Chapter 3

Behind his desk, Neil fiddled with his pen, almost able to see its whole length clearly, when a knock interrupted. “Come in.”

“Good morning, Neil.”

He shifted his focus onto his wife and the scent of coffee. He’d disappeared into his study before she’d awakened—he felt more secure holed up in here. Having a woman in his house for the past week had made him feel exposed somehow.… Why, oh why, had God made him weak and reliant on somebody?

Over the last five days, Helen had been industrious, mainly cleaning his small house from the moment she’d arisen until she bid him good night. If he didn’t know better, he’d have suspected his housekeeper had stopped cleaning thoroughly after his vision began to fade, but he knew that couldn’t be the case. He only hired people with a history of integrity. Rose wouldn’t shirk responsibility, even if he’d never know.

But since the wedding, Helen had turned quiet. He was happy with companionable silence, but over the last day or two, he’d begun to wonder if her silence was not as peaceful as his.

He shouldn’t have kissed her after she’d suggested otherwise—maybe she wanted their marriage to remain convenient. He should have let things progress naturally, as he’d intended.

Her shadowy form still hovered in the doorway, so he beckoned her in. She needed to step away from the sun lighting her from behind so he could see her better. He pushed aside the stacks of books he’d been trying to work through. He needed his desk cleared anyway, so he could answer Professor Larson’s letter asking to visit.

And he had to say yes. He’d practically begged the man to come in past letters, so he could hardly deny the professor’s request now just because he’d not gotten used to Helen yet. Somehow he didn’t think his mentor would approve of their relationship—the convenient aspect of it anyway.

He’d need to reserve a hotel room for the professor to hide the fact that there wasn’t a bed big enough for the newly wedded couple. He’d thought to allow Helen to furnish the house to her satisfaction after the wedding but had been stymied when she’d been uninterested.

So he’d ended up on the couch. He’d never realized how uncomfortable that piece of furniture was. Never had reason to sleep on it before.

The professor was coming in a week and a half. Could he make his marriage look more conventional by then? Nine days wasn’t much time to win Helen over.

Despite knowing it would be futile, he blinked repeatedly, trying to better see his wife in the chair across from him. The slow way she’d lowered herself, and the way she now seemed to sit uncomfortably, bespoke anxiety.

But after many ticks of the clock, she still hadn’t asked him for whatever had driven her into his study. Had she finally decided to order new furniture? Everything in the house might as well be changed to her liking since he’d not be seeing much of anything soon. But she claimed she felt uncomfortable with the expense.

Well, he was uncomfortable on the couch. “Have you decided how to redecorate?”

It would be a far better use of her time than rearranging. Did she not realize that moving chairs on a near-blind man would confuse him? But if that’s how she made herself feel at home, he’d pray she wasn’t afflicted with the same malady that caused his mother to move furniture around whenever she felt restless.

“There’s no need to waste money. Your home is adequately furnished.”

Hmmm, his mother would never have been happy with adequately furnished. This house was also much smaller than his mother would expect of a wealthy man. But then, Helen was a more practical woman. “I can afford more than adequate.”

“I know.”

He blinked at her but couldn’t quite read her expression. Well, so be it. It wasn’t like he’d be able to appreciate her decorating efforts. If she was content, he’d let her be so.

But his room did need a bigger bed … eventually … probably. He needed something.

He looked down at where he should have been able to see his feet, but his brown shoes disappeared against the wood boards. Maybe this was her way to keep him on the sofa indefinitely. Did he have room in the study for a bed?

She’d been skittish since he’d kissed her at the wedding, so outright telling her he needed to move into the bedroom would make everything more awkward. He tapped his pen again. Any other man would probably have wooed his wife by saying her eyes sparkled or something. But, of course, she’d see through such compliments, considering he couldn’t see much of her at all.

If only he hadn’t rushed this. He’d done well in business by pushing forward with his decision the moment he’d made a plan. But then, relationships were hardly businesses, and friendships were not his forte. Though his few friends were loyal, he didn’t realize how rarely he saw them until they sought him out.

But he couldn’t sleep on the sofa much longer. He was too tall—the thin wooden arms either attempted to cleave his head in two or cut the blood to his ankles where they hung over the end, and he was too big to curl up sideways. “Do you prefer pine, oak, cedar, or cherry?”

She fidgeted, the chair creaking beneath her. “Cedar, I suppose.”

Good, at least she had a preference. He’d go by the furniture maker this afternoon and order a headboard, footboard, wardrobes, a chest, and a mattress as spacious as the room would allow. Something simple, since she didn’t seem to want to spend money.

“I’m antsy to learn about your business before your vision makes sharing difficult.”

He glanced over at her. Had he not told her his vision had improved a little since the wedding? The stress of his diagnosis and decision to marry had probably caused some of his visual problems that were now settling a bit.

But to tell someone about his aches and pains, where he was going, his hopes and fears—well, he normally shared nothing with anyone beyond the business contracts or Greek grammar he was pondering.

Was learning to be a husband at fifty-three more than he should’ve taken on? “I didn’t want to rush you.”

She’d seemed content to clean the past week, or had his vision kept him from noticing some other emotion at work in her?

“I’d like to start. With you having a cook, a maid, and secretaries … well, I would like to occupy my time with important things.”

She didn’t have to rush. Did he remember to tell her she could read his books? He hadn’t once seen her in here perusing his floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. “You do know that if I don’t have the sort of books you want to read, you’re free to purchase as many as you’d like.”

“Thank you, but you’ve overestimated my ability to take over your business if you don’t think I need to start learning right away. I’ve never done anything beyond keep house. When your secretary came by yesterday, I wish I could’ve done more than tell him when I expected you back.”

“Next time, feel free to ask him what he wants. He came to ask how I wanted to handle the sawmill supervisor who’s irate over one of our supplier’s behavior.”

“But how would I have known what to do?”

“Well, it was more of a personal issue than a business decision. I’m sure you could’ve talked Mr. Yates through the situation. But if it had been something more operational, he could have explained it to you.”

“So you don’t intend to teach me.” Her tone sounded disappointed. “You want me to learn everything through Mr. Yates?”

“No.” He blew on the coffee she’d warmed up and took a sip. “We’ll go through everything together. But you don’t have to defer to me, even now. My workers have been informed that in my absence, you’re their authority and your word holds.”

“But I hardly know what you do beyond you own a sawmill, several textile mills, and you lease several buildings in town.”

“I trust you, Helen. If you don’t know what decision to make, I’m sure you’ll ask for more information, get someone’s advice, or tell them to wait if you want to discuss it with me.” He placed his arms flat on the table and leaned forward. “But if you’re ready, I can start showing you around my properties this afternoon.”

Maybe his tongue would loosen over the business talk they’d have to do. He stared at one of the white rectangles on his desk that was likely Professor Larson’s letter. Even if they talked about his properties, that wasn’t close to the kind of talk a husband and wife should be doing. And yet, it had only been a week since they’d wed. Surely people who married for love courted for a much longer time before feeling comfortable together.

Hopefully Professor Larson wouldn’t be interested in his marriage at all, because if he was, he would slice right through all the uneasy excuses and probe Neil’s deficiencies. He’d always liked the man for not dancing around hard topics—when it came to religion. But would he still feel that way when he pointed out the trouble Neil had gotten himself into by taking on a wife, when he could barely maintain a friend?

Helen shifted her weight from one foot to the other. How many hours had they walked up and down the floors of the three textile mills Neil owned? She needed to order a more comfortable pair of boots. She glanced at her timepiece as Neil patiently listened to the woolen mill’s third-floor supervisor complaining. Evidently this man was rarely satisfied with anything.

“Are you all right, Helen?” Neil’s hand clutched her elbow. The portly supervisor was staring at her as if she’d purposely interrupted his harangue.

“A woman my age isn’t used to so much walking.”

“Come now, don’t put us in the grave yet.” Neil smiled at her then beckoned to Mr. Yates. “Would you see my wife home while I finish with Mr. Sackett?”

“Certainly. My own feet are begging for a reprieve.” Mr. Yates’s hair was prematurely gray, and the gentle laugh lines around his eyes crinkled at the slightest provocation. “And I’m not even old enough to have grandchildren.”

She shrugged but couldn’t muster up even a glimmer of amusement. She’d never have any grandchildren. And though she’d come to terms with that ages ago, the sting of sadness was more acute now that she’d actually married.

Not that she and Neil would have had children earlier, considering blindness was the only thing that had turned his head her way.

She should be grateful for being chosen to help him now.

And yet, if only he’d spend a little more time with her, talk to her some more.

For what purpose? She rubbed at her eyes. This discontent was ridiculous. What other person in the whole state of California had as much attention from Neil as she? He was plenty hospitable and never once made her feel ugly and old—like she was.

Yes, she should be plenty content with his genial attention.

She looked over her shoulder, but Neil had already walked off with the unhappy supervisor.

Mr. Yates led her down to the carriage and handed her inside then took a seat up with the driver.

Within minutes, they were in front of Neil’s modest home, and Mr. Yates jumped down to help her out.

She’d never really thought of where Neil lived before she married him. She’d assumed he lived in a house at least the size of her sister’s, since his income was enormous compared to Don’s, yet this house was nothing more than a small two-bedroom cottage. And one of the bedrooms, the larger of the two, had been converted into a library and study.

She’d assumed she’d have her own bedroom … a choice of bedrooms, actually. But then, she should’ve known better. Neil wasn’t the kind of man who needed a room to entertain overnight guests.

But after he’d unexpectedly kissed her at the ceremony …

He’d laid out his plan for marrying with such precision that she’d truly not expected to be more than his companion with legal claim to his estate. But then he’d kissed her, even after she told him she didn’t expect one. And it hadn’t been a simple kiss, no, he actually seemed to have put some feeling into it, as if … as if he actually thought she was worth—

She tripped on an uneven pavestone, and Mr. Yates’s arm tightened about hers.

“Be careful, Mrs. Oliver.”

“Sorry about that.” She needed to get her head out of the clouds.

Though if she’d learned anything from watching Neil these past few days—meeting his business partners, looking over his books, seeing every bit of property he’d acquired, getting her name added to paperwork—the man made sure everything that needed to be done was done, and done properly. Including sealing a marriage deal with a kiss.

She was stupid to think the kiss meant anything to him beyond what needed to be done to finalize the marriage. Maybe because she’d never been kissed before, she’d been surprised into feeling it meant something more. Maybe all kisses felt that way.

Yet, lately her mind betrayed her and dredged up the dreams of her youth where a rich, handsome man could actually love a woman like her. Drat that kiss. She’d have been better off if he’d sealed their marriage with nothing more than a handshake and his signature on the license.

Maybe after a few more weeks of companionable silence, her memory would give up the longing he’d created for something she’d never believed she was going to get.

The kiss was short, really, just a few seconds, it couldn’t take that long to forget … if she could stop dwelling on it.

But really, how many old, unsightly women got kissed by a man so handsome?

She let out a frustrated growl. If she didn’t stop thinking about that kiss, the memory of it would never go away.

“Are you all right?”

She blinked at the door in front of her and glanced up at Mr. Yates, still holding on to her arm. How could she have been so deep in her traitorous thoughts that she’d not even felt his arm around hers?

“I’m fine.” She needed something to talk about—something that had nothing to do with kissing. “Some of the tenants today seemed surprised by Mr. Oliver’s appearance. Does he not visit them often?”

“Not much. He completely trusts me, just like he did Mr. Cannes, who used to take care of things and report to him. He’s making these rounds for you.”

She took out her keys. Over the last few days, she’d pieced together that Mr. Yates had expected to take over Mr. Cannes’s position, but she’d be the one to do so now. “I hope you aren’t too upset that he’s chosen me to oversee things when you’re clearly more knowledgeable than I.”

“No, ma’am. I’m flattered with the wholehearted trust Mr. Oliver has in me, and yes, I’d assumed after Mr. Cannes died that I’d take over—but the amount of time he spent doing his job is more than I care to work. My only child just left home, and I’m looking forward to spending time with my wife. I’m content with a good boss, a decent salary, and a lovely woman to go home to.”

Helen swallowed at the thought of a man more focused on a woman than his business. If this man hadn’t already proven himself by answering her silly business questions with the utmost patience when Neil was busy, she’d have put her trust in him right now.

Of course, Neil seemed extremely good at selecting only the most upstanding associates—who all seemed incredibly loyal to their reserved employer.

She’d always assumed she was the only person willing to debate theology with him, but over the last week, she’d seen more than one man converse with Neil. He was always polite and seemed genuinely attentive, giving advice when needed—good advice, too. His words were always few and to the point, though he somehow managed to never sound curt.

But he never started a conversation on his own. Not even with men under his employ for years like Mr. Yates.

“Why did Mr. Cannes work so many hours?” Neil seemed plenty capable of handling the work he was showing her. Or maybe he hadn’t yet shown her all of what he expected her to do.

“Mr. Oliver always chastised him for the time he spent working, but your husband, well, he’s so short on words that Mr. Cannes spent a lot of time listening to the complaints his employees didn’t bother Mr. Oliver with, in an effort to respect his time.”

“But he seems quite willing to listen to them.”

“He is, but a boss so standoffish is a bit intimidating to talk to. Sometimes it’s hard to know if we’re pleasing him.”

Try being that man’s wife.

Mr. Yates let go of her arm and cleared his throat.

She plunged the house key into the keyhole. “Can I get you lemonade or tea before you go?”

“No, thank you, ma’am. I should be heading home now.” He doffed his hat and stood waiting for her to go in.

“Thank you for escorting me home, Mr. Yates.”

Once the door shut behind her, she headed to the kitchen and opened the icebox. She plunked chipped ice into a pretty blue glass and pumped some water before lowering her achy body onto the sofa in the parlor.

Her feet thanked her for sitting, though they begged to be released from the pretty, but tight-toed boots she’d never had problems with before. Neil had given her permission to redecorate. Maybe she could order a slipper chair. She’d always wanted one of those low, wide chairs to take off her shoes with grace and ease, and Neil could afford it. But where would they put more furniture in this little house? She sighed and settled for extending her legs and wiggling her toes.

Her sister would be the sort of person who’d enjoy spending Neil’s money and figuring out what furniture would work in his small house. But Helen wasn’t about to let her sister see where Neil slept. As if she needed to hand Margaret another reason to belittle her.

Leaning her head back, Helen closed her eyes and thought over all she’d learned about Neil’s work in the past week. Nothing she couldn’t handle, as long as she could ask him for help when a sticky situation came up, and since his deteriorating vision wouldn’t keep him from having a long life, there shouldn’t be any problems.

But she didn’t want to spend those long years in silence. She’d have to figure out how to draw him out—without getting her hopes up for much more than an extended friendly theological debate.

She pulled one of the books he scattered about the house closer to her. So back to debating theology she would go. And surely discussing the lofty things of God would help keep her mind from wandering back to that one kiss she’d need to be content with.