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ARNIE THORESEN HELD the morning newspaper in stunned disbelief. The headline, in three-inch black type proclaimed,
STORM SINKS RICHMOND.
He stumbled to his feet grasping the paper, trying to read, trying to comprehend the article.
The ocean-going passenger steamer, Richmond, out of Boston en route to Liverpool, is reported to have sunk Monday last during a fierce nor’easter. Richmond had departed Boston less than ten hours prior to encountering the unseasonable storm and is believed to have gone down southwest of the Canadian province of Nova Scotia. Debris found washed up along the coast between Yarmouth and Clark’s Harbour, Nova Scotia, has been identified as from the Richmond.
American and Canadian vessels conducted a fruitless three-day search for survivors following Monday’s storm. The ship is listed with a complement of 175 officers and crew and 523 passengers. All hands and passengers are believed lost.
Joy was already in the store’s office when a pounding on the front door distracted her from her task. Blackie, curled near her office door, whined.
“It is more than an hour until we open,” she fussed, deciding to ignore the early customer. When the pounding grew more demanding, she tossed her pencil down and strode to the large double doors at the front of the store. Blackie padded along next to her.
“Why, Arnie! What on earth,” Joy remonstrated as she unlatched the door and took one look at his distraught face.
Tears filling his eyes, he held out the crumpled newspaper to her. Joy lifted it and began to read.
The world slowed and her arms and legs ceased to belong to her. Staggering backwards, she fell to the floor senseless.
—
JOY KNEW SHE WOULD die. She hoped she would die and join Grant. But it had to be a mistake—she had received Grant’s letter only yesterday. He could not have already been dead when she had read his loving words!
She refused to believe it. Grant would be home soon—had to be home soon!
But day after day passed. Newspapers reported more wreckage washing up in Nova Scotia. And then a small number of bodies. And Grant did not come home. Would never come home.
Joy’s papa and mama came as soon as they could, as did her brother Søren and her cousins Uli, Karl, Kjell, Sigrün, and their families, their grief as profound as hers. Her papa held her to his chest, and they stood together as she wept and wept. Her mama had to pull her away before Jan fell to the floor, his legs no longer able to support him.
Later Rose found them in the same manner. Jan shook his head at Rose and endured the pain of his weak, crippled knees. He would suffer anything to comfort his little girl.
Rose stood with them and held them both.
A week later, after a memorial service for Grant, Joy’s family returned to their homes with the exception of Rose and Jan. Rose cooked and cleaned and kept watch on her husband. He would be eighty years old the following spring, God willing, and she tried not to wonder how much longer she would have him with her.
Joy spent hours staring at the gold band she wore on her left hand. Except for the business and Blackie, it was the most tangible reminder of Grant she still possessed. As long as she wore it, she could keep him close to her. As long as it gleamed upon her hand, she could deny that they were parted forever.
As she mourned, she cast about for something to grasp and hold on to. Poor Blackie received many tears into his furry neck, and Joy took to keeping him always near her.
Although she prayed, the emptiness persisted, pulling her toward despair. Soon she determined to return to the store. It would provide the order and structure she craved and would stave off the void that seemed to loom wherever she turned.
She would shoulder every responsibility of the business—and in so doing prevent herself from breaking into a million pieces. But she vowed she would never take off the golden promise she wore on the ring finger of her left hand.
—
April 1908, Omaha
IN THE MONTHS FOLLOWING Grant’s death, Joy worked steadily to prove to their customers that they could still depend on the store to meet their needs. Her community was sympathetic, but suppliers were more difficult. Grant had taken a large portion of their savings with him to buy inventory for the new store. Joy tapped into the balance of their bank account to pay ahead on orders so that the store had an uninterrupted flow of goods.
Six weeks after Grant departed Boston on the Richmond, the fine household goods he had ordered arrived. Joy had put them out of her mind, and their unexpected appearance affected her like the arrival of a message from the grave.
With no heart or energy to open a second shop, she ordered the goods stored, unopened, in a warehouse near the station. She needed to give herself time. Time to grieve, time to decide how to dispose of the goods, and time to rent out the empty building they had purchased for the fine furnishings shop.
She hired two additional workers, both reputable, knowing that many eyes were watching the store for any sign of weakness or failure. Some in the Omaha community, she realized with a shock, were hoping for her failure.
Her parents wished to stay longer. Joy knew, though, that her father needed to be home, close to his fields, even though Søren and his boys managed them now. Jan stood and walked with such difficulty and pain. Joy knew that her father was twenty years older than her mother, but he had always been the immovable rock of their family. She could not bear to face his decline while she was still reeling from the loss of Grant. When Jan and Rose returned to RiverBend, Joy found she was somewhat relieved.
After six months without any lapse in supply or standards, the Omaha community seemed to accept that Joy was at the helm of the business. She handled that helm from her office, but her windows overlooked the store floor, and her keen eyes knew what needed direction and improvement. She held her staff to high standards and, as she withdrew into herself more and more, they became the face of Michaels’ Tools, Hardware, and Farm Implements.
Against the odds, Joy was succeeding, and some days she nearly forgot her crushing grief. Forgot until the staff turned out the lights and locked up and she was faced with climbing the stairs to the dark, empty apartment with only Blackie at her side. Joy began spending evenings in her office until her eyes could remain open no longer.
Once a week after work she spent an evening with Arnie and his family. Petter and Willem loved her, and she doted on them. Those visits were both blessing and curse, for as much as she needed each of them and looked forward to the company, the visits reminded her of Grant and all that was now gone.
When she stopped driving herself long enough to reflect, she knew in her heart that she was not dealing with her grief; she was only masking it with hard work and the exterior of a tough businesswoman. She knew she had grown distant and abrupt with her staff and had developed an exacting attitude with them and others who did work for her.
Unwittingly, she carried that hardness with her to Arnie and Anna’s house. Arnie made an exasperated observation one evening. “You begin to remind me of your father, Joy. You have developed his toughness and stoicism. Except he has always been fair and kind.”
Shamed, Joy blushed.
—
ONE AFTERNOON IN AUGUST she received a caller at the store. Perhaps in his mid-thirties, dressed well and quite professional in his manner, he introduced himself as Henry Robertson.
“Mrs. Michaels, thank you for seeing me,” he smiled as he took a seat in front of her desk.
“It is my pleasure, Mr. Robertson. How may I be of service?”
“Mrs. Michaels, I represent a very reputable consortium of businessmen here in Omaha. This group, Franklin and Chase Enterprises, is always on the lookout for successful ventures to which they might be of assistance.” He smiled again.
“I have not heard of Franklin and Chase Enterprises,” Joy replied in an even tone.
A number of salesmen had taken her for an easy mark—and she had cut her teeth on them. They and their slick delivery generally went their way empty handed but with a healthy regard for “that woman.” She had felt guilty for being unnecessarily rude on more than one occasion . . . but had also taken a rather perverse pleasure in cutting them down to size.
“Really? How surprising! I assure you, they are quite reputable.” Robertson smiled again, nonplussed.
“Yes, so you said.” Joy’s tone cooled a little. “And what can I do for you and your associates today, Mr. Robertson?”
“Ah! In actuality, it is what we can do for you, Mrs. Michaels.”
“Indeed? May I ask in what way, Mr. Robertson?”
Robertson reached into his breast pocket and extracted a fine linen envelope. “Franklin and Chase would like to extend their assistance with this offer of partnership.”
Joy’s eyes narrowed. “I am afraid you have been misinformed, Mr. Robertson. I am in no need of a partner. Please thank your employer for me, but I decline their offer. Good day.”
She stood. Robertson did not.
“I do encourage you to look at our offer, Mrs. Michaels. It is quite generous. I assure you that you will find the offer to be mutually beneficial. One never knows when a strong partnership will prove itself to be a . . . healthy addition.”
Joy’s stomach clenched. Robertson’s inflection conveyed a subtle threat, but a threat none the same.
“Mr. Robertson, this interview is over. Please leave.” Joy’s voice was firm and a little overloud. Next to her desk, Blackie’s hackles lifted, and he growled low in his throat.
Robertson merely smiled again, gathered himself to go, but laid the envelope on her desk. He tapped it with one finger.
“I do encourage you to consider this.” When he looked up at Joy, he no longer wore a smile and something dangerous flickered in his eyes.
“I said good day, Mr. Robertson.” Joy’s heart was thundering in her throat.
“A pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Michaels.” Robertson, his mask back in place, smiled once more.
Joy did not know how long she stared unblinking at the blotter on her desk. She remained still until Mr. Wheatley gave a timid knock on her office door.
Startled, she snapped, “What is it?”
He swallowed. “Ah, Mrs. Michaels? Everything is in order, and I have locked up. The rest of the staff is just waiting for you to dismiss them.” Mr. Wheatley, a man near her father’s age, drew back and stared at the floor.
Joy tried to focus. She recognized his discomfort and was first confused and then embarrassed. When had she started browbeating this kind man? When had her staff become nervous and uncomfortable working for her? Had she really become a taskmaster, a shrew instead of a gentlewoman?
Her face burned as she stood. “Mr. Wheatley, I, um, I want to . . . apologize for my tone just now. Please dismiss the staff and . . . no, wait. I shall do it.”
She laid her hand on his arm. “Please forgive me, dear friend. My bad behavior has no excuse. I—” She shook her head.
He met her look. “Mrs. Michaels, we are all cheering for you. You are doing a fine job running this establishment and,” he paused. “I accept your apology.”
His honest brown eyes glistened a little. “Things are going to get better, missus. I hope you can believe that.”
This time it was Joy who looked down, eyes moist. Would things get better? Would she get better?
“I thank you, Mr. Wheatley, and I appreciate your hope and good wishes. More than you know.”
Blackie at her side, she walked the shop floors, scanning the shelves, counters, floors, and window dressings. All in order. Neat and tidy. Her small staff waited by the front entrance. Most of them did not meet her eyes. Recalling some of her recent rants, Joy could not blame them.
“I, ah, thank you all for the good work you did this day. I want you to know that I appreciate all you do . . .” Her voice failed her.
A few looked at her with curiosity. Billy, whose laughter and goodwill had always seemed boundless but whom she had excessively chastised—only this morning?—stared at the floor boards with sullen resentment.
“Thank you all, for your support and hard work these last six months. I, uh . . .” she gulped. “Please enjoy your evening. And perhaps tomorrow, when you come in, I will not be quite the terror I have been of late.” She laughed a little in discomfort, but no one joined her.
Oh, Lord! What have I become?
She turned to Billy. “Billy, I need to apologize for taking you to task this morning, especially in front of your co-workers. I was unnecessarily harsh. I . . . It will not happen again.”
Nodding and murmuring good nights, the staff slipped out the door and Joy locked it behind them. She caught Billy looking back at her, hurt still stamped on his honest face.
Joy gulped in shame. Then she remembered the not-so-subtle threat laying on her desk in a fine linen envelope. She clutched her sides and sobbed once. She felt so alone! She needed advice—and perhaps help!
A gentle nudge turned her attention downward. Blackie stared at Joy, his eyes soft with the compassion a dog can often give. Joy stooped to hug him and receive his comfort.
As she knelt there, a smoldering anger began to replace her fear. No one was going to insinuate themselves into what she and Grant had worked so hard to establish and make profitable. No; she could take care of this Robertson herself—would take care of him.
By herself.
~~**~~
