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Claire whipped the paper out of the typewriter and reread it, looking for mistakes. It had been a while since she’d done any typing and the process had taken her longer than she’d expected. To keep this job, she must become faster.
When satisfied there were no errors, she carried the project summary into the drafting room where Mark sat on a stool in front of the easel. She handed him the paper. “This is ready for Mr. Dover’s signature.”
Mark perused the general list of expectations and estimated costs for his services and handed it back to her. “This looks good. Will you put it in an envelope and hand-carry it to Mr. Dover’s office this afternoon?”
“Of course.” Claire peered around him at the paper tacked to the board, her hands clenched behind her back as she studied a sketch for the Dover house. He had an eye for proportion and confident lines.
Should she show him some of her old drawings? Last night, she’d finally dredged up the nerve to dig out her sketchbook from the trunk. So far, she hadn’t opened it.
“Have you settled on a plan to keep the trees?”
“I’m considering various concepts, but until the Dovers approve that list, we won’t go too far.”
“This one is nice.”
“It’s wrong.” He ripped the paper from the board, wadded it, and dropped it on the floor. “A house should blend into the nature around it, but it should never be obvious. We want a design that complements its surroundings, not overwhelms it. Every segment of the structure should be in proportion to its setting.”
Claire picked up the discarded paper and the other two rejected balls on the floor. “You sound like my husband. He would say, ‘We want everyone who stops to observe the building to realize its beauty without being able to rationalize why it’s beautiful. It must be an immediate and positive reaction.’”
“Hmm.” The response was unenthusiastic at best.
Claire shifted to his other side. “Perhaps if we discuss it, we might draw ideas from one another.”
“A pun?”
“If you think so.”
He chuckled, obviously grasping that she fully intended him to see it that way. “So far, all of my ideas would require too many of the trees to be removed.”
“Have you considered that you’re thinking too precisely?”
“In what way?”
“Building the Dover house requires losing more trees than the couple would like, so what if we brought them into the house?”
“Trees in the house?”
Claire could see by his expression that he’d already rejected the image her words provoked. “I don’t mean literally. What if they were given a sense of being in a wooded area within their own home?”
“Are you talking about something in a horseshoe shape around a cluster of trees?” He pointed to the paper balls in her hand. “If so, you’ll already find that idea in one of those.”
She crushed the rejected drawings into smaller spheres. “No, but it does have merit.”
Her mood jumped between nervousness and excitement, resting somewhere along unease. Would he dismiss her idea as outrageous?
“Come, Claire, you want to tell me. What is it?”
His question broke through her hesitation. “What if the house contained characteristics of the outdoors?”
“In what ways?”
“Wood forms the floors and stairways of a house and is used to panel walls. That wood is cut and molded into civilized shapes, planed until silk wouldn’t catch on it, and then stained or painted an unnatural color. Mr. Gregory, I think you should give that wood back its natural form and texture.”
Grooves creased his brow. “You’re talking about building a log-style house? I don’t think that’s what Dover has in mind.”
“No logs on the exterior. I’m referring to little interior touches that bring the setting inside. Ceilings with rough-hewn beams. A staircase of natural wood treads.” Claire’s hand waved past her face as she talked, seeing everything she described. “A stone fireplace with carved side beams and mantel. Paint colors and wallpaper that reflect the outdoors.”
The more she talked, the more she could see that he pictured the overall design. “We don’t want to carry the concept too far.”
“No, of course not.”
“Why don’t you sketch some ideas and I’ll see if I can work with them?” Mark pointed to the table. “You’ll find a sketch pad on the table over there.”
Sketch her ideas? How did she do that when she couldn’t bring herself to open the book at home? She should have kept quiet.
Then again, she was here because Mr. Dover requested her services. What had she thought would happen?
“Is there a problem?”
“No.” She walked to the table. Her fingers crept toward the sketch pad, stopping before she reached it. “I have some work to do at my desk before I leave. I’ll wait until tonight when I’m at home.” If she could summon the courage to open the sketchbook and transfer the images in her head to paper.
Did she even belong in an architectural office, even temporarily, if she failed to draw a single line on paper?
***
MARK GRABBED HIS COAT from a hook on the wall. “We’ve accomplished all we can today. I’ll walk you home.”
“I can—”
“I’ll walk you home, Claire.”
She looked about to argue with him, then seemed to think better of it and gathered her hat and purse. “All right.”
Her ideas for the Dover house and the excitement with which she’d presented them had intrigued him. He wanted to see more. What bothered him was the clear hesitation she’d shown when asked to draw those ideas. It was almost as though she was afraid of the sketchbook, the one she’d left behind.
He picked it up and held it out to her. “Don’t forget this.”
She paused, and he expected her to take it with the tips of her thumb and forefinger, holding it away from her body as if afraid it would bite. She fooled him and snatched it from his hand, then tucked it to her body in a tight hold, almost burying it within her arms.
Earlier, Mark had considered asking to take her to supper, but given her hesitancy to treat him as anything other than an employer, he doubted she would accept. She still insisted on calling him Mr. Gregory.
No, this was not the time to ask her to supper. This was a time to get to know her better in a more formal setting. If or when she gave him any indication of a wish for more—and he remained interested in her—he would ask.
What if she had a suitor? Why hadn’t he thought of that before?
His gaze moved to the ring on her finger. If that were the case, she’d have removed her wedding band, right?
They strolled along the streets, remarking off and on about one building or another. She gave him a short history of the town and what she liked about it—the opportunities, the people, the nearby farms with cornstalks that rose higher than a man’s head in years of good rainfall. Her enthusiasm and the pleasantness of her voice made it an enjoyable stroll.
“How is the stray?”
“Cookie.”
Claire spit out a laugh. “You named her Cookie?”
Mark raised his hands in defense. “It wasn’t my idea.”
“What did your mother say when you arrived home with her?”
“To be honest, I expected her to ban the dog from the house, especially knowing she’d soon give birth. Instead, my mother shed tears at the poor animal’s condition.” At that moment, Mark knew he had done well in taking the dog home.
“I’m glad Cookie has a good, protected place to live. I’m also glad you confronted those awful boys.”
“I saw the words ‘reformatory school’ when looking at them.”
They neared Mark’s street and Claire stopped. “There’s no sense in you walking me home and having to come back here. I’ll go the rest of the way alone.”
He wasn’t ready to say goodbye. “I used to play on a neighborhood baseball team, but since moving here, I’ve gotten little exercise. The extra walk will be good for me.”
Her face lit. “You like baseball?”
“Is there a more exciting sport?”
“None. My husband never understood my interest in the game.”
A point in Mark’s favor?
“Richard enjoyed chess. We played together on occasion.”
Perhaps not.
“Did you know we have an amateur team, the Riverport Pilots?”
“I’d heard.”
“Steamboats are part of the river’s history.”
“And every steamboat needs a pilot.”
“Correct.” She continued walking. “My friend Mrs. Malone lives on your street a few houses down from you.”
Malone? Where had he heard that name? He remembered. Though he didn’t know the details, his mother spoke about some scandal involving someone in the neighborhood named Malone—another of her black marks against living here. As if scandal never invaded their old neighborhood.
Her joy, sparked by their conversation over baseball, turned grim. “It’s probably good to have a dog around. Roslyn had some trouble not long ago.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“She saw someone skulking around her yard late at night.”
“A thief?” He’d make sure they locked the doors in the evenings. What was the world coming to when a homeowner must take such measures to guard his own property?
“She didn’t recognize him but said he was watching the house. He disappeared when he saw her at the window.”
“I’m sure her husband is taking precautions to keep his family safe.” As would Mark.
“She lives alone. Her husband, Gil Malone, oversaw Newland’s accounting department until they discovered he’d embezzled money from the store. It caused quite a stir last Christmas.”
“He’s in jail?”
Claire grimaced. “The police have looked for him since December, but he’s disappeared.”
“I hope he’s found soon. I’m sure not knowing what happened to him is a burden on your friend.” Sadness pervaded Claire’s demeanor, and he sought a different topic. “You told me you live with your parents.”
She nodded. “I’m sure we all thought my stay would be temporary but...”
“You miss not being on your own.” She darted a glance in his direction as though trying to perceive the reasoning behind his deduction. “It was the resignation in your voice.”
“I miss having my own home. It isn’t that I don’t appreciate all my family has done for me, but I’m mulling over the idea of renting a room somewhere.”
Mark understood her need for independence. “Until we moved to Riverport, I lived a few blocks from the house in which I’d grown up—not far from my mother, so I could care for her, but far enough for some autonomy. When we came here, I decided we would move into one place in the beginning, until she grew accustomed to her new surroundings. I’ll admit, I miss the freedom of my own space. At the same time, it is nice to have someone to come home to.”
“I suppose.”
But not the same as coming home to a beloved husband? Very intelligent, Mark. Anymore dazzling statements to shine a light on Claire’s loss?
Now that he’d ventured into forbidden territory he might as well go the full distance. “Your parents aren’t aware that you’re working for me, are they?”
Her step stuttered, then resumed. “How did you know?”
“Your reluctance to let me near their house.” He frowned. “Why haven’t you told them?”
“It’s a complicated situation.” Her head tilted as she looked at him. “Do you tell your mother everything?”
If she knew all he had done in his youth and beyond—what he’d done to start his business—Mama would take to her bed. “I tell her what’s important.”
“Have you told her you’re working with me?” At his hesitation, Claire smiled. “I didn’t think so.”
Since Mama never brought up Claire’s visit to the house, he’d left well enough alone and hadn’t provided an explanation. Maybe it was time to tell his mother, to get her used to Claire’s presence, because every moment spent with this woman—witnessing her sense of humor, her concern over her friends, her joy over the game of baseball—motivated a desire for more.
He took a risk. “Perhaps, you’d like to attend a baseball game with me some time.”
And with the snap of a finger, the smile disappeared. “Our time together is best spent working.”
He’d pushed too hard and lost the gamble.
“May I ask you a question, Mr. Gregory?”
He’d hoped they were beyond the formality. “Whatever you want to ask sounds serious.”
“I think the answer is important to our ability to work together.”
Now, it sounded plain ominous. “Go ahead.”
“Did your decision not to tell your mother have anything to do with me not being Polish?”
Her perception surpassed the credit he’d given her on their return from the Dover lot. “And if it did?”
“Then I think you should take her advice and find that Polish girl she wants for you.”
As surely as a bucket of water poured over a campfire, her words doused the flame of hope that had sparked inside him during their walk. “You feel no attraction to me?”
“Finding someone else is for you own good, because I’ll never remarry.”
Before he could fully absorb her words, she said, “This is my street. Thank you for seeing me home.”
Claire turned a corner, stopped, and looked back at him. Her half-smile signaled more regret than happiness.
On the heels of disappointment over her aversion to remarriage, a pleasant thought occurred. Claire Kingsley hadn’t denied an attraction to him.
Long ago, Mark had learned to compete with honor for what he wanted. Just as he was determined to succeed in his business, he would succeed in winning Claire’s affection. He would change her mind. First, he must move her past her resolve not to remarry.
Why would a young woman decline the prospect of being loved by a husband and children?
At least he could erase the idea that she had another suitor.
Mark thought of the ring on Claire’s hand. No, there was no suitor. In all likelihood, his competition had nothing to do with someone of flesh and blood.