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Claire set the plate on Verbenia’s kitchen counter. When she had volunteered to prepare a dessert for this week’s Widow’s Might meeting, she hadn’t realized how thankful she would be for the distraction.
Verbenia Jensen’s skirt brushed Claire’s. “Those look delicious. I know it’s early and not all the ladies are present, but may I try one?”
About Claire’s mother’s age, Verbenia, the founder of the Widow’s Might circle, brought her personal experience, empathy, and mentorship to some of Riverport’s young widows.
“Help yourself.”
The woman bit into the square of cake and shut her eyes. “Mmm... What is this?”
“I found the recipe in Fannie Farmer’s The Boston Cooking School Cookbook. She calls it a brownie.” It was a simple recipe, a blessing given her scattered thoughts during the past few days.
“You and Miss Farmer are clever girls.”
Yes, so clever she hadn’t settled on a response to Mr. Dover’s offer yet. Or Roslyn’s.
Together, Claire and Richard had discussed their hopes, dreams, problems, and choices. Discussing either subject with her parents would prove prickly. She’d already sought her mother’s thoughts on a move and received nothing but silence and a frown.
“You seem preoccupied, Claire. Is there something troubling you?”
The older widow’s words had often provided a balm to Claire’s wounded spirit. Yes, she had her mother to rely on for counsel, but her mother had never walked in Claire’s shoes. Then again, in this situation, neither had Verbenia. Still, it might not hurt to seek wisdom where it was offered.
“There’s a new architect in town named Mark Gregory. Another gentleman I met recently requested that I work with Mr. Gregory to design a house plan for him.”
“That’s wonderful news.” Verbenia eyed her and frowned. “But I can see you aren’t happy about it. What is the problem?”
“I’m not sure I should.”
Verbenia brushed the sand-colored brownie crumbs clinging to her hands into the sink. “What do you know about this new architect? Is he competent?”
After meeting with him in Mr. Dover’s office, Claire suspected Mr. Gregory was quite competent, and Mr. Burnham would not have employed him otherwise. “He has an impressive background and came here from one of the most respected firms in Chicago.”
“It sounds promising. Why hesitate?”
Claire shrugged. She’d never told Verbenia or any of the Widow’s Might women everything about her life in Indianapolis. She hadn’t the courage. “It won’t be the same as working with Richard.”
“No, it won’t. Our lives don’t remain constant, and that part of yours is over.”
Claire took a step back at the blunt statement. This woman, who always seemed to understand her charges’ needs, clearly missed the mark this time. It wasn’t her fault. She’d been given a partial account of Claire’s history.
“I’m sorry to sound harsh, but you aren’t the first woman I’ve counseled who held onto the past because of fear of the future.” Verbenia laid a gentle hand on Claire’s wrist. “When the time is right, God often introduces us to people and events that take us in a new direction, one that fits His plan. It’s up to us to recognize that opportunity and seize it, not look back like Lot’s wife because we’re afraid to leave the security of the familiar.”
Was Claire ready for a new direction at this time in her life? “Not every opportunity leads to a path we should follow. Not every introduction is one from God.”
“I agree.” Verbenia released her. “Have you prayed about this opportunity?”
Claire huffed. “Since the moment it was first presented to me.”
“And?”
“And I have no clear answer.”
After a period in which Verbenia studied her like a horticulturist would study a leaf under a microscope, she said, “Is it possible you have no clear answer because you don’t want to know the answer?”
Had she drowned out God’s voice through her anxiety over what it might mean for her future? Perhaps her friend hadn’t missed the mark after all.
Verbenia picked up the plate with the brownies. “I’ll take this to the dining room. The rest of the ladies will be here soon.”
Claire followed at a sedate pace, her mind as foggy as ever.
Until she’d lost her babies, she’d been sure of herself, of the things she wanted from life—a happy marriage, motherhood, the occasional opportunity to assist in creating something beautiful for others.
Afterward, she replaced the dread of added heartache with more and more work. Then Richard died. Now...
Now the idea of resuming a portion of her past life tickled a tiny spot inside she’d fought to numb.
What would it be like to work alongside the new architect? Surely, not the same as working with Richard.
While watching Mr. Gregory during their discussion of Mr. Dover’s requirements, he had struck her as solid in his knowledge, driven, and not a man to suffer fools gladly or accept an assistant unable to do the job. She could do the job...if she wanted to.
As she walked into the foyer, someone knocked on the front door. Claire peeked inside the parlor to see three women already seated and talking. The sound of laughter coming from outside told her more than one of the remaining three members of their group stood on the porch.
She cast off her concerns and opened the door to find Phoebe Crain and Mavis Lipp chattering like magpies. Though a fellow member of the Widow’s Might group, poor Phoebe wasn’t a widow in the strictest sense of the word. She had been tricked into a sham marriage that produced a daughter. Once the truth came out—no thanks to the spite of a jealous woman—the other members had rallied around her.
Phoebe had conquered her fears. Would Claire ever find the courage to conquer hers?
Edythe Westin stood behind the others, a placid smile on her regal face. The tall and lithe brunette came from a family of wealth and power, yet she was one of the most reticent people Claire had ever met.
“The three of you are late.”
Phoebe shook her head. “We’re right on time, because you know you couldn’t start without us.”
Claire laughed. “She thinks much of herself.”
Soon, the Widow’s Might ladies anticipated losing Phoebe’s participation in these Sunday afternoon fellowship gatherings. They all knew Spence Newland, heir to his family’s business interests, had fallen in love with Phoebe last Christmas. Any day, the ladies expected news of a formal announcement.
Claire would miss her friend’s presence, but she enjoyed hearing Phoebe laugh. For too long the former concert pianist had worried over what people would say about the scandal in her past, until the Newlands—one of the most influential families in Riverport—had accepted her. As far as Claire was concerned, no one else’s opinion mattered.
God had taken Phoebe’s life in a direction she’d never expected, and it turned out to be good for her and for her young daughter.
How could Claire expect the same result if she rejected the path God would have her take?
***
CLAIRE LEFT THE WIDOW’S Might meeting, her mood heavier than when she’d entered it. She hadn’t been honest with Verbenia, even after the woman suggested Claire’s prayers might have resulted in an answer she couldn’t accept.
Why would God lead Claire to walk a new path toward something that made her heart sing when she didn’t deserve the second chance the opportunity presented?
Of course, all her hand-wringing might prove to be a moot point if Mr. Gregory rejected the plan Mr. Dover presented him.
On her way home, Claire approached the Patton Place Hotel. A recent addition to the town, the hotel’s brick pavers led to the two-story portico at the front of the building built of the same red brick. An arched doorway and urns of greenery welcomed the hotel’s guests. Its restaurant drew patrons from all over the county to sample the cuisine of its French-trained chef. Claire had never dined there, but an article in the newspaper had claimed that every drop of the Béarnaise sauce was more enjoyable than the perfection of the steak it covered.
She scooted into the grass to let a small hack from the railroad station pass by. The horses clip-clopped down the hotel’s drive to stop under the portico in front of the entrance. The door to the cab opened, and a gentleman descended. “Please take my suitcase inside. I’ll be there shortly.”
Claire froze, recognizing a voice she hadn’t heard in close to two years. She looked down, hoping her hat brim provided a cover for much of her face. At the same time, she slid her gaze sideways, raised only high enough to catch a glimpse of the man from behind.
Medium size. Brown hair. A broad build, though not portly. A stylish dresser in a black suit, the material expertly altered. Her heart dropped to her stomach. She wouldn’t know for sure it was George Brant unless he turned around. In which case, if she could help it, he would not see her.
Trotting past the hotel would only bring attention to her, but there was nowhere to hide, except...
Claire crept toward an outer column of the portico and halted behind it, fully aware it wasn’t wide enough to completely conceal her. Thankfully, the carriage blocked part of the column, so she scooted forward.
Standing motionless, with her eyes closed, she fooled herself into thinking if she saw no one, no one saw her. For added insurance, she prayed the carriage wouldn’t move and expose her until after George had entered the hotel.
“Claire Kingsley? Is that you?”
She jumped at the soft voice at her shoulder. After drawing a deep breath for the purpose of patience and calm, she opened her eyes and turned around. “Why, George.”
Why, George? Why are you here?
“I thought I saw you from the carriage. What a surprise that you’re the first person I meet on my arrival in Riverport.” He eyed the brick column. His crocodile smile, amid the perfectly trimmed beard, grated on her. “You weren’t hiding from me, were you?”
“Don’t be silly.” She glanced at the ground to cover the heat that rose with her lie. Seeing a coin on the ground, she bent and picked it up. Adding to her deception, she said, “I found a penny.”
His laughing eyes said she hadn’t fooled him. “Then it was well worth the pause in your walk.”
He had no idea how hard she worked for her pennies. “What are you doing in Riverport, George?”
“I’m here on business.”
Surely, Mr. Dover hadn’t requested George’s services, too.
Then the truth occurred to her. “You’re after Mr. Lefler’s project and came to look over the property.”
“He’s planning an office building on Webster Street. Four stories and over thirty thousand square feet.”
Roslyn had said it was to be special. Claire had not imagined something that large. “That’s quite a feather in some architect’s hat. Of course, we have our own architectural office in town now.” Why antagonize him?
He frowned. “You’re working for another architect?”
She hadn’t meant to suggest such an association with Mr. Gregory. “I...”
This was the man who had refused to let her become a permanent member of Kingsley and Brant—the man whose dictate was behind the argument with her husband the day he died. There was no reason to give him the satisfaction of learning she sold women’s fashions in a department store.
It wasn’t a lie to say, “I’ve been requested to work on a single project—a house design with another architect. Perhaps you’ve heard of Mark Gregory? Before opening his office in Riverport, he was employed by Daniel Burnham in Chicago.”
George might well have yawned for the impression that last statement made on him. “I don’t believe I know anything of the man.”
“I’m sure you’ll hear much about him in the future.” She smiled, even as words of retribution took hold of her tongue. “It wouldn’t surprise me to learn he’s sought Lefler’s project too. It’s possible you’ll have some strong competition.”
“You should know by now that I’m not afraid of competition, Claire. Besides, the opportunity to submit is by invitation only. If he’s new, I doubt he’s received one, no matter who employed him in the past.” George returned her smile. “After that train ride from Indianapolis, I could use some refreshment. Would you like to join me in the hotel restaurant? It will give us a chance to talk further.”
Not even the temptation of sipping tea in a luxurious restaurant could sway her to spend more time with him. “I’m afraid I can’t. It’s getting late and I have a busy day tomorrow.”
If she didn’t know better, she would say the loss of his grin indicated disappointment. He straightened his already straight tie. “There is one thing I want to discuss before you go.”
What could he possibly say that would interest her? “I really should—”
“I’ve taken on a new partner and renamed the company.”
Claire ran his rushed words back through her mind. Her stomach dropped as though she stood at the edge of a cliff looking down into a canyon littered with knife-edged rocks. “You’ve replaced Richard now? You’ve erased his name as though he never existed?”
“I needed another partner.” George fumbled with the hat he held in his hands, twisting the brim and twirling the headpiece. “You know that I’m fully capable of creating a practical design, but Richard had vision. He possessed the ingenuity to create something to be remembered. When I found someone whose talent matched his, I offered him a partnership. He insisted on the name change. I couldn’t afford to deny him the request, and it wasn’t fair for me to do so.”
“But it was fair to deny me an opportunity to keep the Kingsley name alive in the business?”
“I’m not the one who let Richard’s name die with him.” A tick flickered in George’s cheek, then he touched her arm. “I’m sorry to upset you, and I understand it was difficult for you to lose your children, but Richard felt that loss, too.”
Richard had talked to his partner about the intimate details of their personal life? “We planned—”
“No, darling, you planned. He went along with it, because you needed time to grieve, and he didn’t want to hurt you.”
“You’re saying he placated me? That he chose to put up with my work until I came to my senses?” She pulled away from George’s venomous touch. “You know nothing about our life.”
“Claire—”
“No.” She held up a hand to silence him and began to back away, not wanting to hear another word from him.
It was one thing to bring someone else into the company her husband helped found, but to make him a partner and remove the name Kingsley—Richard’s name—from the business... Hearing that was like living through her husband’s death a second time. And George had no right to bring up the subject of the losses she and Richard suffered, a subject that continued to haunt her.
“Good day, George.”
She walked away, the path before her blurry from her tears.
“I hope to see you again before I leave town, Claire.”
He could hope until Judgment Day.
Each footstep crushed a bit more of her sorrow, leaving deeper and deeper imprints of anger, resentment, and regret in its place. George’s previous dismissal of her had stung, would always sting, but now he’d cast aside Richard’s memory, his name, as if it didn’t matter that her husband had helped him become the architect he was today. As if Richard were yesterday’s trash!
If only she could best George in securing an important commission such as Harris Lefler’s. The Kingsley name would remain known in the architectural field. Richard’s name would live on regardless of George’s search for success and despite her failure as a wife.
If only.
Her march forward slowed. Telling George that Mark Gregory might be his competition had been idle talk. But what if Mr. Gregory did go after the Lefler prize? And what if, in a small way, the Kingsley name was associated with the architect who beat George and his new partner for the commission?
Vindictiveness was an ugly word. But was it vindictive to honor someone’s memory—someone who had been wronged? Was it indefensible to want to atone for her own wrong against that person?
Lord, I know I failed last time. I failed You and I failed Richard. I don’t deserve a second chance to prove myself, but I am asking for it. I am asking for a morsel of Your grace...for Richard’s memory.
She couldn’t give her husband children. She couldn’t give him back his life. But if God granted that grace, she could give his name to one more architectural project.