Beauty for Ashes (13 page)

“You’ve been busy, Carrie.” Mrs. Whitcomb looked around the tidy shop, at the gleaming woodwork and neat rows of books. “The last time I was here, the place was a mess.”

“That’s why Nate hired me.”

Mrs. Whitcomb plopped into one of the chairs Nate had brought over from his house for the occasion. “I’d say he got his money’s worth.”

“Where
is
Mr. Chastain this morning?” Rosaleen purred. She flipped open her fan. “I haven’t seen him since he brought another stack of books to the Verandah last week. I declare that man knows about every book that ever was written. I find every single conversation with him utterly fascinating.”

Carrie rolled her eyes toward the flyspecked ceiling. Rosaleen hung on every word Nate spoke, feigning interest in every book he mentioned. It was annoying as mosquitoes in July, but Nate seemed to revel in the attention. Couldn’t he see through that woman?

“I’ll tell him you said so.” Carrie shelved a couple of books Nate had left on the table. “Or you can, when you drop in to pay your bill.”

“My . . .” Rosaleen’s eyes widened. “But I thought, I mean, weren’t the books a gift?”

“One or two, maybe, but not all of them. The bookshop must turn a profit, you know.”

The aroma of the coffee drifted through the sunlit shop. Carrie raised the windows and peered out at the street. Where was everyone? She had at least expected her friends from church to come. Given the sporadic nature of services these days and the demise of the quilting circle, surely Mariah and the others were starved for somewhere to go and someone to talk to.

“Carrie?” Mrs. Whitcomb blotted her face with her handkerchief and flipped through a book of poems. “Despite this heat, that coffee sure smells inviting.”

Carrie turned from the window. “I’ll pour some. And I made rolls this morning too.”

“I thought I smelled cinnamon when I woke up this morning.” The hotelier smiled. “You’re welcome in my kitchen anytime, Carrie Daly, as long as I get first claim on the leftovers.”

Carrie went to the back, poured coffee, and uncovered the plate of rolls, trying not to feel disappointed at the poor turnout. Well, this was the first meeting, after all. And a book society was a new idea that perhaps took some getting used to. If only Ada Caldwell were here. Ada was a voracious reader, forever writing to Carrie about whatever book she happened to be devouring at the time. And Lillian—she would certainly have livened things up. Wyatt Caldwell’s late aunt had an opinion about everything, and she hadn’t been shy about sharing any of them.

Carrie served the refreshments and picked up her copy of Thomas Aldrich’s
Marjorie Daw and Other People
, which featured the cleverly written short story that the Memphis book club ladies were raving about. Written in the form of letters between a Mr. Flemming and his friend, Mr. Delaney, it was a delightfully humorous meditation on just how easy it was to become enamored with the very notion of being in love. It was just the sort of story to get the ladies talking.

The shop door opened, and a woman in a yellow calico dress swept in, her parasol dangling from one arm. “Is this the ladies’ book discussion society?” she trilled. “I’m not too late, am I?”

Carrie looked up. Her stomach clenched.

“Hello, Mary.”

Griff dismounted and led Majestic around the pasture, delaying permission for the horse to return to the barn. Majestic’s time around the training track was getting better and better. But Griff had noticed that the minute he slid from the saddle the horse headed for the barn, eager for his work to be done—a habit Griff intended to discourage. From his pocket he produced a carrot for Majestic and continued a slow circuit of the pasture while Majestic munched contentedly.

A blue jay sailed into the trees, calling noisily, its sapphire-colored wings shimmering in the light. Majestic blew out and snorted. Griff patted the colt’s sleek side. “All right, boy. We’ll call it a day. You’ve earned it.”

He dropped the reins, turned his back on the horse, and clicked his tongue. Majestic responded with a soft whinny and walked along beside Griff.

Griff grinned. One of the things he loved most about Thoroughbreds, aide from their trainability and desire to run, was their affinity for people. He and Majestic were coming to an understanding. They would make a fine pair come Race Day.

The scent of late-summer leaves drifted across the pasture as he and Majestic neared the barn, triggering a memory of a summer in Charleston when he was a boy, abed with aching lungs and a raging fever. His mother had bathed his forehead with rags wrung out in cold water and read all his favorite stories, though he was so sick he heard them only dimly through his febrile fog.

When his fever finally broke, Charlotte Venable Rutledge dropped to her knees beside her son’s bed, sending up prayers of thanksgiving for his deliverance. The next week, as Griff regained his strength, she read stories from the Bible. Noah and the Ark, David and Goliath, and Jonah and the whale had been his favorites. Later he’d read the story of Jacob and his immediate attraction to the beautiful Rachel, an attraction so strong he’d worked seven years for a chance to claim her.

He’d thought of that story last week when he stopped by the bookshop and spoke with Carrie Daly. Griff wasn’t much of a believer in true love, certainly not in love at first sight. But he couldn’t deny he felt something powerful pass between him and the lovely Mrs. Daly every time they met.

He shook his head. So what if they were attracted to each other? There was no future in it. He was headed to Australia. He’d heard that she was headed to a life with the bookseller. Besides, the moment a man fell in love, complications set in, and he was in no mood for complications.

Carrie forced a smile. “Come in, Mary. You’re not too late.”

Henry’s new wife swept into the bookshop and looked around. “Oh dear. I’m not the only one who showed up, am I? Oh, how mortifying for you, Carrie.”

Mrs. Whitcomb drew herself up. “Mary Stanhope. Did you mistake me for a piece of furniture? You most certainly are not the only one. Me and Rosaleen can hardly wait for the discussion to begin.” She winked at Carrie. “The two of us, plus Carrie, of course, are charter members of the Hickory Ridge Ladies’ Book Society.”

Carrie could have hugged the older woman. She grinned at Mrs. Whitcomb.

“Charter members?” Mary perched on the edge of her chair and arranged her skirts.

“It’s a very exclusive group,” Rosaleen put in. “By invitation only.”

“I’m sure. But I’m family, so of course I’m charter too.” Mary snapped her fan open and motioned to Carrie. “Mercy, it’s hot! Still, that coffee smells good. And the cinnamon rolls. Bring me some, please.”

Carrie poured the coffee and passed the plate of rolls to her sister-in-law, striving to maintain a firm rein on her temper. Mary had usurped her home and her brother. Wasn’t Carrie entitled to anything of her own?

She opened her book and read the opening pages. Rosaleen laughed at the description of the hapless Mr. Flemming slipping on a lemon peel and of his doctor’s dire assessment of the poor man’s mental state.

“The best part is Mr. Delaney’s descriptions of Marjorie,” Mrs. Whitcomb said when Carrie finished her reading. “I like the way he described her as ‘enchanting in the summer twilight.’” She let out a hearty laugh. “I realize Marjorie is only imaginary, but it still makes me jealous. I don’t reckon I’ve ever once been called enchanting.”

Mary frowned. “Let me get this straight. There really
was
no Marjorie Daw? She was just a made-up lie?”

“I wouldn’t exactly call her a lie,” Carrie said. “She was more of . . . an invention, to keep Mr. Flemming’s spirits up while his broken leg healed.”

“Well, I think it’s a stupid story.” Mary opened her bag. “The announcement said to bring your favorite book, so I brought this—”

“Excuse me, Mary, but I was here first.” Mrs. Whitcomb fished a book from her bag and set on the table. “Any of you read
Lady Audley’s Secret
? My sister down in Georgia sent it to me, and I must say I found it quite sensational.”

“In what way?” Carrie sipped her coffee and sent the hotelier a grateful smile. The woman had certainly put Mary in her place.

“Imagine a woman who seems a perfect wife and mother,” Mrs. Whitcomb said, “but she winds up a bigamist and a murderer. Shocking.”

“To say the least.” Rosaleen’s fan stirred the hot summer air.

“This Lady Audley, for her own selfish reasons, abandoned her own child.” Mrs. Whitcomb shook her head as if the story had come straight from that morning’s newspaper. “Disowning a child is worse than murder if you ask me.”

Rosaleen blanched and got to her feet. “Perhaps she thought she was doing the right thing! Perhaps she had no choice. People ought not to form opinions about others until they have all the facts.”

Thinking of Griff and of the way some people in town judged him, Carrie nodded. “I couldn’t agree more.”

“Thank you, Carrie.” Rosaleen turned back to Mrs. Whitcomb. “It’s easy to say what someone else should or shouldn’t do, but it’s harder when you are the one who must decide.”

“No need to get all upset,” Mrs. Whitcomb said. “Land’s sakes, Lady Audley isn’t real. She’s merely a character in a silly novel.”

“Would anyone like more coffee?” Carrie rose to refill their cups. The train whistle pierced the silence.

“That’ll be the eleven o’clock from Nashville.” Rosaleen retrieved her parasol from the pine table by the door. “I’m expecting a package that should have arrived last week. I must go and check with the station agent.”

“I should go too,” Mrs. Whitcomb said, “in case there are any ladies arriving on the train who need a place to stay.” She patted Carrie’s shoulder. “I had myself a right good time today, Carrie. That Marjorie Daw is some story. I can’t wait to read the rest of Mr. Aldrich’s book.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.” Carrie gathered the coffee cups and folded the blue-and-white striped towel she’d used to cover the rolls. “I had fun too.”

“What about me?” Mary looked up at them. “We haven’t talked about my book yet.”

“Next time,” Mrs. Whitcomb said, “it’ll be your turn to go first.”

“But—” Mary held out her book, urging the older woman to take it.

Rosaleen hurried to the door. “Carrie, I’ll see you back at the Verandah.”

The two women left the bookshop, jingling the bell above the door as they went.

“Well, I have never been so embarrassed in my life.” Mary tucked away her book and followed Carrie to the back of the shop. “First, you invite that unsavory Mr. Rutledge to
my
wedding. Then you show up with him to move out of the house, which was mean of you, considering the amount of work there is to do every day. Then you move to that dingy old hotel. And now you’re socializing with Mrs. Whitcomb and that . . . that . . .
woman
as if she were a respectable sort.”

“Rosaleen is quite a flirt, granted, but she is respectable, as far as I can tell.”

“As far as you can tell? And what do you know about such women, Carrie? You’ve hardly set foot out of Hickory Ridge.”

Carrie emptied the grounds from the coffeepot and set it back on the stove. “Whereas you are a woman of the world.”

“Well, I—I’ve been to Memphis, and Knoxville once, and . . . well, lots of places.”

“Good for you. Excuse me.” Carrie busied herself wiping a shelf that didn’t really need it. Otherwise she might actually strangle Mary Stanhope. Bell. That her beloved Henry had actually married this harridan hit her again like a punch to the stomach.