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Mark stood beside Claire’s desk and shuffled through the envelopes the postal clerk had handed him. He pulled out the thick one. The envelope bore a crown in the top left corner and a Chicago return address.
Pulse pounding in his ears, he slid a finger under the flap, too eager to reach for the letter opener that came with the desk. He withdrew three sheets of paper, the first with a short, typed message.
Dear Sir,
I received with interest your communication regarding the Riverport property of Mr. Harris Lefler.
It is my pleasure to inform you that Mark Gregory Architecture has been selected to join nine other firms in submitting the first round of a design...
His neighbors no doubt heard Mark’s shout. The elation dwindled at the next words.
...by 30 June 1897.
June thirtieth? He consulted the calendar tacked to the wall. The deadline gave him less than a month to come up with the perfect concept and deliver it to...
He skimmed to the bottom of the letter.
Queries and submissions are to be made to the consulting architect, Mr. Joseph Arbuckle at the above address.
Yours respectfully,
Joseph Arbuckle
These competitions required hours of work that resulted in labor and supply costs with no guarantee of a commission. Still, he was one of ten architects chosen. How had that happened when he’d built no name for himself yet?
Perhaps he had. His position as a draftsman in Burnham’s office had earned him a good, albeit limited, reputation.
Why question it? He had won the right to prove his talent to someone with power and connections. No matter the reason for his choice, his design would be in Mr. Arbuckle’s hands well before June 30...without fail.
He read the requirements, line by line and word for word. A rendering of the elevations for all four sides was due in—he double-checked the calendar on the wall—twenty-five days with three finalists from the first round chosen by the second week of July. Those finalists received a substantial stipend to help with expenses—a reward that would relieve the stress over his loan payment.
Lefler would have his design by June 28 and no later. Mark would hand-deliver it to Arbuckle. Under no circumstances would he entrust such an important task to the postal service.
Claire had warned him about her husband’s former partner, George...Something. He wasn’t afraid of the competition, but it was one more ghost from her past to stand between them.
***
CLAIRE OPENED THE DOOR to Mark’s office. Bringing the sketchbook he’d given her was probably a mistake. If he asked to see drawings for the Dover house, she would have to tell him there were none.
More than once in the past week, she’d opened the book and picked up a pencil, placing the graphite against the paper. Each time she attempted to draw something, her fingers froze.
She sniffed the air and crinkled her nose.
Mark met her at the door. “Forgive the smell of cigar smoke. Addison and I celebrated yesterday.”
Claire removed her hat and gloves and set them on the desk. “I thought you looked cheerful.”
“For good reason.” Mark brandished a letter through the air.
She eyed the paper and chuckled. “Let me guess. You’ve been named a standard bearer waving a paper flag for king and country.”
“For your information, Mrs. Smart Aleck, this paper happens to be an invitation.” His grin stretched from ear to ear.
“Come now, Mr. Gregory. Spit it out. An invitation from whom and for what?”
“How would you like to work for the man commissioned to design an office building for one Harris Lefler?”
“You got it? The invitation to compete?” How had she not guessed his news? She snatched the letter from Mark’s hand. As she read, her heart galloped. He had done it! Mark Gregory Architecture had received the invitation.
She had prayed for this result—for both Richard and Mark. Thank you, Lord!
“Mark, this is wonderful news. Congratulations!”
He handed her the other papers. His smile had unfurled like a frost-covered leaf warmed by the sun. Now, it flattened. “I have work to do. This competition has more than one round. Did you notice the deadline for the first judging?”
Claire had rushed through the sheets included with the letter, the ones outlining the requirements. Her groan confirmed that she’d missed it. “I hope you already have ideas.”
“I haven’t been idle since sending my request for an invitation, but the real work starts now. Based on your meeting with George...George...”
“Brant. George Brant.”
“Based on your meeting with him, I’m behind the other architects.”
“Being located in Riverport is an advantage. You know the property and the conditions better than the other competitors.”
Mark pulled out the desk chair for her. “Sit. Please.”
Claire set the sketchbook on the desk and covered it with her hat. She’d dreaded telling Mark she still had no drawings to show him. However, with his excitement over the Lefler invitation, perhaps the subject would never come up today.
Mark propped a hip on the edge of the desk. “Tell me about George Brant.”
Despite the June warmth inside the office, a sudden chill swirled around Claire. “I’ve told you. He’s a competent architect.”
“And someone I shouldn’t underestimate. But that doesn’t tell me what it was like to work with him. It doesn’t tell me why you felt the need to leave Indianapolis rather than remain a part of your husband’s company.” When she didn’t reply right away, he asked, “Is it that painful, Claire?”
His soft voice dissolved her reluctance. What would it hurt to tell him a little of her past? “A week after Richard’s funeral, I went into the office. I hadn’t removed my hat before George told me to go home.”
Mark frowned. “A week isn’t long to grieve. Maybe he thought you weren’t ready to return to work.”
She ducked her chin and shook her head. “His agreement with Richard stipulated the surviving partner buy out the heir of the deceased—whether the heir requested it or not. I no longer had a role in the business my husband founded.”
It left her a grieving widow with a satisfactory bank account balance, no purpose, and no desire to live alone.
“I knew of the agreement and should have expected George’s reaction. Once my husband died, there was no one to argue for my presence.” Not for the first time, a question wiggled its way into her consciousness. Would Richard have permitted her to help him with his work much longer? She shook off the doubt. “With nothing left to keep me in Indianapolis, I moved home.”
“I’d call Brant a shortsighted fool for not seeing your ability. You do have talent, Claire. I’ve seen it.”
The sincerity in his voice fostered a yearning to become the pioneer Mr. Dover encouraged. But it was a moot point if she couldn’t even draw a simple sketch of an interior detail.
“Why did you ask about George?”
“He’s the only competitor I’m aware of, and it never hurts to learn something about the competition. I can see it’s a painful topic for you, so let’s forget it for now.”
She would reveal anything she knew about George if it helped Mark to win the Lefler commission over the man who had so easily removed Richard Kingsley’s name from his own business.
“Let’s also postpone work on Mr. Dover’s project for today.”
She’d received a reprieve but wasn’t sure whether to be happy or concerned. Even though Mr. Dover indicated he was in no hurry, they should show him a design soon. “Is there something I can do to help you?”
“Wish me the best.” He grinned. “Not that failure is in my vocabulary. I’m capable of providing a winning design, so whatever happens from here is up to me.”
No doubt he believed his boast, which alarmed her. “I admire your confidence, Mark, but don’t fall into the trap of thinking you alone control your future success.”
“If not me, who else?”
“God.”
Mark’s features tightened. “I learned long ago that God isn’t interested in my business, Claire.”
“God is interested in everything you do. Everything.”
He shook his head. “A man wanting to make a name for himself in this world must work hard and strike fast. He can’t depend on having ample years to accomplish his goals before his life ends.”
Her husband hadn’t had those ample years to make the kind of name for himself that Mark seemed to want, but personal renown wasn’t something Richard had dwelled on.
“So far, my confidence has worked well for me, Claire, and I haven’t the time to wait for God to decide how I should proceed.” He held his hand out for the letter from Mr. Arbuckle. “The rest of the mail is on the desk. I’ll be busy in the drafting room.”
Too busy to talk about the reason for his animosity toward God?
If anyone had a right to question God’s loving care, it would be her. Even in the moments of dark despair, her pain brought her closer to Him.
“All right. I won’t disturb you.”
***
CLAIRE THREW OFF THE sheet, climbed out of bed, and lit the lamp on the bedside table. Although the hands of the alarm clock read twelve-thirty, she hadn’t slept for the past hour. She thumped the bell on top of the clock, creating a hollow, tinny sound in the quiet room. She rarely needed the alarm to wake her, but Richard had set it every night. It was a ritual she’d continued.
The sketchbook sat on the table next to the clock. Things couldn’t go on this way, not if she hoped to continue working with Mark. Surprisingly, she wanted to do so, more than she’d imagined. Mr. Dover deserved an impressive design, and she was certain her ideas fit his vision—if she could only get them onto paper.
“God is interested in everything you do. Everything.” That applies to you too, Claire.
With Mark’s news today, Claire realized she had wasted too much time on her fear. Her best opportunity to help him was to ensure he had something to present to Dover when requested.
After staring at the sketchbook for what seemed another hour, she snatched it up and carried it and a drawing pencil downstairs to the kitchen table. She could do this.
“God, not in my power but Yours.”
Her hand shook, but she flipped open the cover to a pristine page.
And she sat there.
Every previous idea for the interior of the house had scattered, hiding behind all the other thoughts in her mind.
She whispered another soft prayer, then closed her eyes and breathed—in, out—until her fingers relaxed and a familiar image came to mind. Oak columns rose on the sides of a fireplace mantel like guards stationed at the entrance to a castle. Each piece was carved to resemble a miniature willow tree. Glazed aqua tiles representing water surrounded the fireplace opening and flowed onto the floor. The oak-carved rays of a rising sun hung over the top portion of the mantel.
With the image as clear as a painting, her pencil slid across the paper, first in an outline, then in intricate detail. The instant she finished, her heart raced with excitement and thankfulness. She had drawn a new design.
By the time the rising sun spied on Claire through the kitchen window like a Peeping Tom, she had several rough sketches. It was a start, and something to show Mark when she saw him again.
She placed a hand to her stomach. Was this flutter a result of satisfaction over her night’s work, or the anticipation of seeing Mark again?