And he says the most outrageous things to me,” Elsa lamented as she continued to enlighten her sewing circle of this latest travesty in the form of Shane Gerhard. While she spoke, her needle went in and out of the pieced-together fabric beneath her fingertips. The quilt pattern on which all five young ladies around her worked was called Tumbling Blocks, and Elsa couldn’t help but think how the intricate design described her life right now. Tumbling. And all because of one arrogant, highfalutin man from St. Louis who wanted to kick her dreams of marrying Henry right out from under her for his own selfish purposes.
“Elsa, my dear, I don’t think you should have thrown the bowl at him,” Clara Bucey remarked from her corner of the quilt. She was Charlotte Warner’s niece, and everyone in town admired the Widow Warner’s commitment to charity. A slim gal with light-brown hair and brown eyes, Clara was following in her aunt’s footsteps. “Losing one’s temper just isn’t ladylike, nor is it Christian.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Elsa replied, “and I have already asked the Lord’s forgiveness.”
“I wouldn’t have stooped so low as to throw anything,” Diana Montclair drawled, sipping her tea and watching the others stitch. The attractive blond rarely attended the sewing circle with the other town girls. Having attended various elite boarding schools, Diana had grown accustomed to more elevated entertainments, and she had been quite vocal about her distaste for such mundane endeavors as needlework. But for some reason, she had graced the group with her presence today. “Of course, I would not have been performing menial kitchen duties,” she added with a haughty tilt of her chin, “and, therefore, I wouldn’t have had access to an earthenware bowl in the first place.”
“You know, Diana,” Elsa retorted, “you would make a perfect match for our self-important guest, Shane Gerhard.”
Diana glared back, her silver-gray eyes sparkling with resentment.
“Girls, girls,” Mrs. Tidewell said, “the wrath of man does not produce the righteousness of God. We must remember that before losing our tempers.”
Elsa felt herself blush with conviction. She knew the older woman was right. And she wasn’t exactly a Christian role model for Diana Montclair.
Elsa glanced first at Mrs. Tidewell, then Diana. “Please forgive me for my lack of self-restraint.”
Diana replied with a bored expression, but Mrs. T readily accepted the apology.
“Of course, Dear,” she said, patting her downy-white hair that was pulled back into a prim little bun. “No one is perfect. Now then, let’s get on with our prayer requests.”
Mrs. T sat down opposite Diana at a small, polished side table in the parlor, while Betsy Larkin cleared her throat.
“I have a request,” she said. “I have several requests, actually.”
Elsa turned to her immediate left. She had known Betsy most of her life. They’d gone to school together and played at each other’s homes. But then Betsy’s mother died in childbirth three years ago, leaving her with the responsibility of caring for her four siblings who ranged in age from newborn to five years old. Betsy had been forced to grow up awfully fast in order to fill her mother’s shoes.
“Please pray for Karl,” Betsy said, her blond hair slightly mussed. “He turned eight on Saturday and suddenly decided he knows everything. And Will is easily influenced by his older brother, so the two of ’em are double trouble.”
Everyone laughed softly, except Diana, who appeared infinitely bored with the entire conversation.
“And please pray that I can nurture Marie and Greta,” Betsy continued, looking down at the squares on which she stitched, “like Mama would have.”
A rueful moment hung in the air.
“Of course, we’ll pray for your brothers and sisters,” Mrs. T said in a comforting tone. “And we’ll pray for you, too, for a nice young man to come into your life and sweep you off your feet.”
Betsy brought her chin back while Elsa chuckled softly at her friend’s startled expression.
“I’ll never get married, Mrs. T,” Betsy said. “Who’d have me, what with all my responsibilities at home?”
“A very special man, that’s who,” the older woman replied with an easy smile. “Now, anyone else have a prayer request? Samantha? What about you?”
“For my mama,” she said. Like Betsy, Samantha Thomasohn had been a friend since elementary school. Her father ran the mercantile right across from the boardinghouse.
“Your mother’s no better?” Clara asked with a pained expression.
Samantha shook her head, her blond ringlets swinging from side to side. “No, there’s been little or no improvement. She’s still so sick.”
Elsa’s heart constricted painfully. She knew what it was like to have an ailing mother … and to lose her.
“We’ll be sure to pray, Samantha,” Mrs. T said with a determined look in her green eyes.
A few other prayer requests were mentioned, and then Mrs. Tidewell asked the girls to stop their sewing and bow their heads. As the older woman prayed, Elsa felt a deep, abiding sense of communing with the Savior, and a verse from the Book of Matthew came to mind: “For where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.”
How awesome, Elsa thought, that a holy God heard their prayers and cared about their welfare!
When Mrs. T ended her petitions with a hearty, “Amen!” Elsa felt renewed, refreshed.
“Now, how about more tea, girls?” Mrs. T asked, looking rejuvenated herself. “Afterward, we’ll see if we can finish this quilt.”
Midafternoon, Shane ambled down the dusty street of Hickory Corners. He passed a dress shop on his left and the tinsmith to his right, across the road. Both businesses were housed in single-story, rough-hewn buildings, albeit the dress shop had whitewashed shutters adorning its two glass windows. Next came the bank, a red-brick building. After that was Montclair’s Shipping Office, another wooden structure, and Shane remembered it was Mr. Quinsy’s place of employment. He shook his head. What did Elsa see in that guy—and why did Shane even care?
Standing on the corner, he spied a barbershop and decided on a haircut. He crossed the street, nodding politely to a man who was loading supplies into his wagon, and entered the shop. Immediately, Shane saw a feeble-looking, gray-haired man sitting in a chair, reading the morning newspaper.
The old man peered up over the top. “What can I do for you, Son?”
“I’d like a haircut.” Shane’s gaze roamed over the sparsely decorated shop. He spotted a few shelves of barber bottles that most likely contained scented hair tonic. A few wooden chairs lined the wall near the doorway, and above them were several hooks. Shane hung his black, wide-brimmed hat on one of them.
“Haircut? Why, sure.” The old man stood on rickety legs, dusted off the red leather seat on which he’d been perched, and held his hand out, indicating Shane should take his place. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Shane strode across the plank floor and sat down.
“You’re new in town.”
“Not ‘new.’ Just here on business … temporarily.”
“I see.” The old man fastened a cape around Shane’s neck, then took his scissors in one hand a comb in the other. “Folks call me Doc.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Shane Gerhard.” Peering through the mirror at the man who stood behind him, Shane saw him tremble with age. “Why are you called ‘Doc’? Do people need medical attention when you get done with them?”
Doc laughed until he sputtered and coughed. “Mercy, no! It’s against my practice to administer a blood-letting and a haircut at the same time.” He cackled again. “I’ll have you know, young man, that I have a steady hand once I get going. And, I’m ‘Doc’ because I’m the physician in these parts.”
“You are?” Shane grinned. “No fooling?”
“I wouldn’t josh about a thing like that.” He began snipping around Shane’s ear.
“Well, in that case, I reckon you can sew back on whatever you accidentally cut off.”
“Never cut off anything that didn’t need cutting off,” the old man retorted.
Shane decided he’d best hold real still … just in case.
“You staying at the Fritches’ place?”
“Yep.”
Doc pushed Shane’s head forward and snipped around his collar. “Elsa Fritch is one fine cook.”
“Found that out already.”
“What did you say, Son?”
Shane spoke louder. “I said, yes, she is … a fine cook.”
“Fine cook,” Doc repeated. “And she’s grown into a fine-looking young woman, too. Why, I remember when Elsa was just a schoolgirl in braids, playing in the road with her brother, Herrick, and their little sister, Heidi.” Doc snip, snip, snipped around Shane’s other ear. “Heidi got married a year ago, and I think poor Elsa felt badly that it wasn’t her having a wedding, since Heidi is younger.”
“Mm …,” Shane replied, fighting his curiosity.
“Then Henry Peabody came to town. He’s from Boston, you know. Works for Mr. Montclair, who’s the richest man in southwestern Ohio.”
“Is that right?”
“Sure is.”
“I haven’t met Montclair, but I met Mr. Peabody.” Shane closed his eyes as Doc commenced trimming the front of his hair. “He says he’s got something called quinsy.”
“That he does. Probably should have those tonsils removed.”
Shane grinned. “Sharpen up them scissors, Doc.”
The old man chuckled. “Oh, no, I don’t do surgeries anymore. Henry would have to go to Fort Washington for that. And I suspect he will some time in the future. It’s no fun having a sore throat prett’ near every day. Perhaps once he and Elsa are married, she’ll be able to convince him not to be afraid of having the operation. Although, I wish … oh, never mind.”
“You wish what?” Shane opened his eyes and glanced at Doc.
“Aw, nothing. I spoke out of turn, Son.”
Shane thought it over, told himself it was none of his concern, but still couldn’t squelch his curiosity. “Might help if you spoke your mind, Doc, since my business has to do with Miss Fritch … and her engagement to Peabody.”
Doc paused, his bony hands suspended in midair. “Maybe if you explain your, um, business—”
“Sure.” Sensing the elderly man was trustworthy enough, he relayed the predicament and his reason for coming to Hickory Corners—leaving out the sum of his inheritance.
“If that don’t beat all,” Doc said, wagging his gray head. “What if Arne doesn’t find those receipts?”
“Then I plan to marry Miss Fritch as soon as I can find a willing preacher to perform the ceremony.”
Doc let out a long, slow whistle. “And does Elsa know this?”
“Yes, Sir, she does.”
“I don’t imagine she’s too pleased about it.”
“Let’s just say she’s as pleased about it as I am.”
“I see.” Doc sprinkled some tonic water onto Shane’s head and proceeded to rub vigorously. “Does Henry know?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Hm …” Doc combed Shane’s hair into place.
“Now, what were you going to say? What is it you wish?”
The old guy produced a wheezing laugh. “I was going to say that I wish Elsa were marrying someone else, not that I don’t think Henry is a good man. But he’s … well …”
“Not the man for her.”
“That’s it,” Doc agreed. “Furthermore, my instincts tell me Elsa pities Henry more than she loves him, but she wants to get married and he’s the one asking, so …”
“So she might as well marry him.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Look, Doc, just to set things straight, I’m not exactly husband material, got that?” Shane yanked off the striped cape and stood, brushing the loose hair from his clothing. “Elsa would be better off with Mr. Quinsy Peabody than with me.”
“You’d know best.”
Shane nodded, then paid for the haircut.
“But just the same, I’ll keep the matter in my prayers.”
“Sure. You do that, Doc.”
Donning his hat, Shane left the barbershop, feeling oddly unsettled. He didn’t want to get married. He wanted his money. That’s it.
He paused, staring across the street. Then why did his gut just tighten upon seeing Elsa heading for the boardinghouse on the arm of Henry Peabody?