Beauty for Ashes (20 page)

“Whatever happened to those children?” Rosaleen asked.

She was seated near the front of the church next to Deborah Patterson, the minister’s wife. Colored light from the stained-glass window above the pulpit played upon Rosaleen’s dark hair. Today she wore a simple ivory muslin frock sprigged with pink rosebuds and a matching shawl. Even in the unadorned gown, she was easily the prettiest woman in the room. No wonder she had turned Nate’s head.

“Some growed up and left and some of the little ones found homes is what I understand.” Molly twisted around in her pew to face Rosaleen. “When the money dried up, Mrs. Lowell had no choice but to shut the doors. She moved to—”

“Ladies.” Eugenie tapped the podium to get their attention. “We’re off the subject here. Now, who else will volunteer for the pageant this year? There are costumes to sew, and there’s lots of baking to be done. It’s September already. Christmas will be here before we know it.”

Jeanne Pruitt from the dress shop and Sarah Broome, the pale young woman who had taken over operation of the telegraph office from Mary Stanhope, raised their hands. Carrie raised her hand too. Baking was the one thing she was good at.

Eugenie glanced around and scribbled in her notebook. “Jeanne and Sarah, I appreciate your help.”

Carrie frowned. Hadn’t Eugenie seen her hand in the air too?

“And now to Race Day,” Eugenie went on. “I’ve asked Mrs. Gilman to speak to us about that.”

The banker’s wife, clad in yards of dark-blue silk, a glittering pin on her shoulder, rose and made her way to the front of the church. “Ladies, unfortunately we’ve had a setback. The printing company in Knoxville we hired to make fliers for the event has temporarily shut down.”

“Oh dear.” Mrs. Patterson spoke for the first time, startling Carrie. Usually, the minister’s wife spoke not a word and left church as soon as the Sunday sermon was concluded. Mrs. Whitcomb said Deborah was unsuited for the role of pastor’s wife, but Carrie liked her calm expression and gentle smile. Maybe Mrs. Patterson was painfully shy. Or drained of energy after her weekly visits to the sick and the indigent.

“We have no way of knowing when the print shop will reopen,” Mrs. Gilman went on. “I understand they’re waiting for a new part for the steam press. With our event only a month or so away, we can’t afford to wait to get the word out. So we need every one of you to make and distribute signs all over Hickory Ridge. Send a copy to your friends and kinfolks living elsewhere. The more people who know about Race Day, the larger the potential crowd, and the better for our town.” She looked around the room. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how much everyone is counting on its success.”

Rosaleen stood, rustling her muslin skirts. “My husband will take some copies to Knoxville for us when he goes to call on the university. And well, I know I’m new here and all, but I’d be willing to meet the incoming trains and personally invite visitors to come back for Race Day.”

Molly chewed her bottom lip. “A one-woman welcoming committee? I’m not sure about that, Miz Chastain. Some folks might not think it’s proper.”

“I’ll make copies for Sage to post at the mill,” Mariah said. “For the few men who are left.”

Carrie thought of Henry. There hadn’t been a solitary word from him since he’d left for Chicago. Surely he knew by now whether or not he would find work in the rail yard. Surely he’d written to his wife. Was he all right? How was he getting on in the steamy, dirty city? Desperate as she was for word from him, she would not beg the information from the insufferable Mary Stanhope.

Mrs. Gilman handed out a sample flier. “Use black ink, ladies. It’ll show up better. Be sure to finish them and post them no later than the fourteenth. That gives folks a month to make plans to watch Majestic run the race.”

“What about the other horses?” Mariah asked. “Has anyone heard anything about that?”

“My husband is taking care of that,” Mrs. Gilman said. “Two gentlemen from Maryland are bringing horses, and so is Mr. Vaught from over in Maury County. Colonel Bruce of Kentucky is planning to attend too. The colonel is an expert on the Thoroughbred pedigree. He even published a book on it a couple of years back. They say he owns a mare that goes all the way back to the very first Thoroughbred champion in the 1700s. But he won’t be bringing her this year. She’s about to foal.”

Molly Scott nodded. “I reckon it’s good for business to have competition from all over, but Hiram is betting on that Rutledge feller to ride Majestic to victory.”

Carrie suppressed a smile. Any mention of the magnificent horse and his trainer made her insides soften. She would bet on Griff too if she were a betting kind of person. Griff’s way with horses was something rare and magical.

“Well then.” Eugenie stood. “I believe this concludes our meeting. Let’s all go home and get to work. Hickory Ridge is depending on us.”

With a rustling of bustles and petticoats, the women rose, chattering all at once. Carrie slipped out the back door, intending to speak to Eugenie about baking sweets for the Christmas celebration. Though bread was her specialty, baking cookies was a part of the tradition she had long shared with Henry and her friends. Now, more than ever, she needed a familiar ritual to cling to.

Besides, the doctor’s wife had been known to flout convention herself. Hadn’t she attended births in Two Creeks when others were afraid to venture so far from town? Surely she wouldn’t hold Carrie’s friendship with Griff against her.

“Carrie?” Rosaleen swept into the aisle and placed one hand on Carrie’s arm. “May I ask you something?”

Carrie nodded, one eye on the open doorway. Eugenie and Mariah walked out together, the wide brims of their hats touching as they talked.

“What in the world is an account receivable? Nate told me to go through a ledger and add them all up, but I’m not sure what I’m supposed to add. I don’t want to ask him. He already thinks I’m dumb as a fence post.”

Well, what had he expected? Anyone who spent more than ten minutes with Rosaleen would realize the woman was in no danger of being mistaken for an intellectual. Still, Carrie couldn’t very well let her muddle a business Nate had spent years building.

“Accounts receivable is the list of people who owe the shop money for books they have ordered or already received. The universities are the largest accounts, but you should check Mr. Gilman’s too. He orders a lot of books from Nate and pays up when they arrive. If you add all those amounts together, you’ll know how much income to expect at the end of the month.”

“Oh, is that all there is to it?” Rosaleen frowned. “Why didn’t Nate say so instead of giving it some fancy name? Accounts receivable. My word.”

“I must go. I need to speak to Eugenie.”

“I’ll walk out with you.”

They left the church and stepped into the bright sunshine. Eugenie—and everyone else—had gone.

“Oh dear. I’m sorry I held you up,” Rosaleen said. “Walk over to the bakery with me, and I’ll buy you a cinnamon bun. Make it up to you.”

“Thank you, but I should be getting back to the Verandah soon. I promised to help Mrs. Whitcomb with supper tonight. She hasn’t been feeling well lately.”

“I wondered where she was today.” Rosaleen snapped open her parasol. “You’re absolutely sure you don’t want a cinnamon bun?”

“I’m sure.”

“Suit yourself.” Rosaleen started down the road.

Feeling suddenly bereft, Carrie stood in the shade watching a wren flitting in and out of the nest it had made in the hollow of a tree. Maybe she’d skip the Christmas celebrations this year. By then Griff would be gone. Unless Henry came home, there wouldn’t be much to celebrate anyway.

“Sweet, isn’t she?”

Carrie spun around. “Mrs. Patterson. You startled me.”

“I’m sorry.” The minister’s wife walked over to a small wooden bench set beneath the trees. Carrie noticed for the first time that she walked with a slight limp and that her left arm hung useless at her side. But her face was radiant, her smile genuine. “I love watching the wrens. So industrious. Please . . . join me for a moment.”

Carrie sat down.

“You’re Mrs. Daly.”

Carrie nodded.

“I’ve seen you in church for the past several weeks. I meant to welcome you sooner.”

“Thank you. I enjoy your husband’s sermons quite a lot, and now that I live in town, it’s more convenient to attend church here.” She brushed at a cloud of gnats forming around her head. “I love our county church, but we haven’t had a regular pastor since Mr. Dennis moved away. We have the circuit rider from time to time, but it isn’t the same.”

“No, it isn’t. I’m always sad when a church loses its leader.” Deborah Patterson paused and studied Carrie’s face. In the trees above them, a blue jay squawked. The little wren ducked into her nest. “But that isn’t why I waited for you today.”

“Oh?” Carrie rubbed the coin-sized protrusion of bone at her wrist and watched the sunlight dappling the ground.

“I saw Mrs. Spencer ignore your offer to help bake.”

Carrie shrugged. “I seem to be out of favor with everyone these days.”

“Because of Mr. Rutledge.”

“My word. Is there anyone in town who doesn’t know that I speak to him now and then?”

A smile lit Deborah’s face. “Apparently not. Forgive me for asking, but are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“I’m not sure of anything, other than that my life is a terrible mess.”

“I’ve been praying for you,” Deborah said quietly.

“Why?”

“Because I can sense your uncertainty. You want to please God. You want to be happy. You’re not sure whether one precludes the other.”

Carrie didn’t try to hide her surprise. How could this woman see past her troubled heart to her very soul? She nodded.

“Our Lord delights in our joy. You say your life is a mess, and maybe it is, but he can bring order out of chaos and turn the worst suffering to his good. But you must be willing to surrender everything into his safekeeping.”

The bony spot on Carrie’s wrist throbbed. Her head pounded. She stood. “I must go.”

“Because the thought of complete surrender frightens you.”

“Because I’m late. I was due back at the hotel an hour ago.”

Deborah clasped Carrie’s hand. “Stay a moment longer. I want to tell you something.”

The headache worsened. “You’ve given me quite a bit to ponder, Mrs. Patterson.”

“Please call me Deborah. After all, I’m not much older than you.”

“But the reverend is—”

“Ancient?” Deborah laughed. “Everyone remarks upon the difference in our ages, but we have a very good marriage, Daniel and I.” Her expression softened. “He saved my life.”

Deborah patted the bench and Carrie sat down again, one eye on the lengthening shadows. If she didn’t get back to the hotel soon, supper would be delayed. She couldn’t afford to anger Mrs. Whitcomb, whose various ailments had put her in a bad mood lately.

“It’s no secret my arm doesn’t work,” Deborah began. “And I walk with a limp. But I—”

“Yes. And I’m so sorry. But—”

“Another time then.” Deborah patted her arm. “Don’t be late on my account.”

Leaving Deborah sitting on the bench, Carrie hurried toward the Verandah and tried to put the unsettling conversation out of her mind. Was Mrs. Patterson right? Was she afraid of turning everything over to God? Afraid of praying, “Thy will be done”?

She reached the main street just as Mariah got into her rig outside the mercantile. Carrie hurried over. “I’m glad I caught you. I volunteered to bake for the Christmas celebration but Eugenie didn’t see me.”

Mariah sighed. “Listen, Carrie, I am very sorry for this rift between us. Eugenie cares for you, truly she does. And so do I. But the way you’re mooning over a stranger, a gambler we hardly even know . . . well, it’s destroying some people’s good opinion of you. And you seem not to care in the least.”

“But you welcomed Rosaleen Dupree with open arms, and you don’t know her either.”

Mariah picked up the reins. “Not exactly open arms. We all know the kind of woman she is . . . was. And she’s too flashy by half. But we must try to forgive her past and encourage her nobler impulses. For Nate’s sake.”

“If she’s respectable enough for him, then she’s acceptable to everyone else. Is that it?”

“Carrie, keep your voice down.” Mariah glanced around. “I wish you’d married Nate when you had the chance, instead of thinking you were too good for him.”

“I never thought I was too good for him. I only wanted to be happy.”

Mariah hesitated, then reached into her leather pouch and pulled out one of the Race Day fliers. “All right. Why don’t you make some fliers for now, and we’ll see what happens after Race Day.” She sighed. “Perhaps by then you’ll come to your senses.”

Carrie stuffed the flier into her pocket and watched Mariah drive away. Was Mariah right? Was she throwing away her life, ruining her good name, when nothing lasting could come of it?