Maggie grabbed the pole of the streetcar and jumped on board just as it eased into the street and made the all-too-familiar turn away from Bay View and up the hill toward Petoskey. Ducking between other passengers, she tossed a quick glance behind her. Nowhere did she see Wesley’s tall frame and broad shoulders. Relief vied with disappointment, leaving her in a twist of emotions she couldn’t sort.
Stopping at the Lewis Street Suburban station, the streetcar emptied of Petoskey travelers, mostly a mix of Bay View workers and tourists who stayed at the Cushman Hotel when attending lectures in Bay View. Maggie wound through the crowd toward the long stairway from the back end of the alley to her apartment. At the top of the steps she fumbled for the key to the rooms above Easton’s Hardware Store where she and her father boarded. She quickly let herself in, the quietness telling her she’d made it home before her father but had precious little time before he would appear.
Slicing some corned beef and a piece of bread, she lit the stove and took down the cast iron skillet from its place on the shelf. No cupboard graced their kitchen. Only an old dry sink, an icebox, and a miniature four-burner stove. Turning the flame to low, she placed the beef in the pan and turned to her room to change out of her one and only good shirtwaist. She dared not get grease on it. Running her hand over the linen and lace front, she hung it on a hanger from the back of the door and slipped out of the navy skirt.
“This roast beef will be black as tar if you don’t flip it soon, rosebud.”
“Corned beef, Papa. It’s the cheapest meat the butcher has.” Meeting her father in the kitchen, she threw her arms around him.
He buried his whiskers in her neck until she giggled.
“You smell like grass.”
“I clipped the lawn in front of the hotel today.”
“But I thought Stafford’s Place Hotel had their own lawn man and you would be left to tend the gardens. How are your knees? Did they take all that bending okay, or was it like a beating?”
“Aw, don’t worry about me, rosebud. The boss promised to have me back on the gardens tomorrow. The regular lawn man didn’t show up today. So I did his job and my job.”
“More pay, I hope—to cover the cost of the extra laundry it’ll cost us. Look at your knees, all grass stained.”
“Don’t you worry about money. I’ve been saving a little back when I can. Besides, I saw Mrs. Campbell on my way to get the streetcar and she says her roses need pruning. She’ll pay me a little.”
“You mean with huckleberry pie?” Maggie winked at her father, who never gave up evidence if he’d eaten wild blueberry pie from Mrs. Campbell right before the dinner hour. He still ate as heartily as if he were starving, and she loved him in spite of the naughtiness of breaking Mama’s rule of no dessert before dinner. She could still see the look of love on her mama’s face long ago when she had chided him with a smile.
“Mrs. Campbell has a screen door that needs fixing as well. She’ll give me some money for that, too, I expect.” Her father reached for her hand once she’d sat beside him. Removing his hat, he bowed his head and said the Lord’s Prayer. He lifted his head and said what he always said. “The Lord always provides our daily bread, Maggie. Too much would mold anyway.”
Well, bread might mold. But she was quite certain a second dress would not. Was it such a sin to wish for one more? A pretty tea dress like the one she’d seen in the window on Lake Street. Where was the hurt in dreaming?
“You’re quiet today. Saw you get on the streetcar that left just before I reached it. Miss Eloise got you tied up extra late?”
Maggie’s corned beef stuck to the roof of her mouth. She nodded her head and reached for her water glass. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to tell him everything. A rush of warm emotion tangled her stomach. It was more that she didn’t quite know how to tell it. She swallowed. It was merely a simple assignment, easy to explain. Wasn’t it?
“You must be tired lifting all those old heavy volumes up over your head, climbing that library ladder up and down all day.”
She nodded. Perhaps he was right, the long day was the reason for the odd emotions swirling within.
“Go on to your room and rest. I’ll wash up.”
Truthfully, she was tired. Though it was less from her work and more from reading when she should have been sleeping, and hurrying stacks of books back to the shelves before they were missed the next morning. Maggie was grateful for the excuse to retreat to her room and close the door behind her. She laid her shirtwaist out on a clean spot on the floorboards and spread dried rose petal sachets over it for fragrance. Papa said real roses were better than any store-bought lady’s perfume. And though she loved when he brought her fresh rose cuttings from the garden where he worked at Stafford Place, she still dreamt of having real perfume someday.
Her conscience pricked her as if dreaming was akin to ungratefulness. But it wasn’t. Not really or truly. Nowhere had she read in the Bible that dreaming was a sin.
But keeping a secret was nearly like a white lie, and she knew it to be the real source of her anxiety, for she had always shared everything with her father. Why she hadn’t just explained herself she wasn’t sure.
Folding her hands, she closed her eyes. “Heavenly Father, I thank Thee for all the bread You give us, and that it isn’t moldy. I thank Thee for this dress and these rose petals, and that dreaming isn’t a sin. And I promise if Papa asks, I will tell the truth about why I was late. Amen.”
“Look at these outlines, Sam. The work is exhaustive and comprehensive. I’m telling you, this lady is a genius. None of my academy students are half as bright. I’m going to publish her.” Wesley leaned back. The squeak of his weight against the oak chair echoed in the office he shared at Loud Hall with Sam. “You’re sure you’ve never seen Miss Abbott—you haven’t been keeping her existence a secret?”
“Miss who?” Sam never looked up from the desk where he sat across from Wes, grading essays.
“Sam!” Wesley stood up to pace the small space between his side of the desk and the bookcase—the space he used to think and clear his mind of clutter.
“What?”
“Have you heard a word I’ve said?”
“Something about genius?” Sam shifted, waiting for the ensuing discourse Wes was about to unleash.
“Miss Abbott’s work. It’s genius. Perfection. She not only talked with ease about England nonstop for an hour, but this work … it’s as if she’s taken a trip to Russia herself. Look at her discussion questions for The Geography of Russia by Georg Brandes. Perfection, I’m telling you. This is the second discussion set she’s done for me.” Wesley tossed the papers in front of Sam.
His friend lifted the outlined papers and studied them quietly while Wesley looped his thumbs over his belt, waiting for the agreement he expected.
Sam lowered the papers. “Seems rather ordinary to me.”
“What?” Wesley snatched the papers, ready to debate as if a line had just been drawn.
But a glint sparked in his friend’s eyes as he squinted and drilled his gaze in return. “This Miss Abbott—she’s probably the ugly cousin of a cottager, only here and gone. Why, I’ve never seen her, never heard her name before. The only feminine intelligence in the library I’ve ever seen is old Miss Eloise. Have you fallen for the gray-haired library matron?”
“For the love of Saint Peter.” Wesley took the papers and collapsed back into his chair.
Sam’s laughter broke the too-serious tension. For all the years they’d shared a wrangling sort of brotherly love and competition in all things sport and intellect, Wesley prized their close bond no matter the subject. But this friendly challenge to find a woman had pressed his friend to a new level of scrutiny.
“You think she has matched your intellect?” Sam lightened the goading, his voice lowered.
“I do.”
“And good character?”
“Yes.” Something told him she did. Though he couldn’t name one solid reason why he thought so. Certainly nothing that would hold up to Sam’s debate if he set his mind to disagree. Truthfully, he hardly knew the young lady.
Sam’s face grew serious, as if realization struck him. Leaning in, he pointed at Wes. “You think she meets your impossible criteria, don’t you?”
The air squeezed inside Wesley’s chest. He couldn’t explain why he thought so.
Scrambling to his feet, Sam pounded the desk with a victorious grin. “Blimey! You do!”
“Why do you use that word?” Wesley stood to pace again. “You aren’t even a Brit.”
“Don’t shift the subject, old chap. I’m onto you—the man who refused to seriously court a Bay View girl if she were the last woman on earth?”
Wesley turned back to deny it. After all, how could he know after only having met her little more than once? “I—”
“I’ll believe you’re serious about her if you actually convince her to let you take her to the Final Fling by summer’s end—that is if this hidden library goddess truly exists.” Sam stuck out his hand, minus the spit of their boyhood challenges.
Wesley gripped Sam’s hand and shook hard before he could think twice of the implications. If it would stop the parade of engagements his friend had imposed on him for the summer, it would be worth it even if he were wrong about Maggie Abbott.
But he wasn’t wrong about her.
And he would prove it to Sam.