In the days since Monday when Miss Eloise had accepted Wesley’s invitation for her, Maggie’s days had drifted past one by one with simple routine that contrasted the panic that was growing as Friday dawned. Surely she was building up the teatime far more than she should. It was just another day, after all. Like all the others.
It had hardly seemed real yesterday when a package waited for her outside the door to their little apartment above Easton’s Hardware in Petoskey. Miss Eloise had outdone herself and purchased the promised tea gown. Maggie had risen an hour early to iron out the creases from its being folded in the box. She’d taken extra time for her hair and hurried to get her work done by the time the clock struck noon and Miss Eloise released her to go home to change into the dress.
She climbed Pine Street hoping not to break a sweat. Ducking into the general store, she found the ladies’ powder and laid her coins on the counter. She rang the bell for the attendant and startled when the voice of Mr. Bernard Hill sounded in the silence behind her.
“Why, Miss Abbott, you are a fast shopper on a mission. I came to Petoskey on business and saw you at the station. I tried to greet you, but you were a few steps ahead of me. I would have given up and let you go on your way, but I feared you heard me call your name and that you would be frightened that someone had followed you. Wesley tells me that you’ll be sharing tea with him this afternoon.”
A warning shiver crept over Maggie’s nerves. The prestigious banker seemed a bit out of place, and she wished the grocer would appear to break the strange feeling that Mr. Hill had followed her with greater intentions than just a friendly greeting. “Yes, Mr. Hill, thank you.” She rolled the folds of her dress between her fingers.
“Forgive me for being so forward, but your looks are similar to someone I knew years ago and I cannot let it go. Would you be kin to a Miss Charlotte Smith? She was a laborer at one time. Married a gardener, I believe.” He studied her face more intently than she felt comfortable with.
Mother’s maiden name? But what sense did such a question make? Did he mean to put her in her place in some way? Trepidation held her tongue.
“I knew her long before she was on my work staff. Charlotte was a remarkable girl I used to know from summer camp—from childhood. She used to come to camp meeting with her family—farmers, I believe they were. Everyone came to the camp meeting back in those days—farm hands, businessmen, even Indians.” His reminiscence in such an odd time and place, the story of her father’s termination before her mother’s death—all of it swirled together to give Maggie the sense that she was part of a much larger story than she had imagined.
“Well, the name—your resemblance of her is subtle, but I just thought …” He shook his head as if it were a ridiculous assumption. “Just a coincidence, I’m certain. Those days were long ago, but you should know …” He paused to make the point she felt he’d truly intersected her for, the real reason he’d come to Petoskey. “It’s not that we cottagers are after a privileged summer vacation. It’s that we’re committed to applying as much good to our world as we can. That is, we want Wesley to use his opportunities for the betterment of himself and humanity. I’m sure you can agree, as my young friend Miss Charlotte Smith always reminded me, goodness and kindness know no social limits. It is the mind that sees limits that is a mind sure to miss opportunity.” The grocer appeared from behind the storeroom curtain, breaking Mr. Hill’s reverie before Maggie could reply. “Have a lovely teatime. But mind you, if you are anything like that gardener’s wife from long ago, you might find that the magic of Bay View leads you to believe that anything is possible. We aim to preserve this place where common can walk alongside extraordinary and where the poor man, the laborer, and the gardener all set differences aside to share in God’s grace and goodness. Good day.” He turned without waiting for her response, as if he didn’t care what it might have been. As if he only intended to deliver a challenge, not a greeting.
Staring after him, Maggie tried to sort out the odd interchange. The grocer took her coins and set the wrapped package on the counter in front of her. “Was that man bothering you, Miss Abbott?”
“No sir.” She smiled thinly and took the package. “Thank you.” Outside, she slipped along the side of the building toward the steps that led to her entryway. She’d taken the alleyway many a time, but this time couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d just been challenged by a powerful man….
Truly, “goodness and kindness know no social limits.” Yet change was never without cost.
She wasn’t sure whether to be encouraged, or entirely intimidated.
Every self-doubt she’d ever had seemed to chase Maggie up the steps and inside her apartment like a hound on her heels. She felt that her worst traits were transparent to all and she was about to be found an imposter.
She slammed the apartment door behind her and took a shuddering breath.
Did she truly possess the power of simple faith her mother had? Faith that transcended all division, social class, and language?
Inside her bedroom, the lace tea gown teased her heart’s desires from where it hung. It was nearly like the one she’d seen in the window of Fay’s Dress Shop two weeks before. She ran her hand over it then pulled the window shade down and slid from her skirt and shirtwaist. Pulling the new gown from the hanger, she lifted it over her head and let it shimmer down over her hips and to the floor. Twisting to see the buttons in the mirror behind her, she reached behind to fasten them, careful not to miss one.
Turning back to face the old mirror, she wished her reflection was as crisp as the ones in the department store. Instead, her image was dim and disjointed from the cracks in the silver paint peeling from the back of the old looking glass. Maggie tried to push down the feeling that the imperfect image was a message sent to shake her from her dreams.
She twisted a loose lock of hair that had fallen and tucked it into place.
Lacing the string of her mother’s pearls around her neck, she fingered them softly. “What would Mr. Hill have known of you, Mother? How could he have known you so well, why come out of the way to say such things?” All the wonderful things that had ever been told to her about her mother filtered through her memory. How she’d been fluent in the Odawa and Ojibwa languages. How she would take Indian children to camp meetings and translate the Gospel. How she never cared about class or color more than heart and soul. It was said the Indians had named her Words of Power.
Standing back to get a full-length view as best she could in the short mirror, Maggie paused. Wesley had claimed she had words of power. But did she?
Did she truly believe love spanned all differences?
Putting the tea gown on hadn’t dispelled the discord she’d felt after her run-in with Mr. Hill. Somehow it only made her feel worse.
The differences between them were too great.
To pretend otherwise was ridiculous. Wesley cared for her, but only for the parts she’d allowed him to see. Covering her true identity with a dress or anything else—she just couldn’t do it.
Maggie sat on the chest at the foot of her bed and took a paper from her desk. She prayed she was making the right decision.