The Wedding Shop (22 page)

C
ORA

I
n the dim candlelight, Cora waited on the back porch, absently running Rufus's gold heart pendant along the chain around her neck as music from the radio propped against the windowsill filled the porch. Sophie Tucker sang, “To me it's clear, he'll appear . . . the man I love.”

But just where was the man she loved? Rufus was an hour late. Cora jumped up, reached inside, and snapped off the radio. She scurried up two flights of stairs to check on dinner, the heat from the stove making the third floor unbearable—even though she'd turned the oven off an hour ago. Overhead the fans whirled, trying to draw in some cooler air through the open windows.

Tonight she might just drag her mattress downstairs and sleep on the porch.

Opening the oven door, Cora assessed the roast to be surviving, praise be. She sat in the chair by the dining table, still set with a place for her and Mama.

Oh, law, if Mama were here, she'd have a few words to say.

Cora was glad she was alone, away from Mama's judging eyes. But she sure could use Mama's famous gravy recipe to save her drying-out meat. Daddy used to say she could slather it on leather and have the folks banging the table for more.

But Mama was on a bus bound for New York.

Cora peeked out the third-floor window to Blossom Street.
Five after eight. What could be keeping him? Every ticking minute sat like stone in her belly.

Back down to the shop, she adjusted the gown she'd put in the window this afternoon, moving the shoes forward more so they caught the edge of the streetlight.

This gown was one of her favorites. Odelia pieced it together from three different patterns. The long sleeves of lace would be perfect for any season save for the dead of summer.

She'd have it sold by the end of the week.

At the front door, she leaned to see if Rufus might be coming from across the way, through Gardenia Park. But his large shadow did not darken any street corner.

Back on the porch, the breeze pushed through the screen, setting the tapered candle flames dancing. Cora bent to blow them out but changed her mind. What if Rufus showed and her romantic evening was nothing more than darkness serenaded by cicadas?

She sat at the table, adjusting the silverware, making sure everything was just right. But impatient adrenaline lifted her from her seat. She walked to the curb on Blossom.

“Rufus?” She raised her voice ever so slightly. “Are you here?”

But her only answer was the
ka-boom
of a car engine backfiring.

On the corner of First Avenue, gazing west toward the port, an eerie chill crept over her skin. Downtown was dark. Quiet. Several of the streetlamps had burned out.

Wrapping her arms about her waist, Cora hurried back to the porch. Inside the shop, she sat in the small salon where she had the luxury of a second phone.

“Operator? The port house, please.”

Cora pressed her thumb to her lips as she waited, listening to the phone ring with no answer. She hung up. Something was wrong. She knew it. Trouble brewed in her gut.

Running up to the third floor, the skirt of her dress ruffling, swinging about her legs, the thick heels of her Sunday Mary Janes
resounding with a determination, Cora gathered her hat and gloves, purse, and keys.

In her car, her trembling hands gripped the wheel, her mind blank, her heart thudding. She had no idea what she'd find at the port, but she had to try.

She knew the
Wayfarer
docked earlier this afternoon. She saw Rufus's roustabouts down the street at the diner.

Lord, please let me lay eyes on him.

She would kiss him first, then give him a piece of her mind for being tardy, scaring her half to death. A packet sank at the head of the Greasy Creek shoals not too long ago.

At the port, she parked along the street, then traveled the walkway and the length of the quay to the boathouse, where a man in a blue cap and graying beard greeted her.

“I'm looking for Rufus St. Claire.”

“He ain't here. Pulled away around six o'clock.”

“What? No, he couldn't have. I saw his roustabouts in town this afternoon. He's the captain of the
Wayfarer
.”

“I know who he is, and I tell you Captain St. Claire pulled away around six. Saw it with my own eyes. He came in, used my phone, collected some mail, muttered something not polite to repeat to a lady, then gathered his boys and headed downriver. He was a bit agitated.”

“Did he leave any messages? Perhaps for Miss Cora Scott?”

“Nope, but I stepped away for a moment.” The man disappeared into a back room and Cora heard the thumping of boxes. He reappeared with a white envelope in hand. She breathed relief, reaching for her letter.
Thank goodness.

The man held his hand close to his chest. “Hold on now, this ain't for you. It's for the captain. Guess it got left behind. I'll put it in his box for the next time.”

“Please, may I see?” Cora sighed, softening her posture. “I was supposed to meet him this evening and I'm worried.”

The old man hesitated, then handed it over. “Guess it don't hurt to look. But don't open it or it'll be my job.”

Dread fired up Cora's worry. The handwriting was familiar, reminding her of the handwriting on the postcard two springs ago. And the name was the same. The top left corner read “Miriam.” This time with a return address. Which Cora memorized before she handed back the letter. “Thank you.”

“Do you have a message for the captain should he return?”

“No, no, I don't.” Cora pressed through the door into the night, the breeze off the river thick and dewy, scented with summer.

Rufus, you're breaking my heart.

“You Cora?”

She jerked around with a start to find a man leaning against the boathouse, the scent of a pipe tinging the fragrance of the river.

“I don't have any money, if you're wondering.” She held up her pocketbook. It was empty save for her car keys. Which she'd hate to lose, but rather her car than her money.

“You looking for the captain? St. Claire?”

She stepped toward the man with eager intent. “I am. Do you know where I might find him? Or when he'll be back?”

“You're the one, ain'tcha?”

“Whatever do you mean, ‘You're the one'?”

“The one who's in love with him? Living in town? It's a fabled story on the river that some gal on the Cumberland has been waiting for him for five years. She ain't figured him out yet.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.” But she did, didn't she? “Figured out what, exactly?”

The man puffed on his pipe and stared toward the river. “I ain't aiming to be the one that breaks your heart.”

A hunger for truth trumped her fears as she moved closer to the stranger. “Tell me what you know. Please.”

He tapped his pipe against the wall of the boathouse. “Sure
you want to know? Like I said, I ain't aiming to be the one that breaks your heart.”

“How can you if you don't even know me?”

He laughed. “I suppose you got a point there.” He gave her the squinty-eye, then sighed. “I hate to see what appears to be a good woman being used by a man like Rufus. Word is the captain's got him several women along the river. Except you're actually in love with him. The others figured him out and use him as much as he uses them.”

“That's not true.” But on her words, the inner tremors started, shaking her from the inside out. “He's asked me to marry him.”

The man's laugh floated over her, a dark, decadent sound. “You own the wedding shop? Is that right? I work on the
Rowena
over yonder.” He tipped his head to the packet docked and sleeping. “Been to Heart's Bend dozens of times. A man hears things. Trouble is, I can't figure out how's come you ain't wised up yet.”

Because she believed. Because she hoped. Because she loved him. Because . . .

Cora rose up in defense. “He's building his business, saving his money. Then we'll marry.” Though she didn't know why she defended their plans to this man. Maybe she just needed to hear them spoken out loud for her own sake.

“Building his business? Miss, he's one of the richest men on the river. His father owns two different river boat companies.”

He flicked a lighter and touched the flame to the barrel of the pipe. In the small yellow boathouse light, Cora saw a jagged scar creeping across his cheek.

“As a captain his reputation is legend. I've seen him maneuver waters that give me nightmares, and I been on the river since I was a boy. As a Romeo, his reputation is equally legend. Miss, he's not in love with you. Nor is he going to marry you. Word along the dock is he left tonight because his wife is having his baby tonight up in St. Louis.”

His wife?
“You're lying.” But the man's words pressed her until Cora thought she'd collapse.

“I'm just telling you the word on the river. But the captain is crafty. Can't get hide nor hair of truth out of him. Even when he's stone drunk.”

“He doesn't drink. He swore to me.”

“He swore, did he?” The man puffed on his pipe, his voice low and conciliatory. “I sure hate to see a pretty broad like you get hornswoggled by a man like St. Claire, but he's got the charm, all right. The magic touch.”

She wanted to walk away, stop listening to his lies, but her feet refused to move. Because she knew, didn't she? Truth laced his throaty, raspy tale.

“Th-thank you, Mr.—”

“Daughtry. Everyone calls me Daughtry.”

Cora headed up to the street to her parked car, barely registering the shrill call of sirens splitting the night air.

Several men scuffled from the boathouse. “Fire!” One jumped behind an old truck's wheel while several others hopped into the bed. They clung to the sides as the driver peeled out, smoke bursting from the tailpipe.

In sympathetic harmony, the wind moaned over the still river, stirring up the current. The siren sounded again, its eerie song sending gooseflesh over Cora's arms.

A coursing pain shot through her, the wail echoing in her heart's deepest chamber.
Rufus! Rufus!

The siren wound up again, revving the air with its warning. More men ran out of the darkness through the streetlights, then disappeared again.

Gazing in the direction they ran, Cora saw the dark smoke curling against the twilight sky.

She arrived at her car just as Joe McPherson pulled up in his pickup, leaning out the window. “Thank goodness you're safe.”

“Of course, why wouldn't I be?”

“Because, Cora, your shop is on fire.”

B
IRCH

He jolted awake, the alarm of the rooster driving through him, setting his heart to beating. He must have dozed off. Last thing he remembered was cooling Cora's face with a damp cloth, then sitting down in the corner chair to rest. Just for a moment . . .

Now the reddish-gold hue of an August morning inched around the drawn blinds. The lamp next to Cora's bed flickered, the wick thirsty for more oil.

Birch pushed out of the chair and gathered the washbowl and pitcher as he headed down to his kitchen. He needed coffee. And to see about breakfast. He'd let Cora sleep until he came back up with a tray for her. Hopefully she'd be hungry.

Then they could settle where she might live while the shop got repaired.
If
the shop got repaired. From what he saw last night, it would take a hay bale of money to make it right again.

He paused at the sink, resting his hands on the porcelain edge, and gazed out the window toward the horizon, pink and gold with the dawn.

His neighbor Wade came by to feed the stock, but Birch needed to weed the garden and mend the leather harnesses. Birch appreciated Wade; his kindness gave him room to tend to the woman he loved.

Last night liked to scare him to death. Hearing the fire siren was one thing. But racing toward town to fulfill his volunteer duties only to discover it was the wedding shop under the weight of the smoke nearly tripped him to the ground.