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Phoebe Crain tightened her hold on her daughter’s hand in case she got the notion to bolt down the street toward the Riverport train station.
“Mama, you said we’d go see the trains.” Maura tugged on Phoebe, her stiff little body angled sideways, fully expecting her mother to comply. “Maybe he’s there. Maybe he wants to be with us for Christmas.”
The chug of an approaching engine and shrillness of the steam whistle mocked Phoebe with singsong lyrics: Liar, liar. Liar, liar. Woo-woo!
From Phoebe’s other side, her mother whispered, “You should never have told her that story.”
Meant only to appease, to avoid answering her five-year-old’s questions, Phoebe had regretted her careless reply as soon as the words left her mouth.
Maura tugged again. “Come on, or we’ll miss him.”
Phoebe dreaded seeing disappointment again on Maura’s face when they arrived at the station and the one she expected to meet was not there...whoever he was.
Liar, liar.
Lies destroyed relationships. Phoebe knew it too well, yet that hadn’t prevented her from lying to her daughter. One day soon she must tell her little girl the truth. She would never find a papa waiting to meet her at the railroad station.
“Grandma has business at Newland’s first.”
Maybe by the time they had finished perusing the new five-and-ten-cent department—the only department where they could afford to shop—Maura would have forgotten about the train.
Doubtful.
A brisk walk led them to S. F. Newland’s and Company, a commanding cousin of the general mercantile. Mud craters filled with rainwater huddled in the faint shadow cast across the street by the imposing four-story red brick building.
The door opened, and the young Mr. Newland stepped onto the sidewalk. Generally referred to as Spence, some people called him The Third and his father, The Second, nicknames neither Newland seemed to consider offensive.
Today he’d dressed in a gray wool overcoat with an expensive silk scarf wrapped around his neck. Judging by the trousers, he wore a fine wool suit under the coat.
He acknowledged them with an expedient nod. “Mrs. White. Mrs. Crain.”
Phoebe pulled her coat collar closer to her neck to alleviate a sudden chill.
Mr. Newland grabbed the shiny black bicycle propped against the wall, mounted, then peddled down the muddy street without giving them a second glance. Not that Phoebe would have welcomed anything more from him. She had learned the hard way of the danger in even smiling at a young man with the means and superiority to entice what he wanted from a starry-eyed woman.
He peddled like his life depended on it. Perhaps he thought it did. Phoebe had heard he was obsessed with good health, maintaining his constitution with a proper diet and exercise.
“Look, Mama. It’s a dollhouse.” Maura yanked free and ran to the nearest front window. She pressed her mitten-covered hands against the glass and her forehead to the pane. “It’s like Sarah’s. Isn’t it pretty?”
Awe mingled with longing in Maura’s voice—a longing that made Phoebe want to weep because she could do nothing about it. Over and over her daughter talked of her friend’s new toy and begged for one of her own.
The dollhouse in the window was as far beyond Phoebe’s reach as the grand piano she had begged for in vain at fourteen. That, too, had been well beyond her mother’s reach.
She crouched next to her little girl. Although the paint had been carelessly applied in spots and the wallpaper in the dining room was crooked, the dollhouse’s homey appearance surpassed that of their own rented house. “It is lovely.”
“See the tiny table and chairs?”
“Don’t you think you would find it hard to sit in those chairs?”
Maura giggled. “They’re not for me.”
“They’re not?” Phoebe grinned, then stood. “Grandma has gone inside. We’d better go in too.”
After a long last stare through the window, Maura followed Phoebe into the store where the spices of the season greeted them—cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves. The entrance to the large brick building smelled like a giant apple pie. Surely the scents alone had prompted a boon in the sale of kitchen products during the fall months.
Phoebe ignored most of the merchandise on well-placed counters, in glass cases, and on white-painted shelves. She tried to, anyway. Polite in her replies, she didn’t stop when enticed by starched and smiling clerks who wanted to show her perfumes and hair combs or ribbons and dress collars trimmed with French lace. Why torment herself by lusting after frivolous things?
As she drew near a circular counter in the center of the store, a familiar voice called out, “Excuse me, Mrs. Crain.”
She turned and smiled at the young man standing in the center. “Hello, Wallace.”
Maura tugged on her hand. “I see Grandma. Can I go to her?”
Phoebe glanced down. “You can and you may.” Once Maura had hold of her grandmother’s coat, Phoebe stepped to the counter and asked Wallace, “Is your sister working today?”
“Yes, ma’am. Claire’s at her station upstairs.”
“Good. I’ll go up in a bit to say hello.”
Phoebe had met many wonderful women through her Widow’s Might group, and Claire Kingsley had become one of Phoebe’s closest friends in Riverport.
He motioned her closer. The ever-present smile on the young man’s face held the power to light all four floors of the building. “I have something for you.”
“Don’t waste your time trying to sell me anything, Wallace.”
“No, ma’am. I’ve been instructed to give you something.” He reached under the counter, then handed her a square white box with a S. F. Newland’s and Company label. The top was wrapped by a broad red velvet ribbon.
“A gift?” Why would someone leave her a gift, especially here? Why not deliver it to her personally? “Who is it from?”
His brow crinkled. “You don’t know?”
“No.”
“Then I can’t say.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not my place, though I’m sure the gentleman who left it will make himself known to you soon.”
A gentleman? She scanned the area around her. Was he watching, seeking her reaction? Of the few men present, none showed an interest in her.
Phoebe slipped off the ribbon, opened the lid of the outer box, and laid aside the thin paper on top. Her lips parted and her heartbeat accelerated. “I’m sure this is a mistake.” She gently lifted the gift surrounded by a protective nest of tissue paper and marveled at the item crafted of burled maple and an intricate cherrywood inlay. When she raised the lid, the smell of tobacco hit her from the inclusion of a dozen cigars. Maura’s father had owned a cigar box, but this one was much finer...and an outlandish gift for a woman.
Wallace released a soft whistle and grinned as he teased, “You smoke cigars, Mrs. Crain?”
A hint of a smile laced her quip. “Only every other Friday.”
He peered inside the box. “Looks expensive.”
“Yes.” Too expensive to come without a price. This was a mistake by Wallace, and if it wasn’t his mistake, keeping it would be hers. She slid it across the counter. “Here. Take it back.”
“But it’s a gift, and the gentleman will be disappointed.”
“Better he’s disappointed now than embarrassed later.”
Wallace winked. “Might be from old St. Nick himself.”
“It’s far too early for St. Nick. Besides, he should know I grew up years ago. Even if I wanted to use this to store things other than cigars, I have nothing worthy of being housed in such a lovely case.” Not anymore. “It’s a mistake, so give it back to the person who left it here.”
Wallace repacked it inside the outer box and slid it toward her. “I was told to give it to you. Please, Mrs. Crain, would you have me risk my job?”
Phoebe stared at the box. She wasn’t eager to be the source of trouble for Claire’s brother, so she picked it up from the counter. As she walked away to find her mother and Maura, Phoebe’s gaze drifted toward the front window and the dollhouse.
Come Christmas Day, would she have anything pleasing to give her daughter? Would she ever?
