Harmony (57 page)

T
hey had walked from Harmony's train depot, Edwina blindfolded and feeling foolish as Tom guided her over the snow-packed sidewalk. Honey Tiger gave little meows from her beribboned basket, detecting the hound trailing them as Tom held onto the precious cargo for her. She had said she could carry her kitty, but Tom told her Honey Tiger was just as much his cat now, too. Barkly kept up behind; she could hear him dart into someone's yard every now and then to run after birds if a gate had been left open.

She couldn't get her bearings after they turned at corners from east to west, north to south. When at last the latch of a gate clicked, she was ushered onto what had to be a walkway and up a set of steps to a porch. Only after she was told to stop did Tom remove the handkerchief.

Blinking several times, she stared at the stained-glass panels on either side of her old front door. She turned her head to Tom. “But . . . ? This isn't my house anymore. I told you I had to let the bank foreclose.”

“And I'm the man who bought it.”

“You did?”

“The price was . . .” He shrugged. “I don't want to
belittle the house, Ed, but it was sold below market value. I got it for an affordable amount. You'll be happier here than in a new place farther out of town. I couldn't pass it up.”

“What do you mean farther out of town?”

“I had bought another property for us, but I had Fletcher buy it back when you . . .” his words trailed.

Ruefully, she finished for him. “When I left town.”

“Your house came on the market and there weren't any fast takers. I don't think your friends felt comfortable taking it from you. I applied for the loan. It's a done deal. It's yours again, Edwina. Just like your side of the warehouse. I had the deeds drawn up in your name—a wedding present.”

“Oh, Tom . . .”

“Don't get teary again.” His mouth came close to her ear and he gave her a light kiss. “Let's go inside, Mrs. Wolcott.”

She smiled at him as he unlocked the door, then slipped the key in his pocket. Handing her the kitty basket, he scooped her into his arms and carried her over the threshold. Barkly tried to squeeze in, too, but Tom kicked the door closed after he said, “Barkly. Out. You can't come in until I figure out how to make you like cats.”

Tom proceeded to take Edwina through the vestibule, then the parlor, where he sat her down. The room looked huge. There was no furniture in it except for a few little personal items that had once belonged to her.

She rested Honey Tiger's basket on the floor and let the cat out. The tabby shook off, then meandered to the parlor window and stared out at Barkly, who was staring in. Edwina walked slowly through the room. Bare. It seemed so bare. But her curtains were still here. And . . .

“Tom, you got the Victrola.” She smiled at the phonograph sitting in the corner.

“Records, too. The Joplins.”

Turning, she swept her gaze at the fireplace. A cozy fire burned within and she could only guess that Tom
had had Shay come over earlier and get it started. At the hearth sat a box of lemon snaps, water-speckled bottles of cold beer, and the funny papers beside them. The bearskin rug was stretched out in front. On the mantel—
oh my!
She placed her hand to her throat, her pulse knocking. It was that zebra clock. The one made of the animal's white-and black-striped behind. The hair-tufted end of the tail tick-tocked back and forth over its haunches . . . cheeks. It was . . . she swallowed. She wouldn't think it. Not today, when she was so happy. Tomorrow, she'd give herself permission to call it what she really thought. But only to herself. Never to Tom.

“I tried to fix the place up some, Ed. I couldn't afford to buy the furniture and pay for that grim-faced housekeeper of yours as well. I hired her back on; I hope you don't mind. I figured with you out of the house most of the day, you wouldn't have time to do things. Do you mind that I hired her for you?”

“Mind?” she repeated emotionally. “Thank you, Tom . . . for understanding.”

“I did move in my bed from the livery and my clothes. I have a dresser we can use temporarily. It's not as big as you need, though. Women . . . you know, they have a lot of white stuff that goes in drawers.” He took his hat off and hung it on a wall peg next to the clock. She'd never had a wall peg there before. “I know it's not what you're accustomed to, but we'll get it back to how you like it. There's a box in the kitchen. Some of the plates and doodads from that China cabinet you had. I bought the ones I thought you would want to keep.”

“Oh . . . Tom. I'm sure they're just the ones I wanted, too . . .” A glass jelly jar rested on the mantel with a crumpled bill inside. “What's that?”

Tom glanced to the jar. “That's five dollars for the furniture fund. Do you remember me telling you I had a brother—John?”

“Of course.”

“Well . . . the funniest thing happened. He sent me a letter after Christmas. He wrote that he had gotten married
and fully intended to pay me back every penny he ever borrowed.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, kind of odd for him. He's never owned up to responsibility before. Must be the love of a good woman that changed him. I know it changed me.”

Touched beyond words, she went to him and kissed him tenderly on the lips. “I love you.”

He cradled her cheeks with his big hands. “I love you, too.”

“You were awfully confident I'd marry you,” she said, teasing him. “You had to have done all this before you left for Denver.” She touched his mouth with her fingertip. “You're hopeless.”

“No, sweetheart, I was hopeful.”

Their mouths came together for a brief and searing kiss. When they parted, she gazed adoringly at him. “I've got something else to show you.” He left her and walked to the bay window, where three long planks of wood lay facedown on the floor. He lifted the first. It was a crisply painted sign in . . . of all colors . . . vermillion. It read:
EDWINA WOLCOTT'S FINISHING SCHOOL.

Then he lifted the next:
EDWINA WOLCOTT'S DANCING ACADEMY.

The last said:
EDWINA WOLCOTT'S ACCOUNTING SERVICE.

“The guy in Alder couldn't fit them all on one sign. But they'll get the word out for you. You already have two clients for the accounting service. I talked with Max Hess over at the livery and he's got need of your expertise. So does Otto Healy at the real estate office. They said they'd come by your place as soon as you got settled.”

“I don't know whether to cry or kiss you,” Edwina declared through a weak smile that was giving way to tears.

“Don't you cry, Ed.” Tom took her hand and pulled her into his arms. “If you're crying, how can a ragger dance with his girl?”

Laughing unsteadily, she shook her head. “Are you asking?”

“I'm asking. Put that recording on, honeybaby, and let's see what you've got.”

Edwina walked to the Victrola, smiled when she saw Joplin's “Maple Leaf Rag” on the turntable, then cranked the handle. Music drifted from the trumpet and she went back to her husband's waiting arms.

Oblivious to the rest of the world, they danced to the tempo, swaying and hopping, smiling and laughing while the tick of a zebra tail kept time to the music.

Dear Reader:

I hope you enjoyed reading
Harmony
. Inevitably, into each book I write, I put some of my own observations and use them for the characters and plot. In most cases, no one is the wiser for my experiments; however, I was given no choice but to live out the jockstrap scene. One afternoon when I was alone in the house, I rummaged through my better half's underwear drawer. I tried the jockstrap on the way I wanted Edwina to, and thank goodness, it did fit. My wrist dangled, but to Edwina's mind, this was a good thing—more elbow support. So that's how I know about elbow supporters.

As for Barkly . . . he's a figment of my imagination based on my dog, Molly. Molly is a beagle hound and she has her own method of sniffing in a rhythm I gave to Barkly. I don't know why she sniffs this way. She just does, and it's riotously funny to watch. Molly is a soap eater, too. We have found we cannot put the small leftover pieces of bar soap in the trash can any longer because Molly ferrets them out and eats them. You can always tell she's been into soap because she has the evidence on her face—and she burps. Although she'll eat any kind, she does prefer Lever 2000 over Irish Spring.

Barkly's trick repertoire was partially my imagination and partially reality. I was hypothesizing about his teeth chattering in imitation of a squirrel. It's doubtful Barkly could truly imitate one, but when Molly's after a good itch on her leg, those choppers of hers really chatter over her fur. The salute Barkly made is an actuality. My Auntie Jerri trained her dog, Mugs, to salute. Her son went into the navy, and while he was gone, she taught the dog the trick. She put a little sailor hat on him with elastic, and he sat on his behind; when she said, “Salute!” the dog raised his paw to his nose and really saluted.

Tom's struggle with mathematics came from my nine-year-old daughter's tries at understanding her math facts.
The teacher told us that sometimes a person will never grasp the concept and must memorize the times tables. Tom's feelings of complete failure are, sadly, exactly those one has when unable to solve math equations. My daughter is lucky to have a kind and patient teacher; she's improving. Another thing Tom struggled with was procrastination. He meant to do those accounting books, and his roundabout way of getting to work—by staying in the vicinity of his ledgers—is, and I admit this sheepishly, mine. I figure if I'm within twenty feet of the computer, I'm still working. Perhaps it's a warped rationale, but I've written eleven books on this principle.

Edwina's method of raking is my own. I cannot say why, exactly, but I must rake leaves in a certain pattern. Also, raking leaves was how I brought much of this story to fruition. Raking is an extremely effective mental stimulator for me. Too bad leaves fall only once a year . . .

The items Tom sold in his store are authentic. The deer urine is a bottled product sold locally—I bought a bottle. And the froggies, super raspies, double-clucks, Ugly Butt targets, coyote howlers, and other such things truly exist. I went through the store with a clipboard and paper, in awe that men really fall for this stuff and spend big bucks on it. I found a lot of it—just in name alone—too humorous to pass up. I tried out that deer estrus on Molly. I put a drop in the backyard on the lawn when she wasn't looking. Then we let her outside. For a few seconds, she was her usual old self. Then she picked up on the scent and went berserk. Sniffing, nose to the grass, she found the spot and proceeded to roll and rub herself into it as if she couldn't get enough. Go figure. . . .

Well, I'm off to write the second book in the Brides for All Seasons series, which will also be set in Harmony, Montana.
Hooked
is Meg Brooks's story and is about the hotel her parents operate and the twelfth annual fly fishing tournament. She meets the man of her dreams, who introduces himself as Vernon Wilberforce, but he's not. He's really Matthew Gage, a San Francisco stunt
reporter, and he's come to town to uncover a fishy plot. When the real Mrs. Wilberforce shows up and Meg is forced to wear a wig and mustache and take on the identity of Mr. Arliss Bascomb, agent for the Department of the Treasury, hilarity and mistaken identities abound.

And in case you missed it, Tom's bother, John Wolcott, has his story in the
Upon a Midnight Clear
Christmas anthology. My novella is titled
Jolly Holly.

I hope you'll watch for
Hooked.
Following this letter is a short excerpt from it.

As always, I enjoy hearing from my readers. You can chat with me about books and writing on my message board at Painted Rock Writers and Readers Colony at:

http://www.paintedrock.com/message/7/pubmess.htm

You can get the latest news and release information about my books on my home page at:

http://www.paintedrock.com/authors/holm.htm

I still appreciate snail mail, too. Drop me a note if you can. A self-addressed, stamped envelope is appreciated for a prompt response.

Best,

Stef Ann Holm

PO Box 121

Meridian, ID 83680-0121

Books by Stef Ann Holm

Harmony

Forget Me Not

Portraits

Crossings

Weeping Angel

Snowbird

King of the Pirates

Liberty Rose

Seasons of Gold

Published by POCKET BOOKS