Twice a Bride (8 page)

T
renton set his camera in its leather carrier and latched the bag. He switched the light off in the darkroom and locked the door behind him. He checked the studio to make sure he’d left everything in its proper place—the tub of toys, the deacon’s bench, the Brady stand, the tripod, the lights.

He shut that door behind him and stepped into the office area. A lone file lay on the desk in front of his chair. He’d returned Mrs. Peterson’s portrait sample this morning by courier and included a letter asking her to visit the studio by four o’clock this afternoon if she was still interested in the job. He pulled his watch from his trouser pocket. Twenty past five, and he hadn’t heard a word from the woman.

His own fault. He’d received her application two weeks ago and sat on it. Mrs. Peterson had no doubt found other work by this time.

He slid the file folder into the top drawer. Monday, he’d take another look at the package from the man in Denver. Not as solid a painter yet as Mrs. Peterson, but probably good enough for a starter.

He’d just pulled his hat off the coat rack when the door opened. A young woman rushed in and stopped in front of him. A pleasantly photographic woman. Her lashes were thick and a deep brown like her hair. Prominent cheekbones. A graceful jaw. Eye-pleasing lines from her statuesque shoulders to her … curves. Trenton cleared his throat as if by doing so he could clear his mind as well.

“I’m c-closing, ma’am.”

“I came as soon as I could,” she said, slightly breathless.

“No sittings until M-Monday.”

“A sitting?”

“To have your photograph taken.”

“You have to take my photograph for the job?”

Trenton blinked. “Mrs. P-Peterson?”

“You sent me a letter and told me to—”

“Come by before f-four o’clock.” What, the woman didn’t own a timepiece?

“I wanted to comply, but I was working.”

So she
had
found other employment. “It was … k-kind of you to let me know you’re no longer av-vailable.”

“I haven’t found another job.”

“B-but you did say—”

She whirled around and marched out the glass door. She pressed her hands to her cheeks, then held her head high and reentered the shop with a smile on her face. “Good day, sir. Are you the proprietor here?”

Trenton cocked his head in disbelief. “You know I am.”

“Well then, I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. I’m Mrs. Peterson. I applied for the job of portrait painter, and you expressed interest in hiring me.”

“Yes, I know.” He hadn’t meant to sigh.

She dipped her perfectly rounded chin and raised an eyebrow.

Intrigued by her resolve, he straightened a notch and gave in to the regeneration. “Yes, I’m Trenton Van Der Veer.”

She extended her hand to him, and he shook it.

“I’ve been filling in for my sister-in-law in the icebox showroom at the Raines Ice Company,” she said.

Trenton remembered his conversation with Jesse about married women in business. Mrs. Peterson was related to the pastor, or at least to his wife.

She pulled the shawl off her shoulders. “It’s a temporary position. I’m still
interested in learning more about the job as a portrait painter.” She paused. “That’s why I’m here.”

Suppressing his amusement, Trenton returned his hat to the rack. Mrs. Peterson had spunk. They’d gotten off on the wrong foot, or at least he had. Her going out the door midway through his sentence seemed rude, but with the fresh start, their communications skills had improved.

He turned to face her. “Of course.” It jerked out as one word. He motioned toward the chair in front of the desk.

She seated herself, her hands folded over the reticule on her lap. “In your letter today, you mentioned a need for an artist who can paint a client’s portrait from a photograph and colorize photographs.” She met his gaze. “I can do both.”

“You’re hired.”

Blinking, she raised her hand. “I have a few questions for you before accepting any such agreement.”

Spunky
and
direct. Trenton leaned back in his chair and motioned for her to proceed.

Mrs. Peterson squared her shoulders. Was she this bold with her husband or only with potential employers? “Would you require that I work here in the office?” She glanced at the doors to the darkroom and the studio. “Or would I be able to do the painting elsewhere?”

“Elsewhere is f-fine.”

A slight smile pressed into a dimple on the left side of her face. “What would be the terms of my employment?”

“I would advertise your p-painting services.” He paused to alleviate the spasms in his jaw. “Take … any requests.” Another pause. “And send the w-work orders to you, along with any photographs.”

“And payment?”

“Per job.” He reached into the top drawer and pulled out the folder he’d made for her. “I listed the various painting services and assigned fees. You’d
receive seventy percent.” He’d managed to make it through the whole sentence without any stammering.

“Seventy-five percent seems more equitable.” She glanced at the closed door again.

“Seventy-five percent.” He shifted toward the studio door. “Those are my w-work rooms—a d-darkroom and a studio where I do the sittings and take the photographs. Would you like to see them?”

Her eyes widened, and she shook her head. “I’ll wait until your office hours.”

Trenton gulped. “Of course.” Had he lost his mind, asking a woman into private rooms after working hours? Hopefully she wouldn’t include his question when relaying their conversation to her husband. He leaned forward. “Are you still interested in w-working with me?”

“I am.”

“You’re hired, then?”

“Yes.” She stood, and he did likewise. “Thank you. How soon did you want me to begin?”

“Is yesterday too soon?”

She laughed. Mr. Peterson no doubt enjoyed her laugh—if not her directness—immensely.

Rounding the corner onto Golden Avenue, Willow pulled her shawl tight and glanced up at the coral and crimson stripes across the clouds. The sun had disappeared behind the Sangre De Cristos, leaving a nearly full moon visible. Thankfully, this long day would soon come to a close. She took slow steps to the boardinghouse.

She should be excited Mr. Van Der Veer had hired her and that her new job would allow her to work as an artist. She would paint from a photograph or
add color to printed portraits. It wasn’t selling her landscapes in a gallery, but she
would
receive payment for painting. A much better prospect than spouting the features of myriad iceboxes and adding numbers on a sales sheet.

But what about Ida?

Mr. Boney’s mule, Sal, stood tethered to the hitching rail in front of Miss Hattie’s. As Willow approached, Sal bobbed her head and brayed.

“I’ll tell Mr. Boney you’re getting impatient with him. But I wouldn’t expect him anytime soon.”

Talking to a mule? It wasn’t necessarily a symptom of melancholia, but conversing with animals probably didn’t bode well for good mental health. Willow shook her head and stepped onto the porch.

She needed more friends. Like Ida. And right now it was important she be a good friend herself. She couldn’t abandon Ida when her sister-in-law needed her, even if Ida’s siblings would have been better candidates in the showroom. But Kat was a writer with a daughter to care for and a baby on the way. Nell had a toddling son and her benevolent work with the Sisters of Mercy. Vivian was plenty busy designing clothes for Etta’s Fashions and would soon deliver her first child. They all had families to care for.

Willow stepped into the entryway and was welcomed by a robust march coming from the Edison phonograph, which meant her landlady was in the parlor with Mr. Boney. Again.

Perhaps it was time she turned the tables on Miss Hattie and did a little matchmaking herself. Hattie and the old miner had been spending more and more time together. Still sparring like good friends, but wasn’t friendship the best foundation for a lasting relationship?

Thanks to Tucker, Willow and his friend Sam Peterson had started out as sparring partners at the age of twelve. Then quite suddenly, friendship grew and blossomed into a love she still craved. Granted, Miss Hattie and Boney were older, but Willow believed the same could happen for them.

“Willow, is that you?” Miss Hattie’s voice rang out above the staccato beat of the march.

“It is.” Willow shed her shawl.

The phonograph went silent, and Miss Hattie stepped into the entryway. “Dear, you look like you’re all in but your shoestrings. A busy day?”

Nodding, Willow laid her shawl and the wrapped portrait of Sam on the entry table beside a vase of daisies. “The man who came to the showroom while you were there ordered fifteen iceboxes. Two different kinds.”

“Oh my.”

“Thankfully, Ida stopped by in time to complete his order form.”

“She didn’t stay?”

“Only long enough to send Mr. Davenport on his merry way.” Willow raised her finger to emphasize an important detail. “After she told him I would telephone him with the delivery date for his iceboxes.”

Hattie sighed, deepening the lines framing her mouth. “That doesn’t sound promising.” Her blue-gray eyes narrowed. “You didn’t tell her about—”

“How could I?” Willow carefully removed her hat. “What kind of a sister-in-law … friend would I be if I were to walk out when she needed me?”

“Dear, what kind of a friend would you be if you didn’t tell her the truth?” Miss Hattie brushed Willow’s arm. “You and Ida are like sisters. She would want to know about your opportunity.”

Willow laid the pins in the bowl of her hat and set it on top of her shawl. She glanced out the window at the mule that stood outside, then toward the parlor. “I see that Boney is here again. He can’t find good coffee elsewhere?” She pressed a fingertip to her chin and grinned. “Must be the company.”

“A woman can have a good friend who happens to be a man.” Hattie clucked her tongue, her face turning pink. “I’ll go see about our meal and pour you a cup of tea. Could you let Boney know I’ll return momentarily?”

“Certainly.”

“And no teasing allowed.” Her landlady wagged her finger, then sashayed toward the kitchen.

Willow couldn’t help but smile. Hattie Adams was a woman with a servant’s heart. She deserved to be happy, to have a man who would love her and
help her around the house. Boney seemed to fit the bill to the letter. Well, a little crusty around the edges for some, but her landlady didn’t seem bothered by that in the least. Neither did Mr. Boney seem put off by Miss Hattie’s refinement. Perhaps the charming miner just needed a little push.

Willow, her steps lighter, fairly waltzed into the parlor. At the sight of her, Mr. Boney set his coffee mug on the hearth and stood.

“Willow. I thought I recognized your voice.”

Had he heard their conversation?

“Hello, Mr. Boney.” Willow shook his hand and met his gaze. “Did Miss Hattie have another problem with the sink?”

“No ma’am. I think I fixed it to last a good while.”

But he was here in the evening, and no less close-lipped about his visits than Hattie was.

“Miss Hattie went to pour me a cup of tea. She said she’d return to you soon.”

He didn’t so much as blink.

“She’s a good woman, our Miss Hattie,” Willow said.

“Indeed she is, and a mighty fine cook.”

He only visited Hattie because of her cooking and baked goods? Willow seated herself in the Queen Anne chair. She doubted Hattie’s cooking was the only draw for this man. Her stuffed pork chops and carrot cake were delicious, but …

“Hattie tells me you’re selling iceboxes while Ida, uh, recuperates,” Boney said.

“Yes. But I’m afraid I’m not as good at bookwork as she is. I hope she’s not sorry she left me in charge.” And that she returned to work soon, preferably before Mr. Van Der Veer began sending her painting jobs.

Boney sat back down on the hearth. “I’m sure you’re doing fine.” He picked up his mug and swirled the coffee. “Hattie’s glad to have you back here at the house. The company is good for her.”

Well, at least they agreed on one thing—Miss Hattie needed company. Now if she could only make him understand Miss Hattie needed more than boarders, or even female friends, to keep her company.

Miss Hattie strolled in carrying a tea tray. Boney took it from her and set it on the table in front of Willow.

Hattie smiled. “Thank you, kind sir.”

“You’re most welcome, lovely lady.” Boney held his snowy beard to his chest and bowed.

About to choke on their sap, Willow pressed her hand to her mouth. The display had been for her benefit. These two were having far too much fun teasing her.

Hattie laughed, then met Willow’s gaze. “Boney and I are good friends. We have been for a very long while.” She glanced at the miner. “Perhaps we’ll tell the story sometime.”

Willow stirred a spoonful of honey into her teacup. “A story I’d enjoy hearing.”

“Me too.” Boney chuckled. “Right now, however, I best be on my way.” He kissed Hattie’s hand with royal flair. “I doubt it’s proper for a man to call on such a pretty girl this time of night.”

Hattie giggled and fanned herself like a giddy schoolgirl.