The scent of roses greeted Callie. Scanning the foyer of Chip’s magnificent home, she spotted a crystal bowl filled with potpourri, not something she’d expected to find in a bachelor’s domain.
She lifted a handful of the fragile petals and let them drift from between her fingers. “What a nice touch.”
“My mother said the fragrance of flowers makes guests feel at home. I forget to change fresh ones, so I opted for dried.”
“It sounds like she was a wise woman.”
A wistful look flitted across his face. “She was. Although she had four boys, she insisted on teaching us about the finer things in life. We took turns serving as her escort to our family’s pew each week, and we practiced our table manners at Sunday dinners.”
“You were obviously an apt pupil.” And a devoted son. No wonder family mattered so much to Chip. He’d come from a loving one with parents who treasured their children as he would his.
Yes. His. As much as she’d hoped he would consider adoption, his desire to have a family of his own remained as strong as ever. Although the thought of seeing Dr. Wright and getting his learned opinion caused her chest to tighten, she must. To welcome Chip’s attentions while keeping the diagnosis to herself would be unfair to him. He’d wanted to kiss her again on his stoop. She’d longed to let him, but she couldn’t. Not until she found out if there was something that could be done for her. It might be foolish to hold out hope, but giving up without exploring all the options wasn’t her way.
He held out a hand to the room on the left. “Why don’t we start with the parlor?”
Venturing inside, her appreciation of his lovely home grew. Cornices crowned walls covered with rich wallpaper in William Morris’s larkspur pattern—medium green sprays of foliage over a light green base. An assortment of chairs and settees in dark green and gold, complete with puffy pillows to match, offered ample seating. A painting of a field of California poppies hung over the rock fireplace. The elements created an inviting atmosphere.
“You’ve done a fine job. It’s attractive but homey.” She could picture herself spending evenings in the welcoming room with Chip. Their children would gather around them, filling the parlor with love and laughter.
Yes. Children. She would have as many as God chose to bless her with through whatever means He saw fit to use. The Lord knew her wish to experience motherhood, and He could remove the obstacles that stood in the way of her happiness.
Provided that was His plan. She prayed it was, because if it wasn’t… She forced her thoughts back to the present and focused on what Chip was saying.
“I like it, although I don’t spend much time here. Yet.”
She chuckled. “Knowing you, you’re out in your shop building things from morning to night.”
“You’re right, but that will change in a few years when I have my family.”
His statement, delivered in that matter-of-fact manner, firmed her resolve to keep her appointment with Dr. Wright. In less than an hour, she’d know the truth about her situation and what could be done about it. She prayed she was strong enough to handle the news.
“If you’re ready to move on, we can see the upper floor.”
“Certainly.” She took a last lingering look at the parlor and followed him up the stairs, her hand gliding along the smooth bannister as she made her ascent. The fresh scent of lemon oil hung in the air.
Four bedrooms came off the upper landing. She entered the one to her right and studied the headboard. “I’ve been impressed with your attention to detail on the utilitarian furniture we’re making for Jack and Jill House, but your workmanship on these more involved pieces is exemplary. My parents were partial to the rococo revival style with its high relief carvings and dark stains. Like you, I prefer the new Eastlake designs.” She traced the geometric patterns with a fingertip. “The modest curves, lightly incised carving and oiled finishes combine to create a simpler look that’s refreshing and far more practical.”
“I know you’re well versed when it comes to types of woods, but I didn’t realize you were so knowledgeable about furniture styles.”
“That wasn’t always the case. Working with talented woodworkers such as yourself has expanded my horizons. When I was a younger, I used to read fashion magazines and dream about my next gown. These days I read books on furniture making. I got a copy of Eastlake’s Hints on Household Tastes in Furniture, Upholstery, and Other Details soon after it came out last year. You must have gotten a copy of the British edition released earlier since it wasn’t available here in the United States until later. How did you manage that?”
He leaned back against the bureau and folded his arms. The fabric of his jacket strained to contain his muscular biceps. She forced herself not to stare at the alluring sight. “I trained with a furniture maker who’d come over from England, and he gave me a copy. I devoured it.”
“If Mr. Eastlake could see your work, I’m sure he’d be pleased at how well you’ve incorporated his ideas into your lovely home. Every room is a shining example.”
“I look forward to the day these up here are filled with children.”
She struggled to keep her attention on what Chip was saying rather than admiring his manly physique. “You must plan to have a lot of them.”
“At least four, but I could add on rooms if the Lord has more in mind.” He shoved off the bureau to a standing position. “If you’re done here, we could move on.”
“I’d like that.” She preceded him down the stairs.
She paused in the open doorway to her left. The large bedchamber must be his. The massive four-poster bed, made of oak, was magnificent, as were the matching wardrobes.
“You may go in if you’d like.”
Although it felt strange to enter his room, she couldn’t fight the pull. A stuffed toy dog rested its well-worn face against the pillow sham, just begging to be studied up close. Based on the sorry condition of the little jet-black fellow, he had evidently been much loved. The mental image she formed of Chip as a boy hugging the floppy-eared dog made her smile.
She rubbed a finger over the dog’s cheek. Eager to learn more about the animal, she resorted to a thinly veiled query. “If Jasper were here, he’d have plenty of questions about your little friend.”
Chip rested a shoulder against the door frame, staring at some point over her shoulder for the longest time. When he spoke, his speech was halting, as though forced through a throat thick with emotion. “When we prepared to head west, Mama and Papa said the trip would be too hard on our dog, so they found a new home for him. I didn’t take that well, since Checkers and I had been such good pals. Mama made that little dog for me as a way to remember him.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “It’s the last thing she made, and it was for me.”
His voice cracked on the final words, causing her chest to constrict. She blinked to clear her vision. Chip had told her about the tragic loss of his family, but this was the first time his grief threatened to overcome him.
She longed to throw her arms around him and ease his pain, but with his arms folded tightly against his chest and his eyebrows dipped into a scowl, he clearly didn’t want sympathy. “Shall we go to the kitchen?”
Chip’s features and posture relaxed, but the hollowness in her chest persisted. If only he’d let her offer what comfort she could.
He straightened, stepped in the hallway and held out a hand. “After you. I’m eager to get your input.”
The next fifteen minutes passed quickly as Chip explained what he had in mind for his dining room and kitchen. He invited her to share her opinion of his plans, which she did. Freely and in detail.
She shouldn’t allow herself to harbor dreams of being the woman who would prepare and serve meals in these rooms. If there was nothing that could be done to repair the internal damage she suffered all those years ago, she could be setting herself up for more disappointment and heartache, but she couldn’t help herself. As happy as she would be working as a group leader and caring for children at the Double T, her desire to experience marriage and motherhood was strong.
Chip propped himself on the corner of a makeshift work surface fashioned from roughly hewn boards. “So, we agree that oak is the best wood due to its ability to resist scratches, as Eastlake says. And you recommend the larger decorative hinges over the smaller hidden variety in vogue today, as he does.”
Callie nodded. “They would be better able to withstand the frequent opening and closing the doors on the sideboard and china cabinet would see. One of the things I like most about his style is the marriage of aesthetics and functionality.”
“One last question. If this was your kitchen, is there anything else you would add?”
If only it could be. She could imagine the thrill of preparing meals in his beautiful kitchen, sitting down beside him at his expertly crafted dining table and taking his large hand as he gave thanks for the meal. “That’s easy. I’d want carvings on the furniture in here similar to those on your wardrobes. Adding the decorative elements would create extra work, but a family spends several hours a day in these rooms. I think they should be as attractive as the others.”
“I’ll have to consider that.” He stood. “We should get going. I’ve kept you long enough.”
She didn’t mind in the least. Being in his lovely home filled her with a sense of peace—and a sense of purpose. Although she’d had qualms about visiting the doctor, Becky said Dr. Wright had been college-educated and kept up on the latest developments. If anyone could give her a definitive diagnosis, Dr. Wright could. She would march into his office with confidence and leave with certainty.
* * *
“Miss Hunt?”
The feminine voice startled Callie. She jerked her head toward the doorway leading from Dr. Wright’s waiting area to the rooms beyond. A round-faced woman stood there wearing a welcoming smile and an ankle-length white apron.
“I’m Callie Hunt.” But who was she?
“Very well. If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you back.”
Callie followed the woman, who walked at a brisk pace, her boot heels thudding on the pine floorboards. Becky had said the doctor worked alone, but obviously that wasn’t the case.
“Here we are.” The kindly lady stepped aside to let Callie enter. An examination table occupied the center of the small room. The distinctive scent of laudanum hung in the air. “You may take a seat, and then you can tell me why you’re here.”
Relief eased the tension in Callie’s shoulders. Talking about such a delicate matter with another woman would be much easier than attempting to discuss it with a man.
She settled herself on the bentwood chair and smoothed her skirts. “I thought I’d be seeing Dr. Wright.” Not that she wanted to, but it would be nice to know who she would be confiding in.
The woman sat on a stool, facing Callie, and sent her an apologetic smile. “Forgive me for not introducing myself. I haven’t been in town long and don’t know who is aware of the news and who isn’t. I’m his nurse—and his wife—Mable Wright.”
“I’m the one who should apologize. I didn’t mean to be so outspoken. My friend who recommended him hadn’t mentioned you.” Becky would be surprised to hear the news, but she’d also be happy for the doctor. She’d mentioned that Matthew Wright had taken an interest in her when she was caring for her husband’s mother prior to her marriage and had felt badly about not returning the doctor’s feelings.
Mrs. Wright’s face flushed. “Ours was a whirlwind romance. I grew up back East. His sisters and I are good friends. I accompanied them on a visit to Placerville recently. When Matthew and I saw one another—” The color on the sweet woman’s cheeks deepened to red. “What am I doing? You didn’t come here to listen to a newlywed’s prattle.”
“It’s fine. I’m happy for you.” If the visit went as Callie hoped and Dr. Wright knew of something that could be done to repair the damage she’d suffered all those years ago, she might experience the same joy herself one day.
“Thank you. All the same, I should get down to business. The doctor didn’t mention why you’d requested an appointment. What seems to be the trouble?”
As quickly as possible, she told Mrs. Wright about the accident, the diagnosis when she was six, the confirmation when she came of age and didn’t experience the “monthly reminders of womanhood,” as Becky had so tactfully put it, and her hope that a surgery or procedure might exist that would correct whatever it was that had gone wrong inside her.
“The best place to start would be for me to perform an examination. I could discuss my findings with my husband. That way you’d have two assessments—and the benefit of his expertise. He’s a learned man and is well versed in the latest medical advancements, as your friend mentioned.”
Mrs. Wright’s reassuring smile eased Callie’s fears somewhat. Even so, she felt her dream of a possible future with Chip slipping away.
“I’m fine with an examination, and I’d be happy to hear the doctor’s thoughts, along with your own.” She was open to any and all possibilities.
Twenty minutes later, Callie sat on a plush chair in the doctor’s well-appointed office while he and his wife conferred in the examination room. With as much pressing and prodding as Mrs. Wright had done, surely she had been able to get all the information needed.
The clock on the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf that boasted an impressive collection of medical texts ticked off the seconds. Callie ran her hands along the smooth wooden arms of the chair. Minutes from now she would know if the faint hope that something could be done for her would have the opportunity to grow or whether it must be forever put to rest.
Dr. and Mrs. Wright entered the room a short time later. He took his place in the leather armchair behind the massive desk. His wife sat in the armless chair beside Callie’s. Neither of their expressions revealed anything.
Callie braced herself for the news, whatever it might be. “What did you find out?”
A look passed between the couple that held…sympathy? Callie’s mouth went dry.
Mrs. Wright placed a hand on Callie’s arm. “I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear, but based on your symptoms and my physical examination, the doctor and I believe the earlier information you were given is accurate. It appears you suffered some internal damage. I was able to the determine that your w…”
The nurse’s lips continued to move, although Callie could hear nothing but the rushing of blood in her ears. A cold, hollow sensation filled her chest, and her skin turned to gooseflesh. She clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering.
At length, she became aware of Dr. Wright’s deep voice. He was saying her name. “Miss Hunt? Are you all right?”
She nodded, a gesture that required an unusual amount of effort. Her head felt as heavy as a sadiron.
He continued, his tone filled with compassion. “I know the news is disappointing. The important thing to remember is that the inability to have a baby is no reflection on you or your worth. You’re a beloved child of God, and He has plans for you.”
Callie heard what Dr. Wright said, but he had no idea what it felt like to have your dreams of motherhood—and marriage—shattered. She knew for certain that Chip Evans, the finest man she’d ever known, would have no interest in her. She couldn’t give him the one thing he wanted most—children of his own.
Somehow she managed to thank the Wrights, settle her bill and make her way to the Plaza, where she was to meet Chip. If only she didn’t have to face him so soon after the crushing blow. He was sure to notice she wasn’t herself and express concern. That she could handle, but what would she say when he asked the questions that were sure to follow? How would she feel when the man she’d grown to love rejected her?