A Thousand Little Blessings (6 page)

Gabriel took a step toward her. “Tell you what. I'll come by in the morning and talk to Benito. Between the two of us, we'll make sure your father's horses are happy and healthy.”

“Thank you.” Etta's gaze was fixed on the pasture until the silence between them became uneasy. Then, the two remaining mares in the pasture neighed loudly. Etta's lovely smile reappeared. “Chara and Vega are feeling neglected. They're getting impatient for their dinner.”

Gabriel made sure his reply was lighthearted. “It's not smart to keep a lady waiting, especially when she outweighs me.”

Etta's gaze flicked to Gabriel, back to the floor, and then the open doorway. “If you'll excuse me, I need to make sure my father's settled for the evening.”

She turned on her heel and strode through the doorway, leaving Gabriel to wonder about the banker's daughter. His mother had described her as an intelligent businesswoman, but she'd seemed nervous while talking to him.

He headed back outside to retrieve the remaining horses. Etta's slight figure disappeared over the rise of a hill and a blessed tranquility filled Gabriel's irritable soul. There was something about Henrietta Davis that soothed his prickly nature. He could do with more of that in his life.

 

 

 

 

3

 

Etta took a deep breath before opening the heavy doors of Davis Bank and Trust, but her stomach refused to relax. The granite floors and brass lamps gleamed in the morning sunlight, and a hum of activity vibrated through the dignified building. Both of the teller cages were manned, Etta noticed with approval, and several clients sat with account managers in the smaller offices. Business had carried on in her father's absence.

Etta smoothed her charcoal gray jacket over the matching skirt. When she'd first started working at the bank, her father had advised conservative dress, but that hadn't stopped her from wearing lace blouses beneath the drab jackets or from pinning silk flowers to her hats.

“Good morning, Miss Davis.”

As she climbed the stairs to her father's office, Etta smiled at James Walters, the young teller Uncle Carl had hired last month. James was getting married soon. Without her mother to take care of social obligations, it was up to Etta to send a suitable gift to the bride.

“Good to have you back, Miss Davis,” Arthur Lewis said.

Etta nodded to the recently hired manager of the loan department. He'd been with the bank for almost two months, but her father had spoken well of Arthur's good judgment and business acumen.

Etta walked into her father's outer office and set her briefcase on her desk. Through the frosted glass door that led to her father's private office, a dark shape moved from one side of the room to the other. No one had the key except her father, herself, and Carolina Swanson, the head teller.

Before Etta could make it to the office door, Carolina walked into the room with a handful of mail. “Glad to see you're back. How's your father doing?”

Etta put a note of optimism in her voice. “He'll be back before you know it.” She removed her hat and gloves and took the letters. “Do you know who's in his office?”

“Your uncle.” Carolina's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “He's been in there almost every day since you and your father left.”

“You gave him the key?”

“I told him I wasn't allowed to give it to anyone, but he just laughed and snatched it out of my hand. What was I supposed to do?”

“Did he return it?”

“Yes, but he must have made a copy. I make sure the office door is locked every day before I leave, but Carl goes in and out of there as if it was his own.” She raised her eyebrows and walked away.

The restlessness in Etta's stomach multiplied. Ever since Arthur Lewis had been hired, Carl's only responsibility was to manage the employees. There was nothing in her father's office that concerned the bank personnel. Etta walked through the door without knocking. “Good morning, Uncle Carl.”

A stack of ledgers thundered against the highly polished wood floor as Carl whirled in response to Etta's greeting. “Oh, Etta. You startled me.” He squatted to retrieve the books. “I had no idea you were coming in today. How's Henry?”

Several account books lay open on the desk and a stack of receipts were wedged under a marble paperweight.

“What are you looking for? Maybe I can help you.”

Carl folded the receipts and shoved them into the pocket of his pinstriped trousers. “Nothing.” He closed the ledger books and stacked them. “I was just…uh…just trying to keep on top of things. You know Henry always kept me up-to-date on the bank's investments.” He hugged the books to his chest and brushed past Etta on his way out the door. “I'll be by later tonight to pay Henry a visit and to let him know everything's under control here.”

Carl's brown and white wingtip shoes squeaked as he hustled through the outer office and out the door. Etta crossed her arms over her chest and studied the top of her father's highly polished desk. Her reflection showed a deep groove between her eyebrows.

In the years she'd worked as her father's assistant, her uncle had seldom had reason to enter any of the second floor offices. But, surely, Uncle Carl had a good reason for taking ledger books.

“Miss Davis?”

Etta glanced up to see a short, wiry man with tanned skin and reddish hair standing by her desk. “Yes?”

“My name's Charlie Simpson.” The man nervously fingered a battered hat. “The lady downstairs, a Mrs. Swanson, she told me to come on up.”

“Oh, Mr. Simpson. I wasn't expecting you until after lunch.”

“Yes, ma'am, I know, and I'll go downstairs and wait if you don't want to see me now.” The man's words shot from his mouth like bullets. “It's just that, well, I got a ride from a friend, and he could only bring me this morning. But like I said, I can wait all day if that's what you want.”

Etta ducked her head to hide her smile. Did Charlie Simpson always talk so fast or was he just nervous? She walked toward him with her hand outstretched. “I'm glad to talk to you now, Mr. Simpson. Dr. Russell told me you had some experience working with stroke patients.”

Charlie took her hand and shook it once. “I sure do. See, I was a medic in the Army for a long time, and then I got a job as an orderly at a hospital in Dallas, but when I heard about my old unit going to France, well, I decided they couldn't go without old Charlie. So I went with 'em. Now the war's over and I'm back to looking for a job. Doc Russell, he told me about your Pa and how you're dead set against sending him away, so I'm here to offer my services.”

“I see.” Etta took a long breath and blew it out. Even if Charlie didn't need a breather from talking, she needed one from listening. She gestured to a chair next to her desk. “Please sit down, Mr. Simpson.”

Charlie sat on the edge of the seat like an alley cat on a fence rail. “I can provide references for you, ma'am.” He withdrew a folded sheet of paper from his jacket pocket. “I wrote 'em all down for you. Doc Russell, he knows me from when we were both working in Dallas, and Captain Ross, he's the surgeon I worked with during my last enlistment, and, if you want, I can give you more names.” Charlie bit his bottom lip and glanced around the office. “I don't need much in the way of pay, ma'am, but I'd better tell you straight off that I don't have no place to live. I've been staying with an old Army buddy in Austin, but his wife, well, she wouldn't be sad to see me go. Doc Russell said that maybe you would…well, that you might…”

“We can provide room and board, Mr. Simpson. If you're hired, you would sleep in a bedroom near my father, and you'd be welcome to take all of your meals with us.”

Charlie smiled and leaned back in his chair. “Oh, ma'am. That'd be perfect. Just what old Charlie needs.”

He didn't have gray hair, but the lines around his mouth and eyes suggested Charlie was in his forties.

“Since we'll provide room and board, the pay may not be what you were expecting.”

“Whatever you say is fine, Miss Davis. Doc Russell, he said your family was as square as a soda cracker and that's good enough for old Charlie.”

Etta had been praying for someone to help her father. Could this short, thin man be the person God had sent in response? “I'd like to check your references, Mr. Simpson. How can I get in touch with you?”

Charlie rubbed his jaw. “Well, ma'am, that's not so easy. See, the buddy I'm staying with, well, he doesn't have no telephone. But I'm going to be in town all day 'cause he can't pick me up until about seven o'clock tonight when he heads back to Austin.”

“My goodness. What are you going to do for the rest of the day?”

“Don't you worry about old Charlie. I know how to while away the day. I'll just find me a nice shady tree and take a rest. If it's all right with you, ma'am, I'll check back later this afternoon and see if you've made your decision.”

She'd probably be able to talk to the doctor today, but contacting an Army officer might be difficult. “You understand that if I hire you, you'll be providing almost everything for my father. You'll be expected to help him eat, bathe, and dress as well as see to his rehabilitation. That's a lot for one person to take on.”

“Maybe. But not for old Charlie.” He leaned forward and tapped her desk with his index finger. “I've seen a lot worse than strokes happen to men a lot younger than your Pa. I know how to exercise his legs and arms so that he gets movement back in 'em, and as far as bathing and dressing him…well, that's what I do all the time for those who can't do for themselves.”

Etta's heart told her that Charlie Simpson was the right man for the job, but her head told her she'd better check his references. She stood and offered her hand again. “Tell you what, Mr. Simpson. You give me time to talk to Dr. Russell and to locate Captain Ross. I usually leave the bank around five o'clock. Stop back in before then, and we'll talk again.”

Charlie's eyes wrinkled with his wide grin. “It's a deal, ma'am.” He shook her hand vigorously. “You'll see. Old Charlie's your man, all right.”

 

****

 

Rosa clucked her tongue as she followed Etta up the back stairs. “Your Papa, he didn't eat nearly enough. I'll bring your dinner on a tray. See if you can get him to eat something.”

“What time did the nurse leave?”

“That woman,” Rosa answered with a disgusted tone. “She spent more time in my kitchen than she did with your Papa.”

Etta shifted the sewing basket in her arms and knocked softly on his open door. Her father was sitting up in bed, bolstered by pillows. “Good evening, Papa. How are you feeling?”

“Hmph.” The stroke had robbed him of speech, leaving grunts and groans in place of words.

Rosa peeked into the room, shook her head, and then hurried down the back stairs.

Etta fixed a smile on her face and entered her father's room. “Your face is almost back to normal, Papa. That's a good sign.”

He nodded his head slowly, as though that simple action required forethought.

Etta pulled a chair close to the bed and sat down. “I went to the bank today. Everything's fine there. We're down a little in manufacturing, but that's to be expected now that war production is declining. We're up quite a bit in agricultural futures.”

“Hmph.”

White stubble covered her father's cheeks and chin. Why hadn't the nurse shaved him?

Etta withdrew two quilt squares from the basket and showed them to her father. “I found these in Mom's sewing room. I'm going to try my hand at finishing the quilt she started.”

Henry moved his left arm toward the fabric.

Etta placed the quilt square in his hand. “I don't know much about sewing, but I can put the squares together. Then I'll ask Sara to help me quilt them.”

A tear ran down her father's bristled cheek.

Concern and panic tightened Etta's throat. She'd never seen her father cry. Should she comfort him or give him privacy?

He choked on a sob as more tears flowed from his reddened eyes.

Tears sprang to Etta's eyes as well. Her poor, dear Papa. Always so strong. Always so proper. She stood and removed a handkerchief from her pocket. “It's OK, Papa,” she whispered as she dried his cheeks. “You'll get better.”

He groaned and pushed her away.

Etta bit her lip as she stumbled back. She should have known better than to embarrass him. She resumed her seat and focused on pinning together two of the quilt squares. A sharp pain pierced her throat as she listened to her father struggle to contain his grief. She wanted to embrace him or hold his hand, but he wasn't that kind of man. Even if she meant to comfort, the result might be unintended embarrassment. Perhaps she should step into the hall, but wouldn't that convey the message she found his emotions distasteful? Nothing could be farther from the truth.

She sewed in silence, carefully whipstitching the two pieces of fabric together and removing the pins as she went along.
Please send Papa comfort
, she prayed while she sewed.
Help him endure this illness
. Each stitch was a prayer for her father's recovery.

Rosa called to her from the hall. “I have your dinner, mija.”

Etta laid her sewing in the basket and brought a small table to the chair. “Bring it in, Rosa.”

The housekeeper entered as though she walked a tightrope. Keeping her eyes on the floor, she set the tray of food on the table and spoke in a low tone. “Let me know if you want something else.”

Why wouldn't Rosa look at her father? “Thank you, Rosa. I'll bring down the tray when I'm finished.”

Rosa ducked her head and tiptoed out of the room. Etta scrutinized the food. “Papa, Rosa sent up a bowl of your favorite soup, the kind with the little meatballs. Would you like some?”