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Claire knocked on Mark’s front door and braced herself for Mrs. Grzegorczyk’s reaction. The woman had burst into tears upon seeing her son carted home in such agony yesterday. Claire had fought hard against joining her but saved her weeping for the privacy of her bedroom.
Weeping over the pain she’d caused Mark. Weeping over the future she’d cost Richard. Weeping over her failure to enrich the lives of those she loved, rather than damage them.
Weeping. Weeping. Weeping.
When the door opened, Mark’s mother stood on the other side. Dark circles shaded her eyes. The gloom added to Claire’s guilt.
“Good evening, Mrs. Grzegorczyk. How is Mark today?”
“He is in the bed where he belongs.”
Where Claire put him.
“He asked to speak with you should you pay a call on him, Mrs. Kingsley.” She moved aside, stopping short of outright asking Claire into the house.
Claire stepped into the front hall. Cookie trotted into the area to greet her, nails clicking on the floor. Three balls of fur bounced along behind their mother, their high-pitched puppy yips adding a bright note to the somber visit. “They’ve grown.”
“They fill my heart with joy as much as they test my patience.”
The statement reminded Claire of why she couldn’t dislike this woman who disliked her.
Mrs. Grzegorczyk led the way upstairs, leaving the dogs to wander back toward the kitchen. She knocked on the second door down the hall. “Marek, Mrs. Kingsley is here.”
There was a pause, then he called out, “Send her in.”
His mother aimed a firm stare at Claire. “Do not stay long. He must rest.”
“No, ma’am. I won’t.”
Mrs. Grzegorczyk opened the door, allowed Claire to pass, then swung the door wide until it tapped the inside wall of the bedroom. She moved a chair brought up from the dining room, setting it several feet away from the side of the bed.
Propped up and supported by pillows, Mark eased the covers almost to his neck, exposing little more than his nightshirt-clad arms and beard-shadowed face dotted with perspiration. Claire wanted to tell him his modesty was not mandatory when the temperature outside neared ninety, and the air in the room was stifling. Not wishing to rile his mother, she said nothing.
She scanned the bedroom with its walnut furniture and dark drapes. Sparse. Masculine. In the corner on the other side of the room stood a drawing board. Next to it various tools of the architect’s trade were scattered on the top of a small table.
“Have a seat, Claire.” Mark had tamed his hair on one side, as though he’d run the fingers of his good hand through that side and left the other one wild. His shadowed eyes matched his mother’s, a testament to his discomfort and inability to sleep well.
Once Claire was seated at a proper distance from her son, Mrs. Grzegorczyk retreated from the room, leaving the door open. Claire half-expected the woman to stand in the hall, acting as a moral guardian.
“How do you feel?”
“As long as I remain still, I’m fine.”
And if he didn’t, the pain was excruciating? “I can’t tell you how sorry—”
“Claire, it was an accident.” He cocked his head. “It was an accident, wasn’t it?”
“I’d never...” At that teasing glint in his eyes, she frowned. “I’m happy to see your sense of humor suffered no permanent harm when you tripped over those big feet of yours.”
His laughter boomed in the small room, quaking his shoulders and back, causing him to wince. Claire grimaced with the weight of his pain. “I’m so sor—”
“Don’t say it.” Mark raised his hand, exposing the bandage wrapped around the index and middle fingers he’d broken. Splints extended past each fingertip.
“Where is the sling the doctor prescribed?”
“It’s only two fingers, not a wrist, and the sling is uncomfortable. In a few days, I’ll be moving around as normal.”
His stubbornness reminded Claire of his declaration that he controlled his own life, his own fate. “Your mother said you wanted to see me.”
“I was worried about you.”
“Me? I’m not the one in pain.”
Concern branded his steady gaze. “Don’t blame yourself for what happened.”
How could she not? If she’d attended to her surroundings instead of focusing on her anger, Mark would not be lying in his bed, trying to make her feel better.
Richard wouldn’t be lying in a grave next to their babies.
“Is there anything I can do for you?”
His wry laughter echoed through her. “Not unless you want to deliver the Lefler design to his agent in Chicago on Wednesday.”
“The design isn’t due for another ten days. You should be well enough by then to deliver it yourself.”
“I wish that were the case, but I received notification that Lefler will be leaving the country at the end of July, so the deadline for the first round has been moved up by two days.”
It was crucial to get the design into the hands of Mr. Arbuckle on time, but deliver his entry to Chicago herself?
Since she was responsible for the setback that faced Mark, she owed him. “I’ll be happy to deliver it for you.”
His eyes enlarged, then dipped into a glower aimed at her. “No. I was teasing you. I didn’t mean—”
“I’m capable of finding my way around the city.”
The lines between Mark’s eyes deepened. “It isn’t finding your way around that I worry about, Claire, and you know it. You can’t go alone.”
“Why not?” She grinned to hide her unease. “I’ll carry a baseball bat. I’m quite good at hitting what comes at me, you know.”
His shoulders shook. “Don’t make me laugh at that mental image, or I’ll be in this bed for a month.”
“Mark—”
“Suggesting you deliver the plan to Lefler wasn’t a serious statement, Claire.”
“Let me do this for you. If I were a man, you wouldn’t think twice about asking me.”
His lips twitched. “If you were a man, I’d be very disappointed.”
She ignored the way the statement sent a series of pleasant goosebumps skittering up her arms. “You have no choice, Mark. Even if your back could stand hours in a train car, you can’t hobble into Mr. Arbuckle’s office and let him see you as anything but healthy and ready to work.”
Silence met her common sense, but in his expression, she saw a brief spark of hope, a flash of possibility before it flickered and vanished.
“I can’t do it. I can’t ask it of you.”
“You’re not asking. I’m insisting.”
“Claire, you’re an intelligent and informed designer who would have the answers to any questions asked.”
Giddiness bubbled up. He trusted her skill. “Then what is the problem?”
“I won’t allow you to walk Chicago’s streets alone for my sake. If something happened to you, I’d never forgive myself.”
“I’ll ask Wallace to go with me.” She groaned. “No, he can’t. Mr. Newland will be out of town the first few days of this week, meeting with his partner in the new five-and-dime stores. He’s requested that Wallace see him when he returns to the store.” She smiled. “I believe he’s going to promote my brother to a position as a department manager.”
“That’s great news for him.”
But not so wonderful when it came to the problem at hand—finding a chaperone for Claire’s trip to Chicago.
“Don’t you give up. We’ll work it out.”
“That’s not the only problem.” He touched the bandage on his hand. “I’m right-handed.”
“I know.”
He stared at the chenille-covered bed. “The design is complete but not the rendering for presentation.”
Claire eyed his broken fingers and realized what he meant. She almost choked on the solution.
First, it was the Dover design, then the guesthouse. Mark had no idea what he was asking of her this time. Placing another important design in her hands was little different than offering opium to an addict.
A single project. I accepted one project to defend Richard’s memory. Why are you tempting me with more, Lord?
Mark waited for her response, that searing gaze once more trained on her. Could he not see her desperation?
***
“YOU WANT ME TO PREPARE the rendering.”
Mark hated hearing that anxiety in Claire’s voice. He didn’t understand its cause, especially after witnessing her talent over the past weeks. “I’ll guide you.”
She crushed one hand with the other. Maybe she thought that, if she broke her fingers as well, he wouldn’t ask this of her and would be forced to find someone else.
It hadn’t been in his mind to turn the project and its delivery over to Claire, but there was no one else, was there? Not in Riverport.
Even while Mark despised the idea of sending any woman, much less Claire, off to a city teeming with people—some of whom slithered through the streets like snakes—she had raised his optimism with her offer to take the design to Chicago.
He had said he didn’t blame her for the accident, and he didn’t. But she had the ability to change the course of his future. He couldn’t let whatever drove her fear drive his downfall. The plan made sense...if he found a chaperone for the trip.
“You can do this, Claire. Just as I knew you could deliver Cookie’s puppy, I know you have the skill to create a rendering.”
“It’s been over two years since I’ve done one.” Her voice trembled. “What if I make a mistake that costs you the commission?”
“There will be no commission without your help. And you will be paid for your work, like any other draftsman.”
She drew back as if he’d slapped her. “I am not concerned about payment.”
“I am. This project is more important than I can express. I would do it myself but...” He raised the arm with the broken fingers.
“That is unfair of you.”
Her rebuke didn’t faze him. What concerned him more was the reason for her reluctance. “I won’t push you any further, but our previous discussion of delivering the entry to Chicago was pointless. You can’t deliver what doesn’t exist.”
She shut her eyes for a nail-biting minute. “I’ll do it.”
Had remorse convinced her? He hoped not. He preferred to think she recognized his desperation.
***
TWO DAYS LATER, MARK fidgeted in his bed. He coveted escape, even if he had to crawl on his hands and knees toward freedom, defying the medical advice and dodging the matron downstairs.
Two days spent in this prison of a bedroom. Its stagnant air and gloom had grown in proportion to the sounds of a cheerful life carried on outside the walls and windows.
If the doctor was right, there were more days of confinement to come. Every minute he stayed in this room, in this bed, was another minute closer to the day the first loan payment was due, another minute of time wasted in acquiring new clients to salvage his business, and another minute that ticked by toward the loss of his good name.
Why had he ever agreed to such stringent loan terms? A growl vibrated in his chest. He’d agreed, because calamities like his mother’s illness and this injury had never occurred to him. He never doubted losing control over his success.
Complete escape might be unrealistic today, but the quicker Claire saw him even halfway back to normal, the quicker she would move past her unnecessary guilt over his injury—something she continued to apologize for.
He tested the consequence of leaning forward to sit straighter in the bed. The insignificance of the spasm in his lower back—nothing like he had experienced yesterday or Saturday—encouraged him to maneuver a leg over the edge. He waited for a sharp pain. When it didn’t stab him unmercifully, he slipped the other leg over until both feet touched the floor.
No matter the throbbing, Claire would find him sitting in the chair next to the drawing board when she visited in another half hour, not lolling about in bed.
Mark paused a moment. This next part would test his mettle. He grabbed the bedstead with his good hand and pulled himself up. The muscles in his throat constricted to lock away a spontaneous groan.
“What are you doing?”
He twisted. Bad move, but he congratulated himself on not screaming like a hysterical woman. “You’re early.” And he stood before her clad only in his nightshirt.
Claire’s lips pinched, and her eyes narrowed. It was a wonder she could see him. She crossed the floor. With the pouch containing sketches of the Lefler design trapped under her arm, she yanked off her gloves one at a time. “By the scene before me, I’d say I’m late.”
“Don’t mother me. I have had far more of that than I can take these past two days.”
She clutched his arm. “My goodness, we are testy.”
“Just hand me my dressing robe and help me to that chair.” Too late, he remembered his manners. “Please.”
She cast a glance around the area near the bed, her brow furrowed, before she turned her attention to the doorway. “Your mother will have my head on a pike.”
“Claire.”
A frustrated puff of air whooshed from between her lips. “Fine.”
She helped him into his robe, then stood in front of him and smoothed the lapels, patting them for good measure afterward and resting her hands on them.
This was too much to endure.
He placed his good hand over hers, savoring the warmth of skin like velvet, the fingers gentle and delicate, yet with the underlying power to save a dog’s life and pull a child from danger.
She lifted her gaze, a slow rise of long lashes to reveal soft blue depths in which to swim forever. Mark dipped his head and leaned in, defying his back to protest, positive he wouldn’t feel it if it did. Not at this moment. Not when she tilted her chin to meet—
Shuffling noises, a scrape, and a cough came from the other side of Mark’s bedroom wall. Claire bolted from his hold. He sighed, trying to bear in mind that it was for the best, given their surroundings.
“Is your mother moving furniture?” Her voice wavered.
“If only that were the case.” His wasn’t any better. “You’re hearing the arrival of our boarder, Mr. Olesky.”
“You brought in a boarder?”
“Not my idea.” To lighten the sharp response, he asked, “Will you help me to the chair?”
It took them what seemed like a week, but Mark maneuvered onto the seat of the chair. He’d never imagined the necessity of relying on anyone else to help him in this way. He detested it. He detested giving up the control he always held to so tightly. The control Mark loathed losing for fear of the consequences. Now look at him, unable to walk without help.
His previous conversation with Claire had haunted him during the endless hours confined to his bed. She had argued that disaster awaited those who thought they controlled their lives without relying on God. He hadn’t consulted with God about anything in years. Now, he found his plans jeopardized by a misstep.
He had claimed success was up to him because he couldn’t count on God taking an interest in his life. But was God really indifferent to him, or had Claire been right in saying his life and all things in it were important to God?
Contrary to her contention at the time, he’d attributed her prayer for the puppy that almost perished to coincidence, a result of her persistent efforts. What if he were wrong? What if God breathed life into that tiny body because she believed He cared? What if He’d honored her faith? What if He simply cared for the puppy?
As a child, Mark had wanted to believe God cared about his life, that He had a better plan. That belief changed with his father’s death.
Then Mark’s plan became a desire to establish a well-respected name before it was too late. But what did it matter if generations to come forgot that name? What had he really accomplished of lasting value?
When it came to trusting in God’s love and care, was it as simple—yet hard—as remaining faithful through all circumstances whether good or bad?
He took a moment to calm his racing heart before he pointed to the pouch. “You had no trouble finding everything?”
“It was all on the table as you said.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the key to the office he had given her.
“You keep it. What will I do with it for the next few days?” Tired of his grumpy attitude, he mumbled an apology. “You can clear the washstand and lay out the sketches for us to go over.”
She placed the pitcher and basin on the floor and spread the individual papers across the surface of the washstand, then unrolled the plan across his lap. “It’s a wonderful elevation, Mark. I can’t imagine Lefler not being attracted to it.”
“I hope you’re right.” Her words of affirmation helped lighten his mood.
She fingered the tools on the washstand. “What would you like me to do first?”
“As you can see, all that was asked of us in this round was to create the exterior sections of the building with examples of the detail work, a list of building materials, and an estimated cost. Everything we need is in this room. We’ll put it together in a draft before preparing the rendering for presentation.”
She slid a smile his way, her humor sunnier than yesterday. “We, huh?”
“Look at it as another joint project. You can start by cutting a sheet of paper thirty inches by twenty-one from that roll in the corner. We’ll save the Whatman paper for the final rendering.” The fine paper was too expensive to waste on a draft.
In no time, she had the paper cut and tacked to the drawing board. Except for a small break for the supper his mother brought, they spent the next two hours going over the plan and putting the sketches together to suit Mark. Every fifteen minutes or so, his mother peeked into the room to remind them of the impropriety of the two of them being in his room—alone.
But they made good progress. For the first time since his accident, Mark held out true hope that his design would reach Chicago on time.
When he caught Claire yawning, his conscience pricked him. “That’s enough for now. You’re tired after working all day at the store.”
“Actually, I’m surprised by how invigorated I feel.”
“You’ve done a wonderful job, and I’m grateful. There’s a train out on Wednesday before noon with a return the next morning. I’m afraid you’ll have to stay overnight, but I’ve sent a telegram to the Kowalskis to expect you.”
“The Kowalskis?”
Now was the time to tell her his news, as much as he dreaded it. “I found someone to accompany you to Chicago.”
As she put away the materials, she asked, “Who?”
If Mark believed in the effectiveness of such prayers, he’d kneel and beseech his Creator for protection for himself, for Claire, and for... “My mother.”
She halted while placing the drawing pencil in the kit on the table. Resuming the task, her voice was little more than a mumble as she asked, “Are you sure I can’t take that baseball bat, instead?”