| |
Claire sat next to Mark in the carriage on the way to the Dover lot. She tried to relax her hands as she clutched the small notebook in her lap, but the tension in her fingers remained. Her pulse thrummed in her ears, diminishing the sounds of children playing and traffic passing.
They were driving down several streets toward the southern end of town, which meant crossing the Wabash. Whenever possible, Claire avoided the river for the memories it conjured. Today, she had no choice.
The horse’s clip-clop echoed across the wooden bridge as she sat stiff on the seat, not looking left or right. Once they reached the other side, her body relaxed.
They turned onto a side street where the lots grew bigger, as did the homes, although these structures were nothing compared to those in the area east of downtown—the area where people lived who possessed the same ample resources as the Newlands.
Claire had almost canceled this trip after the incident in Mark’s office yesterday. She could thank him for saving her from being hit by the door. He’d been a gentleman. She couldn’t forgive herself for sinking into a moment of pleasure when he wrapped his arm around her waist. That moment reminded her of what it felt like to be held by a man—warm, safe, secure in love.
But that was the problem, wasn’t it? Mark was just another man, not her husband. Yes, a surge of excitement had swept through her, but no love was involved in the embrace. Not even a wish for such intimacy and feeling—none she’d ever acknowledge. She couldn’t say the same for him when a gleam of interest had flashed from his eyes as he’d looked down on her.
Why had she given him the wrong idea that day at the store? Foolish, foolish, foolish woman.
Mark reined the horse alongside the curb, behind another buggy and in front of a heavily wooded property. A break in the trees revealed a slight downward slope where a tiny creek meandered along the rear property line. She judged the lot to be a little more than an acre, bordered on both sides and across the street by established residences.
Mr. Dover stood with his back against the trunk of a hickory tree near the street, one ankle crossed over the other and his hands on the top of the cane he’d carried the first time she met him. He looked up and ambled toward them. “Welcome.”
Mark helped Claire from the carriage. As soon as she hit the ground, she tugged her hand free from his, shook out her skirts to cover the abrupt action, and strolled to meet their client, leaving him to follow. “What lovely land.”
Mr. Dover’s cheeks puffed with his smile. “Leora took one look and demanded we buy it.”
Claire laughed. “I see no injury to your arm as a result of her twisting it.”
“None at all.” He shook his arm to prove it. “Depending on the way the wind blows, there are days when we hear the river flowing. It isn’t far beyond our property.”
She listened. Today was not one of those days.
Mr. Dover shook Mark’s hand. “Well, young man, what do you think you can do with this?”
Mark studied what could be seen of the land from front to back and side to side. “How many of the trees do you want to save?”
“As many as possible. It’s what drew us to the property. We’d like to preserve the view from front and rear.”
Claire glanced at Mark and gauged that the same question occurred to him. Many of the trees were on the upper portion of the lot. To keep them, where would the house go?
“My wife wants a small gazebo built at the bottom of the slope where the land overlooks the creek. She imagines us spending our elder years relaxing there.” The feigned scowl gave way to a chuckle, exposing the respect and admiration Mr. Dover had for his wife. He wanted to please her, and in doing so, it pleased him. In that, he was much like Richard.
They discussed their client’s preferences and budget. Claire jotted down copious notes in the little book, while Mark asked intelligent questions and made a few suggestions.
“I must go. I’ve kept Leora waiting supper. When may I expect to see a preliminary drawing?”
Mark turned back to eye the lot. “We’ll need to review the city’s building regulations. In the meantime, I’ll prepare a written summary of the project requirements we’ve discussed for you to approve. Taking into consideration our schedules, we should be able to provide you with something preliminary a couple of weeks after that.”
“As I said, there’s no hurry. However, I will look forward to seeing it.”
Once Mr. Dover had driven away, Claire cast a last look around, then hiked through the stand of trees toward the street. “That gives us a start.” When she received no answer, she spun around. Mark was headed in the opposite direction, on his way to the back of the property. “Aren’t we leaving?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “In a minute.”
She studied Mark’s movements and suspected he would examine each blade of grass on the Dover property and a bucket of soil if it meant the difference between constructing a generic and mediocre building or one that fit the lot like no other. And rightly so.
Rather than let him think she had no interest in what was on his mind, she traipsed back the way she’d come, lifting her skirts as she navigated through the trees and brush. Her dress snagged on a branch that had fallen from an oak tree. She carefully freed the claw-like piece from the material and tossed it aside, then continued to trail Mark.
Mark? Despite his request that she use his given name, she was only an employee.
He stopped near the point where the land sloped toward the creek in a gradual gradient. When she reached his side, somewhat winded, she followed his every glance, every stare, every narrowed gaze, preparing to share an opinion or idea he might request of her.
“We have our work ahead of us, Claire.” He gestured to the wooded area she’d tramped through. “Dover wants to keep as many of those trees as possible, yet the land they sit on is the most level and suitable place for the size house he wishes to build.”
“You did tell him, and he’s an intelligent man. Are you thinking most of the trees will need to come down?”
“Probably more than he would like.”
“That’s a shame. They add character to the land.”
“Let’s see if we can come up with a better idea.”
We. She liked the way Mark included her in the project...as long as their relationship remained strictly professional.
***
MARK SCANNED THE PROPERTY one more time, mainly to avoid focusing on Claire. As long as he concentrated on the Dover project, he could put her out of his mind. It was when his concentration lagged that he fought to keep his interest to himself.
In various little ways, she had let him know anything personal between them was not appreciated—everything from the posture of a yardstick to snatching her hand from his when he’d tried to help her from the carriage. At the same time, she kept that light smile on her face, one he suspected was more for show than heartfelt feeling. It made him more determined to get to know the real Claire Kingsley.
In good time.
He turned without a glance in her direction. “I’ve seen everything I need to see right now. Are you ready to leave?”
“Yes.”
Keeping a respectable distance between them, he led Claire to her side of the buggy but let her climb aboard under her own power. Once he’d taken up the reins and guided the horse toward town, they delved into various subjects. He kept her talking as they traversed the bridge. For some reason, she’d barely breathed while crossing the river earlier. Fear of water or heights, he supposed.
“Living in Chicago during the time of the World’s Columbian Exposition must have been exciting.” The animation in Claire’s voice parroted her statement. “It’s a shame Mr. Root never lived to see the joy it brought to people from all over the country and beyond. He was such a force behind the planning and development of the fair.”
The city of Chicago owed much to John Root, Mr. Burnham’s late partner. “Did you know he sketched out his original ideas for the layout on a large sheet of brown paper?”
“I’d heard that.”
Mark reined the horse around a stopped buggy on Commerce. “My one regret was never having had the chance to meet and learn from John Root. That said, I won’t discount what I learned from Mr. Burnham, another man of vision.”
“I understand they added bronze plaques to the Fine Arts Building in memory of Mr. Root and Mr. Olmsted’s partner, Mr. Codman.”
“True. Codman was my age. He accomplished much in his short life.” Much more than Mark. But that would change. Perhaps the Lefler commission was the first step toward receiving his own important project in the style of a Columbian Exposition. “John Root was only a dozen years older than Codman when he succumbed to pneumonia. It isn’t right that men die in their prime when they should have years to contribute to society.”
“‘For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways.’”
“What is that?”
“It’s from the book of Isaiah. An early death may not seem right to those of us left behind, but we don’t see the whole story, do we? We don’t see God’s purpose for an individual’s life.”
Mark’s jaw clenched at being preached to. What did she know of it? Did God even care enough to have a plan for people’s lives?
Then, it occurred to him that she had been one of those left behind, as had he when his father died. Unlike him, she showed no anger at losing her husband so young.
As though she wished to end the somber discussion, Claire twisted toward him and changed the subject. “Would I be treading on treacherous ground if I asked again about the situation with your mother?”
What she really asked was why his mother shunned her. “To be blunt, she’s adamant that my future wife will have a Polish ancestry.”
“I see.”
At the dismay in her soft response, he regretted using the word wife and did his best to bury the memory with further explanation. “After my parents arrived in the United States, my father saw that she learned English and the ways of this country, but she protested every step. In moving her to Riverport, I took her out of another comfortable world, one occupied by fellow Poles.”
Claire seemed to ponder the situation. “Your mother is afraid she’ll lose more of her heritage, because she won’t have others around to remind her of it?”
“An astute observation. It’s been hard for her to adjust to leaving our Polish neighborhood in Chicago. I had assumed Mama would eventually come to like living here, but I might have made a mistake. Maybe I’ve only succeeded in ensuring her misery.”
“I doubt that. If it helps, Riverport is my childhood home. When I moved to Indianapolis, it took time to make friends in a new place and to feel welcome. I’m sure she’ll come around.”
“Possibly.” Even to his own ears, he didn’t sound convinced. She hadn’t changed in thirty years. Why should he expect her to change now? “I understand and can sympathize with her, but I’d like Mama to discover that accepting a new way of life isn’t the same as abandoning the past. It’s my hope that she’ll make the most of her present life and find joy in it.”
A wry smile graced Claire’s face. “That is a noble goal.”
As they neared the northern area of town, he leaned forward and slowed the horse, his attention on suspicious activity down the street.
“What’s wrong?”
Mark’s hands clenched the reins. “I don’t like what I’m seeing up ahead.”
He studied the two boys standing alongside the street. The one he judged to be about twelve kicked at something in the grass—something alive based on its flinch. The other one, younger, spat on it. Their jeers were loud enough to reach his ears.
Claire leaned forward in the seat. “What are those boys up to?”
“Nothing good, I’m sure.”
Mark urged the horse into a trot, eager to prove himself wrong about what he saw. Once they neared the children, he drew back on the reins and jumped from the carriage, certain now of their activity.
“What do you two think you’re doing?” He marched to the boys, who backed a few steps away from the trembling dog on the ground.
The older boy stood taller and sneered at Mark. “This mongrel’s been hanging around the neighborhood all week. Pa don’t want it here no more.”
“That’s no excuse for cruelty.” The dog whimpered at the volume and tone of Mark’s voice, something that failed to make an impact on the older boy. Not according to that malicious glint he aimed at Mark.
Years ago, Mark had seen that same look in another boy’s eyes. In that instance, his father had come to his defense against a bully, as Mark now defended the dog. This time, the result of the encounter would be different.
The boy waved a hand through the air. “Go on. Get it outta here before Pa sees it again, ’cause he won’t be near as nice to it as us.”
Mark couldn’t dispute the boy’s statement. Surely, the apples hadn’t fallen far from the twisted limbs of that family tree.
“It’s nothin’ but a bony old cur, anyway.” The older delinquent slapped his brother on the arm. “Let’s go to the pond and find us some tadpoles.”
The brothers ran off and disappeared amid the trees, leaving Mark feeling sorry for any tadpoles they found.
He dug into a bag sitting in the carriage and removed the cookies his mother sent with him to the office that morning. He had eaten all but three. Cookies weren’t the most suitable meal for an underfed dog, but he had nothing else to give it.
“What am I to do with you?” He couldn’t leave an obvious stray here to starve or be mistreated again by those boys or their father.
He crouched a few feet from the animal—an unsightly thing with its nondescript coloring and clumps of dirt that clung to the ends of a wiry coat. Sad eyes, shimmering like brown silk, melted his anger.
“Come here.” Mark whispered the words and held out a hand, palm down, for the dog—a female—to sniff. Mangy and thin, shoulders and hipbones protruding, she crept closer and stopped. He waited until she made up her mind to trust him.
It required more soft words and patience before he was rewarded with a crawl across the dirt on a hefty belly. With the stretch of her neck, her damp nose touched his fingertips. He laid a light hand on the dog’s head and scratched her behind the ears.
Claire joined him and knelt in the grass, encouraging the dog’s approach with soft words and coos. The animal licked her hand. “Poor thing. She looks hungry.”
He held out one of the cookies. The dog sniffed it, snatched it, and ate it in one gulp. “I think I’ll take her home with me.” He turned to Claire. “Unless you would like to do so.”
“I couldn’t impose an animal on my family, not under these circumstances.”
“These circumstances?”
Claire rose from the crouch. Those light eyes twinkled. “It won’t be long before your cookie eater produces little crumbs.”
Little crumbs? What did she mean by...? Mark studied the dog’s enlarged middle. His face burned. How had he missed recognizing the stray’s condition? “Well, I’ll be.”
“Congratulations.”
He reconsidered his plan to take the dog with him. It took all of ten seconds. “I can’t drive off and leave her here with those hooligans around.”
“Maybe you’ll find another home for her.”
“If not, what will I do with puppies?”
“Give them away. As precious as their mother is, I’m sure it won’t be hard.”
“Let’s hope not.” He urged the animal into the buggy. She jumped on the seat, flopped down where Claire had sat, and sprawled across the leather with a canine sigh.
Claire laughed. “I’ll walk from here.”
“No, I’ll put her on the floor and take you home.”
“Don’t bother. It isn’t far. Goodnight.” She quick-stepped down the street before he could argue.
When she turned a corner, Mark turned to the dog. “I looked forward to taking Claire home, you know.” At a solemn whimper from the brown and gray lump on the seat, he said, “Let’s get you something proper to eat.”
Puppies? He shook his head and turned the horse toward home.
Maybe a pet would give his mother something to think about other than moving back to Chicago...if Mama accepted her.