Magnolia (2 page)

She turned and glared at him, her gray eyes sparkling with temper. “Ridicule me, then. You make me ashamed that I was ever worried for you,” she said flatly. “Ruin your life, sir. I will never concern myself with it again.”

She banged against the ceiling with the handle of her
parasol and was out of the carriage before he could do anything more than call her name.

She fumbled the parasol open and got onto the wooden sidewalk, which was a relief from the mud, at least. In front of the bank, which was about to open, she spotted Kenny Blake, a friend of hers from school days, and ran to greet him.

“Oh, Kenny! Thank goodness I found you! Can you give me a ride home? Our buggy's axle broke.”

“You're not hurt?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Just a little shaken, that's all.” She laughed. “Fortunately, it was very near the blacksmith's shop and the livery stable. I was able to get help, but they were so crowded that nobody could spare the time to drive me home.”

“You could have hired a coach.”

She shook her head with a rueful smile. “I haven't any money,” she said honestly. “Uncle spent the last little bit we had on new spark plugs for the motorcar, and until his pension comes, we have to be very careful.”

“I can make you a loan,” he offered. And he could have, because Kenny had a very good job managing a men's clothing shop in town.

“No, you can't. Just give me a ride.”

He grinned, and his plain face lit up. He was medium height, blond, blue-eyed, and very shy. But he and Claire got along well, and he wasn't shy with her. She brought out all the best in him.

“Wait until I finish my business in here, and I certainly shall,” he assured her.

She let go of his arm, feeling cold eyes on her back. She glanced around at John Hawthorn in his expensive suit and bowler hat, his silver-headed cane in one hand as he leaned elegantly on its length and waited for Mr. Calverson to unlock the door from the inside. Calverson trusted no one except himself with that key. He was very possessive about things he owned—something that John would have done well to have remembered, Claire thought.

At the stroke of nine, Mr. Calverson opened the huge oak doors and stood aside to let the others enter. His eyes were on his gold pocket watch, which was suspended from a thick gold-link chain. He nodded as he closed the case and stuck it back in the watch pocket of his vest. He looked rather comical to Claire, the short, stout little man with his flowing blond-and-silver mustache and his bald head. She really couldn't imagine any woman finding him attractive, much less a beauty like Diane. But then, only John thought she'd married old man Calverson for love. Everyone else in Atlanta knew that Diane had expensive tastes—and that her family's ruined fortunes had left her, at the age of twenty-two, with no tangible assets save her beauty. She had to marry well to keep her sisters and her mother in fancy clothes and insure that the elegant mansion on Ponce de León kept running smoothly. But Mr. Calverson had more money than she could ever spend. So why was she risking it all for a fling with her old flame John?

“The bank isn't in trouble, is it?” she asked when she and Kenny were in his buggy on the way to Claire's home.

“What? Why, certainly not,” he said, shocked. “Why do you ask?”

She shrugged. “No reason. I just wondered if it was solvent, that's all.”

“Mr. Calverson has managed it quite well since he came here a few years past,” he reminded her. “He's prosperous…anyone can see that.”

So he seemed to be. But it was a little strange that a man who came from farming stock should amass such a fortune in so short a time. Of course, he did have access to investment advice, and he foreclosed on land and houses and such.

“Our Mr. Hawthorn was glaring at you,” Kenny remarked.

“He gave me a ride and insulted me.”

His hands jerked on the reins and the horse protested loudly. “I shall speak to him!”

“No, Kenny, dear. Not that sort of insult. Mr. Hawthorn wouldn't soil his hands by putting them on me. I meant that we had a sort of disagreement, that's all.”

“About what?”

“I'm not at liberty to discuss it,” she said stiffly.

“Well, it's not hard to guess about what,” he remarked. “Everyone knows he's panting after the bank president's wife. You'd think the man would have more pride.”

“People in love seem to lose it rather easily, and she was engaged to him before she married Mr. Calverson.”

“If she's risking her little nest to see John behind her husband's back, maybe there
is
some worry about money,” he remarked. “That young woman doesn't miss a step.”

“If John loves her…”

“A scandal would ruin him in Atlanta. Not to mention her good name. Her people were always mercenary, but there was never a breath of scandal about them.”

She remembered John coming home wounded to find Diane comfortably married. John had been in a terrible state at the time, stoic and unapproachable in his recovery. Claire had gone with Uncle Will to see him in the hospital, having heard the gossip about his badly broken engagement. At eighteen, Claire had felt the first stirrings of love for the wounded soldier who bore his pain with such courage and had even won a medal for bravery.

“It must be terrible to lose someone you love that much,” she remarked, and thought of herself, because she'd loved John for almost two years…

“There's a circus coming to town very soon,” Kenny said. “Would you care to go with me to see it on Saturday?”

She smiled. “I should like that very much, Kenny.”

“I'll ask your uncle for his permission,” he said, beaming.

She didn't tell him that her uncle was much too modern for such things, or that she didn't feel that she needed permission to do what she liked. Kenny was nice and uncomplicated, and he took her mind off John. Anything that could accomplish that made the day worthwhile.

 

U
NCLE
W
ILL JUST HAD
finished fixing a leaky radiator. Kenny said his piece and left while Claire was changing into a clean skirt and blouse and shoes. Grimacing, she gave the dress to Gertie.

Gertie sighed. “Miss Claire, you have a gift for soiling clothes,” she remarked, a twinkle in her eyes.

“I do try to stay clean,” she told the older woman. “It's simply that fate is after me with a broom.”

Gertie chuckled. “It seems so. I'll do what I can with this. Oh, and I won't be here on Sunday. I'm going to meet my father at the station and go with him to a family reunion.”

“How is he?” Gordon Mills Jackson was a famous African trial attorney in Chicago and very well respected.

“He's as wicked and devious as ever,” Gertie said, laughing. “And my brother and I are very, very proud of him. He faced down a lynch mob a few months ago and rescued a farm laborer from a rope. The man was innocent, and Daddy defended him successfully.”

“He'll be a Supreme Court judge one day,” Claire predicted.

“We hope so. Can you manage by yourself on Sunday or would you like me to see if I can find someone to cook for you that day?”

“I'll do it myself. You taught me how to make chicken and dumplings, after all, and I'm not so squeamish that I can't kill the chicken.”

Gertie looked dubious. “Suppose you let your uncle do that part for you. He's much faster than you are.”

“Well, I have to ease up to doing it,” she said, defending her procrastination.

“He doesn't. You'll spend enough time dressing it fit to cook.”

“You're right, I suppose.”

“I'll have something on the table in a couple of hours for lunch. No guests?”

Claire shook her head. “Kenny had to get to work. It will only be Uncle and me.”

As Claire walked toward the workshop, she called, “I'm back. Need any help?”

Her uncle leaned out from under the front of the car. “Hallelujah! You're just in time! I had to fix a leak in the radiator. Hand me a wrench and those hoses, and then bring me those new spark plugs!”

 

I
T TOOK ABOUT TWO HOURS
to get the new part in place, the plugs in, the gaps set, and the timing just right. Her uncle had to take one of them out and worry with it until it fit properly, but just before lunchtime the engine was running prettily.

“It works! You've got it going!” she exclaimed.

He stood up, his white hair darkened with grease from his big hands, a huge smile under his thick silver mustache. “By golly, I sure have! Thanks to you, girl! It was a great day for me when you came to stay. I had no idea what a mechanic I'd make of you.”

She curtsied, ignoring the grease spots on her formerly pristine blouse and her face. “Thank you.”

“Don't let your head get too big, though. You didn't replace the last screw in the boiler when you put it back.”

She groaned. “I got interrupted by Gertie.”

“That's right,” Gertie called from the porch. “Blame it on me.”

“Don't eavesdrop,” Claire called back.

“Stop talking about me and I won't. Lunch is ready.”

Gertie went back into the house, and Claire shook her head. “Uncanny, isn't it—how she always knows when I'm blaming her for some—”

Her uncle broke in. “Let's go for a spin.”

“It's pouring rain. Besides, Gertie's got food on the table.”

He sighed angrily. “Just my luck, darn it! When I've got it running right! Why don't they make tops for motorcars?”

 

A
FTER THEY ATE, THE TWO OF THEM
sat in the parlor while the rain beat down outside.

“Why did Kenny bring you home?” he asked suddenly. “Where's the buggy?”

She drew in a long breath. “The horse took it over a rock I didn't see and busted the axle. Now, now. It won't cost so much to have it replaced…”

Her uncle's husky shoulders slumped. “Oh, dear. Oh, dear, dear,” he murmured. “And I've spent the last money we had to buy that new motorcar part, haven't I?” He looked up. “Why, Claire! I have a thought—we can sell the
horse and buggy now,” he exclaimed. “We have a horseless carriage that runs!”

She grinned. “So we do.”

He let out a sigh. “Gasoline is very cheap at the druggist's, so it won't be expensive to run it. And the extra money will pay off the last big mortgage I've had to take out on the house.” His face assumed a blissful expression. “Our troubles are over, my dear. They're quite—” He stopped. His face seemed an odd gray color and he clutched his left arm. He laughed shortly. “Why, how very odd this feels. My arm has gone numb, and I have a very hard pain in my—in my—in my throa…”

He looked at her as if he was seeing right through her and suddenly pitched forward, right onto the rug.

Claire ran to him, her hands trembling, her eyes huge and tragic. She realized at once that this was something more than a faint. He was lying so still, not breathing, and his skin had gone a ghastly gray color. But worst of all, his eyes were open and the pupils were fixed and dilated. Claire, who had watched pet dogs and cats and chickens die over the years, knew too well what that meant…

IN THE SPACE OF TWO HOURS, CLAIRE'S LIFE
changed forever. Her uncle never regained consciousness. Her frantic telephone call from a neighbor's house to the doctor brought the family physician within minutes.

“I'm very sorry, Claire,” Dr. Houston said softly, with a paternal arm around her shoulder. “But at least it was quick. He never knew a thing.”

Claire stared at him with dull eyes.

“Gertie, bring a sheet, please, and cover him,” he asked the housekeeper, who was quiet and solemn.

She nodded and went away, returning quickly with a spotless white sheet. Fighting tears, she put it lovingly over Will.

That made it all final somehow, and Claire felt her eyes welling with tears. She brushed at them as she began to sob. “But he was so healthy,” she whispered. “There was never anything wrong with him. He never even had a cold.”

“Sometimes it happens like this,” the doctor said. “Child,
do you have family? Is there anyone we can get to come and help you sort out the estate?”

She looked at him blankly. “We only had each—each other,” she said, faltering. “He never married, and he was my father's only living sibling. My mother's people are all dead, as well.”

He glanced at Gertie. “You and Harry will be here, won't you?”

“Of course,” Gertie said, coming forward to put her arms around Claire. “We'll look after her.”

“I know you will.”

He filled out the death certificate, and, by the time he finished, the coroner came and a horse-drawn ambulance took the body to the mortuary. It was only then that Claire realized her position. The doctor and the funeral home would have to be paid. The sale of the buggy and horse would barely cover it. The house was mortgaged; the bank would surely foreclose.

She sat down heavily on the love seat and clenched a handkerchief in her hand. Her beloved only relative was gone; she was soon to be penniless—and homeless. What could she do? She tried to calm herself; after all, she had two skills—sewing clothes and repairing motorcars. She designed and made gowns for rich society matrons in Atlanta. That she could do, but there wasn't a motorcar in nearby Atlanta, so working on them was no solution.

A renewed wave of panic left her momentarily in tears. But they soon were dried by Gertie, who reminded her that she had few equals with a needle and thread and the
fine Singer treadle sewing machine in the bedroom. Claire made all her own clothes, designs of her own creation that most people thought were store-bought because they were so richly and lavishly embroidered and laced.

“Miss Claire, you could work as a seamstress anytime,” Gertie assured her. “Why, Mrs. Banning down on Peachtree Street can't make clothes fast enough to meet the demand. I bet she'd hire you in a second to work for her. Said she thought your pretty blue suit was a Paris fashion, she did! And she knows you sew for Mrs. Evelyn Paine.”

That made Claire feel a little bit better. But, still, the prospect of a job and an income was only that—a prospect. She was afraid of the future, and trying hard not to let it show.

Barely an hour later, people who knew and loved Uncle Will began filling the house. Claire's pride and self-control were sorely tested with condolence after condolence. Women brought platters of food and desserts, and jugs of iced tea, and urns of coffee. Everything was taken care of in the kitchen, with Gertie's supervision. Kenny Blake came early and would have stayed, but Claire knew his business depended on the personal service he gave his customers. He needed to keep his shop open for long hours, too. She promised she would be all right and sent him back to work. They came all day and into the evening, until at last a familiar but unwelcome face showed itself at the door.

Claire's eyes were red with tears as she let the bank president, Mr. Eli Calverson, and his beautifully dressed and coiffed blonde wife into the house.

“We're so sorry, my dear,” Diane Calverson said in her cultured voice, extending a graceful hand in a spotless white glove. “What a terrible tragedy for you, and how unexpected. We came the moment we heard.”

“Don't worry about a thing, young lady,” Mr. Calverson added, pressing her hands in his. “We'll make sure the house is sold for the highest possible price, so that there will be a little something left over for you.”

Claire wasn't even thinking properly as she stared at the old man, who had the coldest eyes she'd ever seen.

“And he did have that infernal motorcar, as well,” the banker continued. “Maybe we could find some buyer for it…”

“I won't sell it,” she said at once. “The buggy and the horse are at the livery stable and they can be sold, but I won't part with Uncle's horseless carriage.”

“It's early days yet, my dear,” Mr. Calverson said smugly. “You'll change your mind. Diane, have a chat with Miss Lang while I speak to Sanders over there. I believe he's had his eye on this property for quite some time.”

“Now just one moment—” Claire began, but the banker had already walked away.

“Don't worry your head about it, dear,” Diane said languidly. “Leave business to the men. We women were never meant for such complicated things as that.” She looked around. “You poor thing. What a dreary place. And you haven't even a decent dress to wear, have you?” she asked gently.

Claire had been too upset to change the old dress she'd
worn to work with Uncle in the garage. Still, she bristled at the woman's remark. She had dresses upstairs that would have made Mrs. Calverson's Paris import look tacky by comparison. “My uncle had just died, Mrs. Calverson. Clothes were not much on my mind,” Claire said.

Diane shook her head. “Nothing is more important to me than to be correctly dressed, whatever the occasion. Really, Claire. You should go and change before other people come.”

Claire gaped at her. “My uncle died only hours ago,” she repeated, loud enough for her voice to carry. “I hardly think my clothes matter just now.”

Diane actually blushed as heads turned toward her. She made an awkward little gesture and laughed nervously. “Why, Claire. You misunderstood me. I never meant to demean your ensemble. And certainly not on such a sad occasion.”

“Of course you didn't,” John said quietly, joining Diane at Claire's side. Claire hadn't even noticed his arrival and her heart jolted at the sight of him, even through her grief.

He took Diane's arm, staring down with concern at Claire. “I'm very sorry about your uncle, Claire,” he said gently. “I'm sure that Diane is, too. She was only concerned for you.”

Claire searched his lean, hard face and wished desperately that he would defend her so valiantly. If only she could lay her head on his shoulder and cry out her pain. But his comfort seemed reserved for Diane. One more thing to add to her burdened spirit.

“I haven't misunderstood one single word, Mr. Hawthorn,” she said. Her eyes went to his hand on Diane's arm. “Nor one single action.”

They both looked uncomfortable. He moved quickly away from Diane, but not before Mr. Calverson had seen and noted the byplay. He came back to join them, taking his wife's arm with a look that spoke volumes.

“Come over here, my dear, and meet a new client of the bank. You'll excuse us, I trust?” he asked John coldly, then turned and led his wife away.

“You'd better be careful, hadn't you?” Claire whispered. “He isn't blind.”

John's eyes darkened with distaste. “Be careful. I'm not the same tame breed as your pet clothing-store manager.”

She lifted her chin, angry at his pointed reference to Kenny, who was a darling but hardly a man of action. “Do you want to snap at me, too? Well, go ahead,” she invited. “Diane's had a ripping go at me already about my clothes, and her husband is busy trying to sell the roof over my head so that your bank doesn't lose a penny on the loans you made to Uncle Will. Don't you have anything hurtful to say to me? It would be a shame to waste this opportunity. You should always kick people when they're down!”

The mettle in her words contrasted painfully with the wobble in her voice and the sheen of tears in her gray eyes.

“Excuse me. I don't feel well,” she said in a husky tone, and went quickly out of the room, into the hall. She leaned,
resting her forehead against the cool wall, while sickness rushed over her. It had been such a long, terrible day.

She heard the door behind her open, then shut. The voices in the parlor receded as footsteps sounded. She felt the pull of a steely hand on her upper arm, turning her, and then she was pressed against scratchy fabric. Strong, warm arms held her. Under her ear, a steady, comforting heartbeat soothed her. She breathed in the exotic cologne and gave in to the need for comfort. It had been a very long time since her uncle had held her like this when her parents had died. In all the years of her life, comfort had been rare.

“My poor baby,” John said softly at her temple. His hand smoothed over her nape, calming her. “That's right. Just cry until it stops hurting so much. Come close to me.” His arms contracted, riveting her to him.

She'd never heard his voice so tender. It was comforting and exciting all at once. She pressed closer, giving free rein to the tears as she cried away the grief and fear and loneliness in the arms of the man she loved. Even if it was only pity driving him, how sweet it was to be held so closely by him.

A handkerchief was held to her eyes. She took it and wiped them and blew her nose. He made her feel small and fragile, and she liked the way his tall, muscular body felt against hers.

She pulled slowly away from him, without raising her head. “Thank you,” she said, with a watery sniff. “May I ask what provoked you to offer comfort to the enemy?”

“Guilt,” he replied, with a faint smile. “And I'm not the
enemy. I shouldn't have spoken to you as I did. You've had enough for one day.”

She looked up at him. “I most certainly have,” she said angrily.

John searched her fierce eyes and wan face. “You're tired,” he said. “Let the doctor give you some laudanum to make you sleep.”

“I don't need advice from you. I doubt anyone close to you has ever died,” she said miserably.

His eyes flared darkly as he remembered his younger brothers, the frantic search of the cold waters for bodies, the anguish of having to tell their father that they were dead. “Then you would be wrong,” he said abruptly, dismissing the painful memories. “But loss is part and parcel of life. One learns to bear it.”

She wrung the handkerchief in her hands. “He was all I had,” she said, lifting her gaze to his. “And if it hadn't been for him, I should have ended up in an orphanage, a state home.” She drew her shoulders up. “I didn't even get to say goodbye to him, it was that quick.” The tears came again, hot and stinging.

He tilted her chin up. “Death isn't an end. It's a beginning. Don't torture yourself. You have a future to contend with.”

“Grief takes a little time,” she reminded him.

“Of course it does.” He pushed back a strand of unruly hair from her forehead. As he moved it, he noticed a smudge of grease. Taking the handkerchief from her hand, he wiped
away the smear. “Grease smears and dirty skirts. Claire, you need a keeper.”

“Don't you start on me,” she muttered, snatching the handkerchief away.

His lips curved in a semblance of a smile. He shook his head. “You haven't grown up at all. Instead of teaching you to work on motorcar engines, Will should have been introducing you to young men and parties. You'll end up an old maid covered in grease.”

“Better than ending up some man's slave!” she shot right back. “I have no ambition to marry.”

John cocked his eyebrow in amusement. “Not even to marry me?” he chided outrageously, grinning at her scarlet blush.

“No,” she replied tightly. “I don't want to marry you. You're much too conceited and I'm much too good for you,” she added, with a twinge of her old impish nature.

He chuckled softly. “That tongue cuts like a knife, doesn't it?” He took a slow breath and tapped her gently on the cheek. “You'll survive, Claire. You were never a shrinking violet. But if you need help, I hope you'll come to me. Will was my friend. So are you. I don't like to think of you being alone and friendless, especially when the house is sold.”

She looked vaguely panicked, and John understood why at once.

“I won't own anything, really, will I?” she asked suddenly. “Uncle Will mentioned that he'd just taken out another loan…”

“So he did. The bank will have to foreclose on the house
and sell it. You'll get anything over the amount necessary to pay off your uncle's debts, but frankly I doubt there'll be much left. The motorcar will have to go, too.”

“I won't sell it,” she said through her teeth.

“And I say you will.”

“You have no right to tell me anything. You're neither my banker nor my friend!”

He only smiled. “I'm your friend, Claire—whether you like to admit it or not. Mr. Calverson won't act in your interest.”

“And you will? Against your employer?”

“Of course, if it becomes necessary,” he said surprisingly.

She dropped her gaze to his expensive tie. He sounded very protective. He'd always been protective of her. She'd never quite understood why. “I won't sell the motorcar, all the same.”

“What will you do with it?”

“Drive it, of course,” she said. Her eyes lit up. She lifted them to his. “John, I shan't have to sell it! I can hire it out to businessmen, with myself as the driver! I will start a business!”

He looked as if she'd hit him in the head. “You're a woman,” he pointed out.

“Yes.”

He took an exasperated breath. “You can hardly expect me to condone such a harebrained scheme.”