The days following her weak attempt at sharing her heart with Abel passed slowly, each day nearly the same as the one before.
Laura expected this day to be as uneventful as the past few days had been. But at breakfast her father read the paper aloud.
In a previous article for the society page, Laura Bradshaw was unjustly accused of becoming inebriated. Accusations of poor behavior were made without the full details of the events. A source now tells us that her consumption of alcohol occurred without her knowledge and that the blame should not be placed on her. As a newspaper, we do our best to present the facts, and thus, due to the discrepancy between sources, we politely ask our readers to disregard our previous story and ask that Laura Bradshaw accept our apology.
“This is hardly a retraction,” her father said as he threw the paper on the table. “News these days. It’s nothing but a lot of sensationalism. They should have named Isaac Campbell and let him see how he likes having his name dragged through the mud.”
Laura ignored him and let herself feel the sweet comfort that came from knowing someone had spoken on her behalf. Ruth? Abel? Both seemed unlikely. Isaac? She took a bite of her toast, too lost in thought to even taste it. Someone out there wasn’t whispering gossip about her but defending her, and she felt certain she knew who it was.
“I’m going to Albany for a couple of days, and then I may go on to Boston. I don’t know when I’ll be back.” He set his napkin on the table and stood. “While I’m gone, I need you to remain close to Abel. It’s been long enough—see if you can get him to commit to you. An engagement would be helpful.”
Unsure whether he expected a response, Laura moved her breakfast around on her plate with a fork.
“I can’t make things go faster with him,” she said when it became apparent that her father was indeed waiting for a reply. She’d yet to decide how to tell him that she felt no growing attachment to Abel and that she wondered when their relationship would end and he would leave her for a more fashionable woman.
“We’re closing on a business deal soon. It’s an investment opportunity, and because Abel is so fond of you, he’s let me invest more than anyone else.” He never shared such information with her, choosing to keep business decisions to himself. She watched him, trying to understand. His brow bore a light sheen of sweat. He was nervous—but why?
“Does your trip to Albany have something to do with the business deal?” she said cautiously.
“There’s a shoe distributor there who hasn’t paid his bill. I want to see him in person and get the account settled. The more money I have on hand, the more I can invest. It’s why I’ve had to make some difficult decisions.” He rubbed his hands on his sides. He was uncomfortable; all his tics were showing. “The return will be worth it. We’ll be bigger than ever. I’ve a source that tells me Campbell is trying to get Abel to work with him too.” He ground his teeth. “You can’t let this fall through. This is my chance to get ahead and prove that I know best how to run a factory.”
“I’m not sure I know what you want me to do. I don’t talk business with Abel.”
“He has to care about you.” He bobbed his head, encouraging her. “He’s got to. Campbell can’t sway him. Do you understand?”
“He’s told me before that he does business with anyone who can prove a good business opportunity. He doesn’t care about the company split.”
“Then you must convince him to care. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she whispered, wishing she could tell her father no with the same force with which she’d told Isaac off when they ran into each other at the zoo. Where was her boldness now, when she needed it?
Abel had been so dashing and handsome the first night she’d seen him, and though she still knew he was a handsome man, he’d faded in her eyes, remaining appealing in outward appearance only. For a man supposedly smitten, he hadn’t made any true shows of affection. They went out, they watched moving pictures, they danced, but they did not talk of the future, and there was no growing trust. Why he continued calling was beyond her understanding.
Laura excused herself from breakfast as quickly as she could. She paced the halls, only stopping when Abel phoned, letting her know that his work had detained him and they would not be able to go out that evening. Laura assured him that she understood.
“I’m going to the zoo,” she said to Mrs. Guskin.
“You’re awfully cheery.”
“Father is on his way out of town, and Abel has cancelled our dinner tonight.” She grinned. “I feel free as a bird.”
“Go on then.”
Minutes later she was headed for her oasis. It would be a good day; she could feel it in the air as she walked from her house to the ticket booth and into her beloved sanctuary.
“Miss Bradshaw!” Brent Shaffer, the zookeeper who had known her mother, waved. Laura waved back, eager to ask whether he knew what animal they were getting ready to bring into the back corner.
“Mr. Shaffer, it’s good to see you. How are the bears today?”
“We put a big barrel in with the polar bear, and he’s been rolling it around all morning. He’s never been happier.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” She pointed toward the area of the zoo that was under construction. “What will go there? More bears?”
“No, they plan on bringing in a pair of giraffes.”
“Wonderful.” She’d devoured several books on African animals over the winter. “Did you know giraffes only sleep for a few minutes a day? They spend almost their entire lives standing.” Unable to hold back, she went on, “They’re such fascinating animals. None of them have the same spots. They’re all different.”
Mr. Shaffer wiped a hand over his mouth, but there was no blocking his grin. “You’re an animal lover, aren’t you?”
“It started when I was a child. Once, I found a kitten that still had its eyes closed. I remember reading the kitten fairy tales and feeding it one drop of milk at a time. My mother helped me take care of it. We took turns getting up at night to feed him. I had him for six years, before he snuck out one day. My mother and I looked everywhere. We never found him. I think a hawk may have gotten him. We both grieved him.” She paused. “You said you knew my mother?”
“I did. Not so well as some, but when she first came here from the west, we both frequented the same diner. She’d talk about back home, and I’d listen. After that I didn’t see her much. She got married and didn’t go to the diner, but she did bring a kitten to my veterinary office a couple of times a few years later.”
“A little orange fella.” Laura smiled, remembering his whiskered face. “We named him Romeo.”
“That’s a good name. I’m told the giraffes who are coming have been named Arthur and Joanne. I am expecting them to be an adorable old couple.”
She laughed, picturing gray-haired giraffes with low spectacles. “I can’t wait to meet them.” Mrs. Guskin’s advice came flooding back—that she should find a way to run toward her good dreams. “Would you . . . do you ever let volunteers help with the animals?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, we do. Would you like to help with them?”
“I would, if you could use me. I have been reading about animals since I was a child. I dreamed of being a veterinarian, but I know there aren’t many women in the field. It’s not so much the title I want. It’s the animals I love.”
“We’re always looking for volunteers. It’s not fancy work—we do a lot of shoveling manure—but I could talk to the director and get permission for you to help. I’ll tell him that you’re a student of animal care and a regular patron of the zoo.”
Speechless, she nodded. “I would like that.”
“Will your father be in support? Some men don’t think it fitting, the way women are stepping into so many jobs.”
“I’m twenty-one years old,” she said. “It’s my choice, not his.”
“You sound just like your mother. I remember her telling me she was going to marry your father. She sounded just as determined.” His voice grew wistful. “Come back tomorrow, first thing. I’ll meet you at the gate, and we can put you to work.” His eyes made a quick appraisal of her. “It’s dirty work, so come prepared for that.”
“I will.”
When he left her, she stood for a long time doing nothing but feeling sweet gratitude warm her soul. The logistics of her bold decision were still to be determined, and perhaps regretted, but in this moment she was simply happy.
The patrons began leaving, and the carousel stopped running. Soon night would settle. She hurried for the letter tree, determined to check it quickly before she was shooed from the zoo.
Isaac had written, just as she’d hoped. And just as expected, he addressed her fear and memories with gentleness.
. . . I am sorry to hear of your painful memories. I cannot imagine how difficult it must be to relive that moment over and over. I don’t know how one overcomes such a thing—perhaps by dwelling on the good moments you shared with your mother. It seems to me that if light pushes out darkness, the same may work with memories. It is only an idea, but when you are watching someone cross the road, you could try to think of the many times you walked hand in hand with your mother as you safely traveled to the other side. Did she talk to you when you walked? Did she tell you secrets? If you think very hard, can you see her smile? I would hold tightly to that, but even if it does not work, I do not think a fear is something to be ashamed of.
She paused her reading, closed her eyes, and searched her memory until she found a moment worth clinging to: her mother holding her hand, looking down at her as they crossed the street, bound for the zoo. Her mother’s smile was bright, radiating like the rays of sunlight that crept through the canopy of leaves. The light from that moment seemed to creep straight from Laura’s mind to her heart, warming it with the fine glow of motherly love.
She read the rest of Isaac’s letter with a smile on her face, and then she wrote a response. She told him that his advice was helpful and that she wanted to learn to live free of the dictates of fear that had so often guided her choices.
. . . A friend told me that I’ve spent too much time thinking about what I want to get away from and that I should instead consider what I want to go to. I’m not sure how to get where I want to go, but I’ve been clinging to her words ever since. Just as I will cling to your words, which remind me to remember more than just the death of my mother. I want to remember her life, and I want to live mine . . .
She wanted so badly to write him about working with the zoo animals. She wanted to shout it from the rooftops for everyone to hear. But what if he figured out who she was because he saw her mucking out pens? She both welcomed the idea and dreaded it.
. . . I’ve been thinking about other good dreams that are written on my heart. I’ll be taking steps closer to those dreams as well . . .
* * *
Isaac knocked on the door of Clifford Cannon’s detective agency. He’d made an appointment after finally confiding in Charles about Mary Kensington’s waterlogged letter, and today was the day. The small office was on the back side of the Ellicott Square Building. He had entered the building through a discreet, narrow door and then stepped through an unremarkable hallway before coming upon an office door labeled simply Detective.
“Do you have an appointment?” a raspy voice asked from behind the wooden door after he knocked.
“I do. It’s for Isaac Campbell.”
The door flew open. An old man grabbed Isaac’s hand, pulled him inside, and then closed the door just as quickly. “Get in here. We don’t need anyone seeing you standing around in the hall.”
Charles claimed that his aunt had used Mr. Cannon’s services to find her husband after he disappeared. Her husband had been found five days later near Albany, singing in a nightclub. Yet it was hard to believe this man, with his unkempt white hair, bulbous nose, and erratic ways, was an expert sleuth.
“Mr. Cannon.” Isaac held out a hand to the man. “As I said, I’m Isaac Campbell.”
“I don’t take all cases.” The man shook his hand quickly, then went around his overly cluttered desk and sat on his low chair. “Sit down and tell me exactly what you want from me, and I’ll think about it. And I charge for my time, so don’t go thinking you can use my brains and pay me nothing.”
Isaac had been worried about payment, knowing he could not turn to his father for aid. He’d considered selling some of his belongings and would if it came to it. But only recently a new idea had surfaced. The editor of the paper had been impressed by him when Isaac requested the retraction. They conversed easily, and Isaac confessed to having a love of writing. He’d written so many letters over the years that the written word was like a friend to him.
“We have people who work here permanently, but we pay for stories too. If you feel inclined, write something and bring it by. We’ll look at it,” the editor had said before thanking Isaac again for coming.
“Payment won’t be a problem,” Isaac told Mr. Cannon. He’d write a thousand stories if he had to. He’d find a way.
“Very good. Go on then, tell me why you’re here.”
Abrupt and to the point—Isaac could work with that. “Two reasons. First, I received a letter. It’s important, but the address is unreadable. I asked the post office, but they said there was no way they could help, seeing as I don’t even know a state or region to begin looking in. Plus, since it was successfully delivered, it isn’t considered a lost letter.” He pulled Mary’s letter from his pocket and slid it across the desk. “It’s in regard to my uncle who died in the war.”
“The war’s been over for years.” He picked up the envelope, inspecting it first. “This has water damage.”
“The water damage is my fault. I realize it’s been a long time since the war, but my uncle was my friend, and I always wanted a chance to talk to him again. This letter leads me to believe that he left something behind for me and others. It’s important to me.”
“A treasure seeker.” Mr. Cannon frowned. “You think you’ve missed out on an inheritance?”
“No. I never considered that. I was hoping for a parting letter, something of that nature.”
There wasn’t much else he could add to strengthen his case, so he sat in the straight-backed wooden chair and waited as Mr. Cannon pulled the warped paper from its envelope.
“This is addressed to William Campbell.”
“That’s my father.”
“The William Campbell who makes shoes.” He looked down below the desk. “I got a pair of Campbell’s on today. Might have Bradshaw’s on tomorrow. I never understood the hatred between the companies. You both make equally good shoes.”
“I don’t understand it all either,” he confessed.
“What does your father think of this letter?” Mr. Cannon wasn’t taking notes on paper, but it was easy to believe he was already looking for clues as he searched the paper, turning it this way and that.
“He doesn’t know.” Isaac cleared his throat. “I intend to handle this myself and then present my findings to my father.”
“I already told you I don’t take all cases. I’m an old man. I don’t have the time nor energy to get between a father and a son.”
Isaac scratched his cheek, searching for a way to convince this man to help him. “You may be an old man, but you must love a good mystery. Isn’t that why you became a detective?”
“Go on.”
“I believe my uncle’s death may have something to do with the Campbell-Bradshaw feud. When this letter came, I started thinking back on everything that has happened. I know my uncle was nervous about going to war. I overheard him asking my father how he could get out of the draft. In the end he went, but things unraveled. I was young and didn’t pay enough attention, but the company split not long after. Bradshaw’s wife died, and that may be a clue too.”
“Died? What happened to her?”
“She was hit crossing the street.”
“An accident and a soldier’s death. And you think they’re related?”
Isaac gnawed on his cheek. “It sounds far-fetched but, well, Bradshaw’s name is in the letter too. I want to retrieve the letters this woman has, not only so I can read my uncle’s last words but also to see whether he wrote anything that might help me understand. Everything changed when the company split. The effects of that split are still being felt.” He tapped his foot on the worn wood floor, anxious for Mr. Cannon to agree to help. “I can’t ask my father. He’s never wanted to tell me what happened, but I need to know. It affects me.”
Mr. Cannon’s white brows came together. “There are no secrets in this room. Tell me how it affects you, and then if I’m convinced, I’ll work with you.”
A fly buzzed above the old man’s head. He reached his hands up, clapped them together, and killed it. Isaac liked the man more with each passing moment. He was straightforward, peculiar, and spry.
“There’s a woman—”
“There’s always a woman.” He slapped his thigh and hooted. “Now we are getting somewhere.”
“This woman is special.” He took a deep breath, and then he told the detective more than he’d ever told anyone. He started at the beginning, sparing no details. He talked of their letters, their childhood, and his fear that Abel Fredricks would marry Laura before she ever knew who Isaac truly was. Then, having exposed his heart, he waited.
Mr. Cannon stood up and crossed the disheveled room to a bookshelf. He retrieved a photograph, brushed the dust from it, and held it out to Isaac. A woman in a dark dress, with curled tendrils framing her face, stared back at him.
“Love’s a good reason,” Mr. Cannon said. “It wasn’t mystery—it was love. That’s why I’m a detective. This here’s Darla. She came to me at church one Sunday and asked if I’d help her discover who was stealing from her father’s apothecary. She said I was so smart, she was sure I could help. I worked around the clock, looking for clues. We were married a couple months later, and I’ve been looking for clues ever since.”
“That’s a fine story.”
“Yours will be too.” He stuck his hand out. This time when they shook, it was an agreement. “And your second request?”
Isaac leaned closer before asking Mr. Cannon if he knew how someone would go about buying or selling a collection of books without advertising such a sale. His details were sparse, but Mr. Cannon offered to see what he could discover. On both accounts, Isaac left feeling hopeful.