so much when Trenton fed you the chocolate-coated strawberries.”

Susanna’s stomach knotted. “You have a lot of nerve mentioning him.”

Helen planted a hand on her hip. “It wasn’t my fault that downhearted man left you.”

“You were there!”

“And so were you.” Helen waved the newspaper. “I thought this might help you feel better. But thanks to your foul temper, I can see I’d be wasting my time.”

Susanna slid the candy tray into the oak icebox against the back wall. “How is a Podunkville rag going to help?” If it couldn’t take her out of this place, it wouldn’t make her feel even one iota better.

Helen raised the rolled paper, holding it like a summer fan just below her sparkling green eyes. “It’s not the
Scandia Journal
, dearie.”

“So you dropped coin for the
Topeka Capitol-Journal
.” Susanna rearranged the tray so the icebox door would close. “A clear waste of your money. My father brings the
Topeka Journal
home from the smoking club.”

“Once again you’ve underestimated me.” Helen pressed the newspaper to her chest. “Do you consider Denver Podunk?”

“Well, it’s not New York. Or even San Francisco. But it is out West, away from Kansas.” Susanna tossed her apron into a basket under the counter. “How did you get hold of a Denver newspaper?”

“The
Denver Post
, no less.” Helen held the newspaper out to her as if it were a meaty bone. When Susanna reached for it, Helen took a giant step backward.

Susanna crossed her arms.

Helen cackled. “Can’t blame a girl for trying to have a little fun around here.”

“Why should I care about the
Denver Post
?”

“My brother Harold lives in Denver, and he’s been trying to talk my father into moving us all out there. He sent the paper, thinking all the talk about mines and mills would entice him.”

Susanna took the newspaper from her and spread it out on the counter.

“Page five, right side.”

She flipped pages. “I’m in no mood for chasing rabbits, Helen.” Page five. “Can’t you just tell me what you found so fascin—”

The headline in the upper right-hand corner of the page froze the word in her throat. “Photographer of the rich and famous drawn to wealthy Colorado.”

“Trenton?”

“Keep reading.” A smug smile dimpled Helen’s freckled cheeks.

Sure enough, the article was about Trenton Van Der Veer.
Her
Trenton Van Der Veer. “He moved to Colorado … set up a studio in Cripple Creek.”
Her finger trailed the margin as she read. “Says here Cripple Creek is on the southwest slope of Pikes Peak. ‘The bulk of Colorado’s millionaires call it home.’ ” Her pulse quickened. “He is still photographing the wealthy.”

And where there was wealth, there were opera houses and theater companies that needed singers. Given a chance, she could revive Trenton’s plans to marry her, take her to live in New York, and introduce her to the top tier there.

Helen tapped her perky chin. “Feeling better, are we?”

“Much better.” Susanna took quick steps to the icebox and pulled out the tray of strawberries. “That information, my dear friend, has earned you not one but two chocolate treats.”

Helen picked out the biggest strawberries on the tray.

“I’ve heard good things about Denver,” Susanna said. “It’s called the land of opportunity, you know.” That was especially true if it moved her closer to Cripple Creek.

Nodding, Helen licked a smudge of chocolate off her bottom lip. “You’re starting to sound like my brother.”

The information about Trenton was worth the whole shop’s worth of chocolates. Susanna held the tray of dipped strawberries out to Helen. “Any chance your father is considering the move?”

W
illow drove Miss Hattie’s surrey down the hill on Fourth Street. She would have suggested she and her mother and Aunt Rosemary walk to the Midland Terminal depot this morning if not for the five bags between the two women. Tucker and Ida had planned to come along, with Tucker in the driver’s seat, but he’d telephoned the boardinghouse just moments ago. Ida wasn’t feeling well, and he thought it best they stay home until Ida felt better.

She’d rolled out of bed with dawn’s first peek through her upstairs window. This was the day her mother and her aunt would return to the house they shared in Colorado Springs, which meant this was also the day she’d begin her new, independent life in Cripple Creek. She’d visited the city for her brother’s wedding and for Vivian’s wedding, and she’d returned with her folks for Christmas at the parsonage last December, but now it was her home. A bittersweet beginning.

Her mind had awoken in a sprint, and she had yet to catch up to it, let alone rein it in. Her father had passed. Her mother was moving on with her life. She couldn’t help but think God had brought her here at this time for a purpose.

“It’s not too late, dear.” Aunt Rosemary sat behind Mother, shouting over the cacophony of braying donkeys and screeching wagon brakes on the steep road. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with us? I still have that third bedroom. We could take the later train to give you time to pack.”

Going home with them would certainly be easier than starting over here. Especially if staying meant working at the icehouse. Willow made the mistake of glancing at her mother.

“You know you’re welcome.” The tears glistening in her mother’s green eyes pleaded with her.

Willow drew the horses to a stop in front of the depot and looked at her aunt. “Thank you, but it really is time I start a life of my own.” Even if she was the only one who believed she could start over and survive it.

A porter met them at the hitching rail with a baggage wagon.

No more than thirty minutes later, the three of them stood on the platform, the locomotive rumbling and belching steam behind them. They’d said their good-byes. Her face damp with tears, Mother stepped up into the train with Aunt Rosemary.

On the top step, Mother twisted and shouted over her shoulder. “You’ll think about the job Ida offered you, won’t you?”

“Yes.” Willow waved. She’d thought of little else since her mother’s announcement Wednesday night.

After the train pulled away from the platform in a series of jerks, Willow offered a final wave and walked back to the surrey.

What now?

As she loosened the reins from the rail, Miss Hattie’s horses nickered. Willow patted the old mare on the withers before she climbed into the seat. Mother was right—she did need something to do. Ida would birth a baby in the spring, and if working in the icebox showroom would help Ida, that would be productive work.

But not very creative. She wasn’t quite ready to give up on finding work better suited to her abilities, or at least to her interests.

She didn’t even know if Ida needed help. Chances were good Mother had gently reminded Ida that the Raines Ice Company was a
family business
, then broached the subject of Willow’s desperate need for occupation.

Willow loosened the reins and clicked to start the horses up Bennett
Avenue. She wanted to go by the parsonage to check on Ida, but first, a trip to the library. She could pick up a book or two to sink her mind into, and while she was at it, she’d peruse the area newspapers for job advertisements.

Unlike the big library in Stockton or the memorial library at the seminary in San Francisco, the Franklin Ferguson Memorial Library in Cripple Creek was housed in a simple clapboard house on B Street.

Stepping into the entryway, Willow drew in a deep breath. To her senses, the leather bindings and ink-dappled pages of books cast an aroma nearly as sweet as that of Miss Hattie’s carrot cakes.

The square-jawed woman behind the desk didn’t look much older than Willow. “May I help you?”