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Mark’s goals were on the verge of being met. He controlled his own success, his destiny. He felt it in every breath of the office air he inhaled and every client he imagined.
If only those clients would walk through the door in front of him, the one his stare bore a hole through.
Maybe he’d expected too much, too soon.
The article in the Riverport Times came out a week ago, seven days after he’d stopped in at the newspaper office. Short and impersonal, it left out much of the information he had given the bored clerk, who had blocked him from speaking with a journalist.
The original had been a fine paragraph, too. He’d spent an hour writing it and remembered every word.
As a draftsman and designer under the supervision and tutelage of architect Daniel Burnham of D. H. Burnham in Chicago, Mark Gregory gained the experience and respect required to establish his own firm in the fine city of Riverport.
The designs of Mark Gregory Architecture shine with individuality yet never stray from the practicality essential to his clients. Mr. Gregory is a forward-thinker who brings unique beauty to a building and showcases the latest and safest innovations in construction materials and methods.
You may call upon him at Mark Gregory Architecture, 245 Commerce Street, Suite 2-B.
Unfortunately, the information printed was less than stellar and cost him the price of an advertisement.
As a draftsman and designer under the supervision and tutelage of architect Daniel Burnham of D. H. Burnham and Company in Chicago, Mark Gregory has established his own firm in the fine city of Riverport.
Call upon him at Mark Gregory Architecture, 245 Commerce Street, Suite 2-B.
Settled in the chair behind the used desk, Mark placed his palms on the clean, paperless surface and ran a hand over the silky wood. Within the next six months, the top of this desk would teem with orders, invoices, and correspondence.
No, within two months. Addison repeatedly said that if he was to dream, it was a sin to dream small.
The rumor that Harris Lefler planned to build in Riverport presented Mark with his best opportunity for a quick and notable start. So far, he’d received no response to his letter of introduction. Although his chance of gaining the wealthy businessman’s attention was slim, he refused to dream small.
He tapped his fingers on the wood. Where was the sign man? Seeing the firm’s name painted on the glass would symbolize the official start to the business. The man was an hour later than anticipated today and two weeks later than when Mark had needed him.
He had no right to complain. By the time he’d contacted the painter, his schedule was full.
It did little good to sit around bemoaning a lack of business or the tardiness of the painter, so he went to the storage area off the drafting room. As he rearranged the architectural supplies and tools on the shelves, the outer door to the office opened, alerting him to a visitor.
At last!
Mark returned to the front office to find a rail-thin older man dressed in paint-splattered clothing standing near the desk. He smelled of turpentine and some type of strong cheese. “I hope you’re here to letter the door.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry I’m late. My last customer kept changing his order.” He frowned at Mark as if expecting his current customer to be every bit as ambivalent. He gestured behind him. “This the door?”
“Yes. You have what I require?”
The man pulled out a sheet of paper, and they went over the details. “Seems clear enough. I’ll get right to work.”
“Good.”
“By the way, you are Mr. Gregory, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
He tapped an envelope on the desk. “A messenger boy came in with me and left this for you.”
Mark snatched the envelope and slit the seal with his finger. “Why didn’t he call out?”
“Said he had another delivery to make and asked me to be sure you saw it.”
Mark read the message. “Are you familiar with a gentleman by the name of Dover?”
The man’s mouth twisted in a sign of deep thought. “No, sir. Don’t think so.”
Whoever this Dover was, he’d seen the article in the newspaper and wanted to meet with Mark on Friday to discuss a project. He refolded the letter and stuffed it in the envelope. A possible client.
On his way back to the drafting room, he paused to admire the M and A already outlined on the glass. What a day. What a start to the future.
Addison was right. Why should he dream small?
***
“DO WE STILL HAVE LAST week’s newspaper?” Why wasn’t it in the pile as usual, and why even look for it? There it was. “Never mind, Ma, I found it.”
Claire’s friend, Roslyn Malone, had told her of an article announcing the opening of an architectural office in Riverport. “It’s high time you left this store and gave others the opportunity to realize your talent.” Roslyn’s words echoed in her mind.
Claire had tried to ignore the longing to find the article, but here she stood, shuffling through a stack of old newspapers kept in the mudroom to light the stove.
“What is so interesting?” Her mother’s voice had risen higher than normal. She paused while peeling potatoes for their supper, which included baked chicken, according to Claire’s nose. “Is Newland’s having a sale?”
“They’re always having a sale, Ma, but it’s not what I’m looking for.”
“Then why are you tearing through those pages?”
If she admitted the goal of her search, her mother would tell her father. Unlike Roslyn, her parents hadn’t approved of her working in Richard’s office. They had wanted her to stay home and give them grandchildren. A pain twisted inside her, crushing her lungs. She had tried...for a while.
“You heard, didn’t you?” At the somber note in her mother’s voice, Claire stopped turning pages. “Your pa thought if he hid the newspaper...”
“He thought if he hid it, I wouldn’t find out about the new architect in town?”
Ma nodded. “We don’t want you hurt again.”
“I appreciate your concern for me. I really do. But you’re not responsible for my decisions.” Their parental smothering was another reason to find her own place. “I simply want to see who it is. Maybe I know him.”
Claire sped through the tiny bit of information in the article and absorbed the salient points before she balled the paper up and tossed it into the stove’s firebox. “See? That’s all I wanted. Now, let me help you peel those potatoes.”
She may as well have tattooed the address of the firm on her palm with newsprint. She doubted she would forget it soon. But what would she do with it?
“Ma, how would you feel if I said I planned to look for a room to let?”
Her mother’s hands paused. “Why would you do that, Claire? You have a perfectly good room here.”
“I do, but I can’t live here forever.”
She took her mother’s prolonged silence as her answer.
Her brother, Wallace, walked into the kitchen. “This letter came for you, Claire.”
She set the paring knife and half-peeled potato on the counter, wiped her hands on her apron, and took the envelope from him. Printed on the flap were monogrammed initials—a D flanked by a C and M.
“CMD. CD.” She shook her head. “I can’t think of anyone with those initials.”
Wallace nodded toward the envelope. “Seems to me there’s a way to identify the sender.”
Claire grinned. She ripped the envelope open and pulled out a sheet of notepaper with a handwritten message. “It’s an invitation to meet with Mr. Dover.”
Her mother peered over her shoulder at the paper. “Who is Mr. Dover?”
“I met him on my walk home from the store two weeks ago.”
“And he wants to meet with you? Why?”
She reread the short message, a suspicion niggling at the back of her mind, but it wasn’t a suspicion she cared to share with her family. “It doesn’t exactly say. He writes that it’s an important matter.”
Ma clucked her tongue. “Sounds inappropriate to me.”
“It’s at his office on Friday afternoon. How inappropriate could it be?”
Her mother’s eyes widened. “Claire Ellen, you are no child. You know very well—”
“Ma, I’ll be fine. He was a nice man. Besides, he must be at least Pa’s age.”
“Men are men no matter the age.”
Her mother had a point. Still, Claire couldn’t imagine the gentleman she met having a wicked intent. Though he made no mention of it, instinct told her the invitation involved their previous conversation.
What did he want? Perhaps he’d found another building to discuss with her. Or, perhaps, he had also read about the new architectural firm. If so, what plan did he have up his sleeve?
“You’ll go, won’t you?”
Claire hated hearing the concern mingled with resignation in her mother’s voice. With no children of her own, she was left to imagine what it was like for a parent to see a child make a decision deemed to be unwise—no matter the child’s age. “I don’t know yet.”
She could convince herself she only wanted to see a kindly gentleman again, but she knew better. The curiosity had already weaved its way under her skin.
Along with it, she felt the rise of an old passion and the familiar fear it instilled.
***
CLAIRE PAUSED ON THE sidewalk on Commerce Street and lowered her umbrella. Had she not learned her lesson two years ago?
Perhaps she’d jumped to conclusions. In his invitation, Mr. Dover had been coy in stating his purpose. It might have nothing to do with the profession of architecture.
The morning rain had stopped, leaving a damp and fresh scent in the air...along with mud on her shoes and splotches of it on the hem of her gray skirt. A fine impression to leave with a man who had struck her as fastidious in his dress.
She shook the raindrops off the umbrella. After going round and round since Tuesday, she could only say that her midnight conversations with God brought her a tentative peace only after she had agreed to meet with Mr. Dover. It made no sense. God knew her weakness. Why put her in this position once more?
If she hadn’t already sent word to Mr. Dover accepting his invitation, she would turn around and walk back to the store—peace or no peace.
She glanced up at the smoky clouds and bemoaned their presence, wishing for a bright, cheery afternoon to calm her nerves. At least, she’d finished with tramping across another muddy street.
People strolled up and down the walk on both sides of Commerce. Some had lowered their umbrellas as she had done. Others held the instrument high, seemingly oblivious to the fact it no longer rained.
Although she hadn’t reached her destination, Claire scraped thick, heavy clumps of dark soil off the soles of her shoes by running them across the edge of the curb. Her brain taunted the futile effort as one of procrastination.
As soon as she turned the corner onto Riverside Avenue, she spotted a child of about four, not much younger than her first child would be today.
A woman, who Claire assumed was the girl’s mother, plodded ahead with her back to the child, shoulders slumped and head down, while the girl hopscotched down the walkway behind her.
Prior to the first miscarriage, Claire had helped Richard and George at the office on occasion. After the second, she grew ever more involved in the business and the design work. Starting a family had been a goal for their future, but she had never imagined it would bring such pain, or that their future had a limited time frame.
If she and Richard had tried again for children—if she had been willing—would they eventually have become parents to girls, boys, or a mix of genders? She kicked the question to the street, along with another clump of mud. What good did it do to ponder something impossible to answer?
Without the busyness and impediments of a street such as Commerce, Riverside Avenue’s traffic often tended to travel with more speed than prudence. A sense of danger shouted at her to increase her pace as the child wandered ever closer to the street.
Behind her, the rattle of a vehicle caught her ear. At the same moment, the girl danced off the curb and splashed through a series of mud puddles, progressing farther into the street, and soiling her stockings as well as the faded blue calico dress she wore.
Claire increased her pace, glancing over her shoulder at the fast-approaching beer wagon from Schroeder’s Brewery. Its forest-green body swayed with the fast trot of the team of draft horses pulling it through the mud. The driver appeared focused on the mutt lying across his lap.
She latched onto her skirt, lifting it to run. “Stop!”
The girl splashed once more, then halted in the middle of a puddle to stare at her—right in a path to be trampled.
With her heart striking an insane rhythm, Claire tossed aside the umbrella and jumped off the curb. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the mother turn around. Claire lunged and wrapped her right arm around the girl’s waist, scooping her up and leaping for the curb as the right lead horse brushed past.
She twisted, placing her back to the wagon to protect the girl. As she did so, her foot slipped in the slick mud. Her left arm flailed as she struggled to stay on her feet, but the weight of the child pulled her off-balance. They both tumbled sideways to the ground. She thanked the Lord that the little girl fell on top of her rather than the other way around.
Fortunately, the wagon passed them, the driver oblivious to what happened, but the dog barked with excitement.
Before Claire could catch her breath, someone pulled the girl away, then clutched her upper arm. “Are you hurt, Mrs. Kingsley?”
Her mind worked to identify the familiar voice. Claire looked into the face of her rescuer. Of course, it would be him.
How she wished to hide her face in the mud and pretend Mr. Grzegorczyk hadn’t witnessed her fall.