Chapter 47: Storekeeping

 

Mac ceased canvassing for votes in support of the convention’s work when he decided to buy Nate’s store. Based on what he’d heard, the men in California were likely to adopt the Constitution by an overwhelming majority—his efforts weren’t necessary. He spent the early part of November taking inventory with Nate, learning to weigh gold dust and test the purity of nuggets, and finalizing their agreement.

They signed the sales contract and shook hands on Friday, November 9, then Nate treated Mac and his granddaughter to dinner.

“Susan and I are off to San Francisco on tomorrow’s steamship,” Nate told Mac while they ate. “The trip is only nine hours now, so we’ll be there by evening. We’ll find hotel rooms to spend the winter in, maybe buy a house. While you toil here in the store.”

Mac grinned. “You’ll have me looking for ways to void our contract, if you keep touting the virtues of San Francisco.”

Nate laughed and shook his head. “I’ve never been sure why you want the store. But I’m not complaining.”

“Maybe it’s a whim,” Mac said, his face sobering. “Nothing else to do. Nowhere else to go.”

“You’ll visit us, won’t you, Caleb?” Susan said, touching his hand. “We’ll always welcome your company.”

“If I can.” Mac sipped his wine and smiled. “Your grandfather told me I’ll be too busy.”

After seeing Nate and Susan off at the Embarcadero the next morning, Mac went to the Golden Nugget to find Consuela. She was washing tables before the saloon opened. Her pregnancy was beginning to show, and she tried to hide it with looser dresses.

“I have a job for you,” Mac told her. “I bought Nate Peabody’s store and need a clerk.”

Consuela stared at him. “I can’t leave the saloon.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve worked here over a year now. I have regular customers. And I’ll have a child to raise. I need the money.”

“Your customers will find other girls. You don’t owe them anything. Have any of them stepped forward to help you?”

Consuela lifted her chin, looking for all the world like Jenny when she was stubborn. “I don’t need their help.”

“You need someone’s help. I’m offering you mine.”

Consuela stared at him. “Why?”

He shrugged. “You need a friend.” He nodded toward her belly. “So does your child. As I said, I could use a clerk.”

“I’ll think about it.” She turned to wipe off another table.

Mac found his days fuller than he’d thought possible. He kept busy from early morning until well into the evening serving customers and restocking inventory in the store. But he relished the responsibility.

He wrote one evening:

 

November 21, 1849. Running the store is harder than I thought. Assaying gold is the least of it. Assisting customers and keeping inventory on the shelves has me darting from task to task until I barely remember what I need to do next. Nothing gets done unless I do it. I did not lie in telling Consuela I need a clerk.

 

Despite the challenges, Mac discovered he liked helping customers. He put his wagon train and prospecting experience to use. Many of the men who entered the store were greenhorns, just arriving after a long journey. They asked countless questions. He sympathized with their weariness—was it only two years since he and Jenny had reached Oregon? Mac tried to show the newcomers the same patience Nate had shown him when they first met.

When his work was done, Mac went to the Golden Nugget for supper. He didn’t renew his offer to Consuela, he merely watched her while he sipped his whiskey. He drank a single glass each night, then returned to his lonely quarters above the store.

One evening he signaled to Consuela to bring him a second whiskey. It was time to talk again.

“Another, Mac?” She smiled as she poured.

“You don’t seem to have as many patrons as you used to,” he said, taking the refilled glass from her.

She shrugged. “Business is slow.”

“Mine isn’t. I need you.” She wouldn’t leave the saloon if she thought his offer was charity. He’d have to convince her she’d be doing him a favor.

She raised her eyebrow. “Need me?”

“I’m too busy in the store to help everyone, restock my supplies, and assay the gold men bring me. I could really use your help.”

Consuela stared at him. “This isn’t the truth.”

He took a swallow and shrugged. “You can believe me or not, but the truth is I need someone to serve customers.”

“Will the customers let me serve them?”

He knew what she meant. “Most of them are new to town. They won’t know you were a working girl. They’re too grateful for any advice they can get. And for the credit I extend.”

“In a few months I may have to stop working here,” she admitted. “At least for a while.”

“Come see me tomorrow. We’ll talk.” Mac downed the rest of his whiskey and left.

Midmorning the next day, Consuela appeared in Mac’s store. “Tell me what you need,” she said, smoothing her hands over her skirt. Her gesture emphasized the swell of her abdomen.

“I need a clerk,” he said. “I’ll continue to weigh the color and manage stock on the shelves.”

“I can’t live at the Golden Nugget if I’m not working there.”

“You can have the room above the store. I’ll take a room in the saloon.”

She frowned. “That will cost you. Why would you do that?”

He shrugged. “I have money. I’m eating there most days anyway. It’s no trouble, and they’ll launder my clothes and bedding.”

“And when my niño comes?”

“We’ll worry about that in the spring.” He looked at her. “Have you seen a doctor?”

Consuela shook her head. “The other girls know as much about birthing as doctors do.”

“Will one of them come help you when your time comes?”

“I think so.” Consuela did not sound worried about the birth.

Mac had stayed with Jenny when William was born. She’d been young and terrified, exhausted to the point of stupor by the time the baby came after a full day of labor. But maybe Consuela was stronger.

“I will give my notice at the saloon,” Consuela said. “I will start here as soon as I can.”

She was back in an hour with a small parcel of clothing. “They do not need me.” Her voice caught when she spoke.

Mac wasn’t surprised. Consuela had worked at the Golden Nugget since it opened. But the saloonkeeper showed no loyalty—he could easily replace a prostitute.

 

November 27, 1849. Consuela has accepted my offer of employment in the store.

Consuela was not a good store clerk. She tried hard, but her lilting Spanish accent and low-cut gowns put off the female customers. Mac gave her a shawl from his inventory. Most of the customers were men, and they flocked to her until they saw her blossoming belly. She lacked the knowledge of gunpowder and hacksaws they needed, and Mac ended up advising the miners himself.

Still, knowing Consuela’s baby would not be born in a brothel eased Mac’s mind. When he traveled to San Francisco to purchase more goods, he was glad Consuela was there to watch the store. He taught her to handle a pistol and told her to keep it with her at all times.

And she cooked him his noon meal. She filled a pot on the fire in the kitchen each morning before the store opened, then stirred it between customers. Mac ate her savory paellas gratefully, though he continued to take his evening meal at the saloon with his whiskey.

“Well, this is cozy,” Joel said when he came into Mac’s store to deposit more gold. Consuela sang in the kitchen while Mac replenished bolts of cloth on the store shelves. “You shacking up with her now?”

“It’s not like that,” Mac said.

Joel looked at him skeptically. “Sure looks like it. Or is something wrong with you? First Miz Jenny. Now Consuela. You just look at the women and never touch?”

“It’s not like that either,” Mac said, tight-lipped. “They needed my help.” He wondered again whether he’d atoned enough for Bridget’s death. And for what he’d done to Jenny.

Joel laughed. “What about Miss Abbott? She don’t need your help.”

Mac grabbed Joel’s shirt front. “No more talk from you. You’re the one who should be watching over Consuela, not me.”

“Take it easy,” Joel said, shrugging Mac off. “I’m only here to sell you my gold and buy flour and lead for the winter.”

“How’s Huntington?” Mac asked as he hefted a bag of flour onto the counter.

“Coughing more with the cooler weather.”

“Send him to town if he gets worse,” Mac said. “He could stay in the back room here.”

“You take in all the strays, don’t you?” Joel said. “I doubt he’ll come, but I’ll tell him. He’s too old for mining. Good thing Tanner’s here now. He does the work of two Huntingtons.”