Twice a Bride (18 page)

“You really didn’t expect he’d be able to keep a tidbit like that from me, did you?”

“I suppose not.”

“Come help me put supper on the table. We’ve lots to talk about.”

Willow ducked into the parlor and greeted everyone, then followed Ida into the kitchen. She glanced at the doorway behind them to see if anyone had followed, but they were alone. “Did your father give you the answers you wanted?”

Ida sighed, remembering the sisters’ meeting with him that morning. “He worked with Cherise’s father.” She told Willow all she knew about the deaths of the girl’s parents and the arrangement for her care.

“Poor girl.” Willow took a bowl of carrot and raisin salad and the bread basket from Ida. “How kind of your father to follow through and bring her with him.”

“I’m not sure how kind it was.” Ida lifted the kettle of chicken and dumplings from the stove and followed Willow into the dining room. “She’s in a foreign land with strangers. And my father is too old and too single to raise someone else’s daughter.”

Willow set the bowl and the basket at one end of the table. “Did he say what his plans are?”

“Only that he expects me to take Cherise and raise her as my own.”

Willow’s eyebrows arched. “Really? He said as much?”

Ida placed the kettle in the center of the table and followed Willow back into the kitchen. “Not in so many words, but he looked at me when he said, ‘I’m hoping one of my daughters will take her in.’ ”

“Are you going to?”

No
. That was Ida’s quick and private answer. “Right now the child won’t even leave his side long enough to talk to anyone else.”

“Do you speak French?”

Ida shook her head and picked up the saltcellar and the pepper mill from the cupboard. “No. But Miss Hattie does.”

“Cherise speaks some English.”

“Yes.”

“They’ve been here only one day.” Willow lifted a tray full of empty glasses off the round table. “I’m sure this will all settle, given time.”

Ida nodded and grabbed the stack of cloth napkins on her way to the dining room. “Now, I want to hear about your interesting conversation with your employer.”

Willow set the tray on the buffet. “He asked me if I’d thought of a name for my business.”

“He did?”

“I know. I was surprised too. I hadn’t even regarded myself as the owner of my own business. And to have a man do so is, well, surprising.” Willow tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I hadn’t given any thought to a business name before his question, and I still haven’t come up with any names I care anything about.”

“Such as?”

“Mrs. Peterson’s Painted Portraits.” Willow giggled. “Too many
p
’s.”

“I see your point.” Ida grinned.

“I didn’t care for Willow’s Simulacrums either. It sounds like a medical procedure.”

Vivian waddled into the dining room. “What are we doing?”

Ida swallowed hard at the sight. How was it possible that her baby sister could be so close to giving birth? Where had the time gone? “We need to think of a name for Willow’s new portrait business.”

“That should be easy enough.” Vivian tapped her lips, something she was prone to do when thinking. “You want something fashionable.” She eased into a chair and resumed the tapping. “How about Portraits by Willow?”

Portraits by Willow
.

Vivian’s suggestion had pluck and personality. But what of Mr. Van Der Veer? He’d named his business Photography Studio, which wasn’t very original. He might think Portraits by Willow too conceited.

Willow lifted the tray of glasses from the buffet and began setting one beside each plate. Why was she concerned with his opinion, anyway? It was her business they were talking about, which made the name her choice to make. Mollie Kathleen used her given name in titling the Mollie Kathleen Mine.

Vivian sat at the other end of the table and began folding napkins into fans, her pregnant middle bumped up against the table’s edge. Ida was hosting the supper, but why wasn’t Vivian with her father? Nell had done the same thing at yesterday’s supper, disappearing into the kitchen like a Martha set on her task. Willow sighed. If it were her father here, nothing would pull her away from him, even if he had brought a stranger to the family reunion.

She glanced at Ida, who set the saltcellar and pepper mill on the table. “The table will be a bit crowded tonight.”

“It does look like we’ll be rubbing elbows a bit, but—”

“You don’t have to include me in all of your family gatherings. I’m all right. I have a wonderful place to live and an intriguing job.” It was best she didn’t mention she found her boss intriguing too. “I haven’t felt this good in several years.” Four years and two months, to be exact. “You have your father here.
Your sisters. Cherise.” And she was more than a little anxious to return to her room and paint.

Ida pursed her lips as in a pout. “I like having you here.” She rested her hand on Willow’s forearm and met her gaze, her eyes a lighter shade of blue than Mr. Van Der Veer’s. “And like it or not, you’re family too.”

“I like it. I couldn’t have picked a better sister-in-law.”

“Or substitute sisters.” Vivian smiled. “And you fit right in.”

“Who fits right in?” Mr. Sinclair led the others into the dining room with Cherise at his side.

“Willow.” Ida’s reply sounded abrupt, almost sharp.

“That’s the beauty of a big family,” Mr. Sinclair said. “There’s always room for one more.”

Ida’s face paled. Was she thinking about the baby she couldn’t carry or the child her father hoped she’d take in?

“Mrs. Peterson,” Mr. Sinclair said, greeting her.

“Please call me Willow.”

“Willow, then. Ida mentioned you’re working with a photographer here in town.”

“Yes, but I’m just getting started. Mr. Van Der Veer is new here. From New York.”

“New York?” Tucker held a chair for Ida and then one for Willow before taking his place at the head of the table. “He told me he was from Maryland.”

“That may be. In the past seven years, you’ve lived in Stockton, San Francisco, and Cripple Creek. And probably places in between. All the same, at some point, Mr. Van Der Veer worked in New York.” Why were they talking about the photographer? And why was she defending him?

Tucker stared at her, an eyebrow raised, no doubt wondering the same thing.

Ignoring the question on her brother’s face, Willow pulled her napkin fan from her plate and spread it on her lap. If he mentioned Mr. Van Der Veer
was single, she’d … she didn’t know what she’d do, but he wouldn’t think it pleasant.

Mr. Sinclair cleared his throat as if Willow and Tucker needed a referee. “Now that I have our family back together, I’d be interested in having a portrait done. You’d recommend this Mr. Van Der Veer?”

Willow straightened against the back of her chair in an attempt to assure everyone concerned that her interest in her boss was strictly business. “Yes. He does fine work.”

“Very well. Once we’re more settled”—Mr. Sinclair looked at Cherise, concern etching his brow—“I’ll speak to him about scheduling a sitting for a family portrait.”

Willow nodded. A Sinclair family sitting would provide her the perfect excuse to watch the photographer at work. She was, after all, practically family. She counted all those at the table, besides herself. A dozen. With that many subjects, Mr. Van Der Veer was bound to need an assistant.

Y
ou don’t think Mr. Sinclair is a good man?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Hattie dropped the dishrag into the sudsy water and angled her head toward Boney. The miner stood at her side with a dishtowel draped over his shoulder. Tonight he wore clean black trousers and a forest-green shirt. She couldn’t remember ever seeing him wear anything besides coveralls since he’d moved here right after George’s death.

Boney added a freshly dried soup bowl to the cupboard and looked at her, his brow furrowed. “But you did break your rule because of him.”

Hattie straightened. “My rule?”

“If you can’t say something kind about a person, say nothing at all.” Boney’s lopsided grin added a Sunday shine to his silver-blue eyes.

Cringing, Hattie fished the cloth from the sink. “That was my mother’s rule.” Her mother’s rule or not, it was a creed she usually abided by. She had yet to say much, if anything, kind about the Sinclair sisters’ father. She met her friend’s expectant gaze. “Mr. Sinclair wears his herringbone suit well.” She couldn’t suppress her smile.

Boney’s laughter exploded like a rifle shot.

“All right.” She took to scrubbing the second bowl. “I suppose I haven’t been too charitable where he’s concerned.”

“You suppose?” He chuckled. “You’ve been gnawin’ on the man like a mama bear. Before you ever met him.”

“And you blame me?” She dropped the bowl into the rinse tub, causing a splash. “Those poor girls came out here from Maine without their daddy so he could take a job in Paris. He sent Kat west to marry a ruffian.”

“I doubt—”

“And poor Vivian.” She plopped two spoons into the tub. “His baby girl. It’s a miracle she survived her entanglement with those outlaws last year. And Mister Sinclair hasn’t the slightest notion what his daughters have been through.”

“Nor they, him.” Boney lifted a dripping wet bowl from the sink and toweled it off.

She pulled the plug in the bottom of the sink. Dirty water swirled and gurgled down the drain. Her friend couldn’t be any more matter-of-fact about this. His was the voice of reason, a trait she normally appreciated. Not tonight. She wanted to be mad at her new tenant. Blame him for the pain she’d watched his daughters suffer in their first months in Cripple Creek. Every one of them had needed her father’s careful watch and guidance.

Boney hung the damp dishtowel on a peg and pulled two cups from the countertop. He was right, though. She hadn’t given much thought to what Harlan Sinclair had suffered the past two years.

“Kat told me her father lost his job in Portland and, consequently, their house.” Boney motioned to the table. “I don’t imagine his decision was an easy one.”

Was it a man’s unspoken responsibility to defend another man?

While she pulled the sugar bowl off the buffet, Boney carried the fresh coffee to the table. “What would you have done differently in Mr. Sinclair’s stead? Kat said her father had a job opportunity in Paris that would pay for his housing and allow him to make enough money to bring back to America with him.”

“Along with a little girl. Another one he couldn’t take care of.”

Boney pulled out her chair and met her gaze. “That’s what this is about?”

Hattie’s bottom lip quivered. “If our daughter had lived, George never
would’ve abandoned her.” Tears pricked her eyes and spilled down her face. Before she could raise a hand to wipe them, Boney pulled her into a comforting embrace.

“No, he wouldn’t have.”

George wouldn’t have abandoned her either. Not if he’d had a choice. Her shoulders shuddered under the weight of her tears.

“Shhh. Shhh.” Boney held her and smoothed her hair just as he had that day down at the river, thirty years ago. “It’s going to be all right, Adeline.”

She believed him. She’d lived a full and blessed life despite her losses. So would the Sinclair sisters. So would little Cherise.

Why was she so set on blaming Mr. Sinclair? And for what? The sisters were thriving despite their ups and downs. The Lord had His hand on them. She needed to listen to Mr. Sinclair’s side of the story. She shouldn’t judge him. It wasn’t her place. And God didn’t need her help.

The driver helped Willow from the carriage while Mr. Sinclair lifted Cherise to the ground. The only light glowed from the back of the boardinghouse. Apparently, Miss Hattie was still up and in the kitchen, which was where the three of them were headed. Cherise had been having trouble sleeping since she’d arrived in America, and Willow had offered to warm a cup of milk for the child. Mr. Sinclair had started yawning before Ida could serve the peach cobbler and coffee. If not for Cherise’s restlessness on the carriage ride, he no doubt would have fallen asleep.

Mr. Sinclair opened the front door, and Willow entered. She set her reticule on the entry table and walked to the kitchen.