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Every middle-of-the-night creak of the house shouted out Claire’s solitude. Each one mocked her anxiety.
Why God? Why put this temptation in my path? It caused only grief last time.
She sat on her bed with her knees drawn to her chin. Though the night was cool, beads of moisture slid from her hairline down the sides of her face. She denied herself the warmth of slipping under the covers and shutting her eyes.
The scent of impending rain invaded the bedroom through the open window. Shadows blanketed the moon and dampened its glow, reflecting the way the shadows in her past dampened her life in the present.
A low rumble rolled in the distance. Perhaps thunder had awakened her.
On the other hand, nightmares often invaded her sleep with no rhyme or reason—nightmares that caused her to relive the truth.
In the dark, she saw and sensed and felt everything involved with the day her husband died. It started as a glorious and romantic time, a picnic in celebration of four years together. A celebration she ruined through her persistent demands.
Sitting in the grass, Claire sketched a design that pleaded for a life of its own, a sketch that helped calm her resentment. After their argument, Richard left to swim the White River alone. Rather, he had gone off alone when she refused to join him.
Lost in the composition on the page, time passed in a fog of solitude until a dog’s bark broke through her concentration.
She dropped the sketch pad onto the quilt and stood, searching for her husband in the water and seeing nothing but a series of circles on the surface several yards from the bank. They rippled outward from the center, tiny wakes spreading into larger and larger rings, yet growing ever gentler until they merged with the normal flow of the river and vanished.
Vanished like her husband?
“Richard? Richard!” She found her voice, rasping as it was.
Where was he?
Not a soul waited for her in the grass or among the trees on the slightly sloping ground. Nothing but a scruffy dog that barked incessantly, casting blame on her for being unaware of her husband’s absence.
“Richard!”
Already clothed in her bathing costume, Claire jumped into the moss-colored river and dove under the water’s surface. After spotting nothing in the depths but shadowy tree limbs and rocks, she broke through to fill her lungs with fresh air. She spun in a circle, surveying the landscape across the river and along each bank.
Plunging back underwater, her search through the murky depths resumed with both sight and touch. It carried her farther downriver than she would have expected Richard to go.
Her fingers brushed fabric before she saw the weightless form of her husband at her side. With an inner cry that threatened to burst from her throat, she tugged to release him from tree branches clutching his suit like demonic claws.
After the third try, the material tore and broke free. With his arms secured in her iron grip, she shot upward, breached the surface, and swam toward the nearest bank. She towed him with a strength borne of desperation.
Claire collapsed in the gritty soil beside her husband, unable to look into his face. With time the enemy, she forced herself to her knees and felt his chest for a heartbeat, a breath, anything that proved her fears were only grim imaginings.
Nothing.
“Wake up!” She beat his chest. Prayed and beat. Repeating the actions until there were no more words and her fist ached.
River water dripped from her hair and down her cheeks—fresh water that merged with salty tears to sprinkle Richard’s already sodden bathing suit.
A whine broke the stillness. She shivered. Had the sound come from her or the dog sitting on its haunches nearby?
She gripped Richard’s wet hand as if doing so could infuse the limp fingers with her own heartbeat, the warmth of her blood.
Then she knew. The whine was hers, and it turned into a bloodcurdling scream.
Claire scrambled off the bed, her bare feet cool on floorboards smoothed by years of use. She shook her head as if doing so would rid her of the images her consciousness failed to chase away. She covered her mouth with her hands, and hot breaths warmed her skin. Why? Why hadn’t she kept a better eye on Richard? Unlike him, she’d always been a strong swimmer. Why had she let a senseless argument distract her? Why had she allowed petty anger and ambition to steal the precious last moments between her and her husband?
Why couldn’t her conscience leave the past alone, leave the dead alone?
She had sought God’s forgiveness for that day by the river. Why must she relive the heartbreak over and over?
More than likely tonight’s trip back in time was a consequence of her meeting with Mr. Dover and the outlandish offer he had presented to her and Mr. Gregory.
Claire walked to the window and leaned a shoulder against the frame. No lamplight illuminated the homes of the neighbors. No movement attracted her attention on the street. Everyone was tucked safely in bed. Everyone sleeping with no sense of loss and self-reproach.
The same breeze that ruffled the young leaves on the newly planted maple tree below her window floated through the screen to ruffle her nightdress. The tepid air and ring around a full moon half-hidden by thick, slate-gray clouds predicted a growing storm. Another soft rumble of thunder added its warning of the stormy weather to come.
Tonight’s memory wreaked its own storm in her heart.
With her eyes adjusted to the darkness in the house, Claire left her room and tiptoed down the hall, past her brother’s bedroom and down the stairs to the kitchen. She lit a lamp and placed a kettle on the stove to heat water for tea, all the while moving as quietly as possible to keep from disturbing the rest of the family.
It seemed ages since she’d slept through the night. When she was married, if she awoke, she’d been in her own home with only one person to worry about waking. It wasn’t much of a worry. Richard usually slept like a hibernating bear. She never thought she would miss those roaring snores or the tossing and turning her husband did in his sleep when concerned about a project.
A streak of lightning lit the room, and the thunder grew closer. She prepared her tea and carried the cup to the table.
Wallace shuffled into the kitchen. His hair—the color of wet sand—stood on end, and he wore a striped robe that hung crooked on his ever-maturing frame. Her brother had grown into a man before her eyes.
“What are you doing down here?”
He pulled out a chair, flopped onto it, and yawned. “I heard you up.”
“I tried not to wake anyone.”
“It didn’t work.” His mouth angled into a tired, lazy grin.
People complimented Wallace on his sunny disposition, saying he brightened their days. It came naturally to him. Claire worked hard to present a happy face to the world. It was easier than dealing with questions and the well-meaning encouragement of others.
Steam rose from her cup to moisten her face. “Would you like some tea?”
“No. I only came down here hoping to convince you to return to bed.”
From the drawing room, the grandfather clock struck twice, a hollow, hopeless sound.
“Hear that? It’s late, Claire.”
“I’m not sleepy.”
“You have too many nights when you’re not sleepy. What’s wrong?”
“There’s nothing—”
“Don’t try to fool me, sis. I’ve heard the boards creak as you pace back and forth in your bedroom or sneak down the stairs. I’ve seen you curled up in a parlor chair in the middle of the night, dead to the world.”
She winced at his choice of words. “I never realized you knew of my occasional nighttime habits.” She’d always managed to go back to her room before morning.
“We are all aware of your occasional nighttime habits, and we’re all worried about you. We know you miss Richard, but don’t you think it’s time you...” He raised a shoulder.
“Forget him? Forget what happened? How am I supposed to do that, Wallace? I should have saved my husband.” She shouldn’t have contributed to the danger he faced to begin with.
Claire sucked in a deep breath to calm herself before her strident voice woke her parents. She had told her family of her argument with Richard before his death. They’d tried to convince her she wasn’t at fault, that she shouldn’t be ashamed of her pettiness and be afraid of what others would think of her. But that didn’t make her innocent.
Mr. Gregory had called her a heroine for pulling Cissy Gruhn from the path of the beer wagon. How little he knew of her.
Drops of tea sloshed onto her hand when her trembling fingers picked up the cup. “Sometimes I wonder why it wasn’t me.”
Wallace leaned over the table and grabbed her hand. “Don’t talk that way. Do you think Richard would have wanted that for you? Do you think this family would want to lose you? We all liked him, sis, and we all miss him. No, you shouldn’t forget, but focus on the good things, the good days. Don’t let the worst day devour your happiness.”
Claire reminded herself that her brother meant well, just as everyone who tried to console someone in their loss meant well.
At twenty-eight, she was nine years older than Wallace. Some people considered him rather scatterbrained. They didn’t understand that he was a young man with a sharp mind and aspirations for the future that now and again swelled into wild dreams. They didn’t understand the depth of his sentiments. Even she rarely heard him speak as he just had. But in this case, Wallace was the one who didn’t understand. No one understood.
She finished the tea. “We should go back upstairs. We’re both expected at the store early tomorrow.”
Wallace stood and pushed in his chair. His mouth drew down in mock seriousness. “Newland’s can’t get by without us.”
Claire set the cup in the sink, turned down the lamp, and joked as they walked out of the room, “Of course not. We’re the department store’s best assets.”
She only wished she had been her husband’s best asset.
***
CLAIRE FOLLOWED ROSLYN Malone up the steps to the roof of the department store building. They settled in a corner facing Commerce Street. Shaded by the low parapet wall, they could talk and relax before returning to jobs that required them to stand for hours.
With a quick glance over the edge of the wall, Claire scanned the foot and carriage traffic that moved up and down the street, noisy and restless.
Roslyn spread the blanket Claire kept in the fourth-floor room everyone referred to as the employee salon. It wasn’t much more than a large cloakroom. On sunny and temperate days, they carried their lunches to the roof and ate in the fresh air. On this day, a breeze carried the faint smell of pigs from a farm on the western edge of town, a reminder that the ever-growing Riverport hadn’t outgrown its agricultural history.
Roslyn sat opposite Claire and tucked her legs under her. “I’ve wanted to say something to you for quite a while.”
“What is it?”
She reached out and squeezed Claire’s arm. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For this. For being my friend.”
Claire unfolded the napkin that held her sandwich. She had once considered the pretty, young blonde to be silly and somewhat childish, but an embezzlement scandal involving the department store and Roslyn’s missing husband seemed to have matured her. It also left her feeling ostracized at times.
Although another employer might have quietly fired Roslyn, the Newland family retained her, and Claire had made a point of befriending her, even if she couldn’t have said why at first. In the end, she did not regret the decision.
“I hope it isn’t because you feel sorry for me.”
Claire laughed. “Me, feel sorry for you? Absolutely not. Do you feel sorry for yourself?”
Roslyn grinned. “Absolutely not.”
Maybe that was the reason Claire had befriended the woman. She possessed a can-do spirit—a strength Claire wished she hadn’t lost. “Steel and silk.”
Roslyn cocked her head. “I beg your pardon?”
“It’s how I see you. Steel. You’re strong and don’t let anyone push you around, yet there’s vulnerability that surrounds you. Silk.”
“You make me sound like a heroine in a tragic novel. I wish it were true, but I let Gil push me around too often. I thought...”
When Roslyn didn’t finish, Claire said, “For your sake, I hope they find him soon.”
“Would you ever consider...?” Roslyn bent her head, an odd reservation coming from a woman who was generally anything but reserved.
“Consider what?”
Roslyn looked up. “Have you ever thought about moving out of your parents’ house?”
“Off and on. Why?”
“To tell you the truth, I’ve never lived alone and am a little frightened by it.”
Claire had raised her sandwich to take a bite but paused and lowered it to the cloth on her lap. “Frightened? Why?”
“Before going to bed the other night, I went to the kitchen for a drink of water. When I looked out the window, I saw someone in the yard.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. It was too dark to see him clearly, and he knelt next to a tree. He must have seen me, because he disappeared like a ghost.”
“Are you sure nighttime shadows didn’t play a trick on you?”
“No. I saw a man.”
“Your husband?”
“I don’t know. I think Gil would have come inside, if for no other reason than to torment me.”
“You’ve had no word from him?”
“No. It’s been five months since he ran off. The police have lost his trail...if they ever had it. There are times when I wonder if he’s dead.”
After associating with Roslyn over the past months, it was clear the woman hadn’t enjoyed her marriage. Claire felt all the more blessed for having experienced her years of marital happiness.
Everyone knew Gil Malone had had an accomplice. Claire asked, “Still no idea of the identity of Gil’s partner?”
“No.” Roslyn pushed a stray hair away from her face. “Most people are convinced I was Gil’s partner in the embezzlement. If I’d had an inkling that he was taking money from Newland’s, I would have done something. Confronted him, even turned him in. You know that, don’t you?”
“I do. Did you tell the police about seeing someone at the house?”
“No.”
“Roslyn—”
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore, Claire, or I’ll give myself nightmares.” She chuckled, a nervous sound. “I’m sure you’re right, and it was a matter of shifting shadows.”
Claire hoped so.
“Anyway, I wondered if you’d consider moving in with me.”
Move in with Roslyn? “What if Gil comes back home?”
“We both know he’s deserted me. Besides, he wouldn’t be home long. He would be in jail where he belongs. You and I would make good roommates, don’t you think?”
Would they? “I’ll admit, it isn’t something that occurred to me. I’d like time to think about it.”
“I hope you’ll say yes.” Roslyn finished eating the cookie she’d broken into pieces as she talked, then she dusted the crumbs from her hands. “You’ve been hard at work in your department again.”
“I can’t help but tinker sometimes. Thankfully, Mr. Newland doesn’t mind.”
Claire often advised the Newlands on the locations of display cases that would instill interest and take advantage of the store’s electric lamplight and large windows. It wasn’t exactly what she had done when working with Richard, but she could pretend.
The design of interior spaces had often been Claire’s gift. Richard said she had an instinct for locations of windows and lights, fireplaces, and interior walls. It was what made her fit hand-in-glove with him, professionally.
“Mrs. Newland might be responsible for ordering the fashions that appeal to women, but you give them the treatment they deserve, and you’re so clever at it.” Roslyn sighed. “There’s not much to be done in the perfume department other than placing the bottles on the shelves or leaving a few out on the counter.”
“In the afternoon, a certain amount of sunlight shines through the front window nearest your station. I wonder if Mr. Newland would be willing to move the perfume counter closer to that window. You could arrange the bottles so the light shines on and through them, making them sparkle like colored jewels so they attract the attention of customers.”
Roslyn sat straight. “What a wonderful idea. Do you mind if I bring it to Spence’s attention?”
“Not at all.” Claire finished her sandwich and closed her lunch pail.
On occasion, she caught herself referring to her employer as simply The Third. Most people did. It was easier than trying to differentiate between three generations of Spencer Fanning Newlands. However, she could never get accustomed to a fellow employee calling the store’s owner by his first name, even though Roslyn’s husband had been a friend of The Third’s since college. That friendship made Gil Malone’s treacherous betrayal even harder for everyone to stomach.
“A customer came into the store a few days ago to buy his wife a new fragrance. We started chatting, and guess what?” Roslyn folded her napkin in half, then half again, as she talked. “He’s in town because he plans to build a new office building on that vacant lot over on Webster Street. He said it would be the biggest in Riverport.”
“Do you know the name of this man?”
Roslyn drummed her fingers on her knee. “It was Lester or Ledler or—”
Claire’s pulse jumped. “Lefler? Was his name Harris Lefler?”
“You know him?”
“I know of him.” Richard and George would have paid the wealthy businessman for the chance to design his buildings, the first one, anyway. After that, they would expect him to pay...exceptionally well.
Roslyn’s smug look put Claire on edge. “So?”
“So what?”
“Are you going to contact him about preparing his design?”
“No.” Neither would she tell Roslyn about Mr. Dover’s offer. Still, a part of her couldn’t let go of the possibility of working with Mr. Gregory, especially when it both alarmed her and made her feel more alive than she had in two years. “Mr. Lefler has an architect.”
“Evidently not. He said he was looking for a new one.”
“Then, I’m sure he’ll find the right one.” Perhaps Mr. Gregory. Was he aware of the opportunity? Had he met with Lefler?
Roslyn pinned her with a hard stare. “Where is your spirit, Claire Kingsley? Where is your”—her chin jutted upward—“your steel?”
Claire laughed. “It’s in my corset.”