Ramshackle Rose Read online

  Copyright

  ISBN 1-58660-924-6

  Copyright © 2004 by Cathy Marie Hake. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of Truly Yours an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., PO Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683.

  All Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

  All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.

  One

  Buttonhole, Virginia, 1897

  Rose Masterson knelt by her picket fence and carefully culled a few more withering leaves. She stopped her tuneless humming as she got to her feet. For a moment, she wrinkled her nose at the way the white paint cracked and peeled on the slats of the fence that leaned inward toward her house. It would be lovely to paint the wood and brace it so it would stand upright like everyone else’s did. . .but then, that would uproot the morning glory, and she couldn’t bear to do that.

  Turning her back on the fence, Rose started to hum again. She lifted a wicker basket and headed toward her cottage. Along the way, she picked some foxglove to give to Doc Rexfeld. He said it helped three of his patients who had heart palpitations, so Rose made sure she always kept some on hand. While she was at it, she cut some daisies and decided to drop them by Old Hannah’s place.

  Just before going inside, Rose lifted the hem of her striped, cream-and-olive washday dress and scraped the mud off her high-top, Vici kid, lace-up shoes. She ought to polish the durable, soft-as-glove leather, but that could wait until Saturday night so they’d look good for church.

  “Miss Rose! Miss Rose!”

  Rose turned and smiled at the freckle-faced towhead who stumbled up her brick path and stopped mere inches from her. “Bless my soul! If it isn’t Prentice, I’m not sure whom I’m looking at.”

  He giggled and opened his grubby hand. “Lookit! I lost two teeth!”

  “Gracious! You’re halfway to being a man already. I’ll have to talk to your daddy about putting a brick on your head to keep you from growing up so fast.”

  Prentice jigged from one foot to the other. “Iff’n you tell him I’m that growed up, p’rhaps he’ll get me a pocketknife.”

  Rose set her basket aside and crouched down. It wasn’t exactly a ladylike position, but it let her get close enough for Prentice to see her face a bit better. Walleyed and nearsighted to boot, the six year old missed much of what went on around him. Rose knew he’d settle down, if only she’d take a moment with him. She cupped her hand around his shoulder and carefully considered what she should say next.

  “I really want a pocketknife,” Prentice told her breathlessly. He stopped wiggling and gave her a toothless grin. “Lotsa boys got ’em.”

  “I suppose that’s true.”

  “They can do stuff—whittle, carve—do all kinds of nifty stuff.”

  The image of Prentice clumsily slicing his fingers with a sharp blade made Rose shudder. Inspiration struck. “You’re right about the other boys having knives, though I think most of the ones who do are a far sight older than you. Seems to me that’s fine for them, but you. . .” She squeezed his shoulder. “You, Prentice, are an exceptional young man. It seems to me, you ought to think more along the lines of something a bit more extraordinary.”

  “What’s ’strod’nairy?”

  “Extraordinary means something different and wonderful.”

  He scratched his side and heaved a sigh. “I’m already different ’nuff. I wanna be like all of the guys at school.”

  “Prentice, God wants you to be the person He made. If you’re busy trying to be like everyone else, who’s going to do the job the Lord has in store for you?”

  “D’ya really think Jesus has something for me to do? I’m. . .different.”

  “Seems to me, God needs special people to do special jobs. Why don’t you think about that for awhile?”

  “I reckon I could.” He tilted his head to the side and turned a bit so he could focus on her more easily. “Just seems a fellow could use a pocketknife to do ’strod’nairy things.”

  “I’ve seen men do extraordinary things with paintbrushes. In the right hands, any tool can be made to do beautiful things. The trick is, each person has to discover what the tool is that God has in mind for him.”

  He scratched his side and heaved a sigh. “Can’t think of nothing like that. I figured a pocketknife does lotsa stuff, so maybe I’d get good at doing something.”

  “Hmm.”

  “You stitched up my pocket. I wouldn’t lose a knife.”

  Rose gave him a quick hug. “Oh, Prentice, I’d rather stitch your pocket shut than to have you put a knife in it just yet. There are other things a fine boy like you ought to keep in his pocket.”

  “You got something in mind, don’tcha?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  His little head wagged a bit from side to side as he tried to get a closer look at her. In his excitement, he could scarcely stay still. “You gonna tell me what?”

  “Better than that.” Rose playfully tapped the tip of his nose. “Come in and look at my catalogue with me. I’ll show you!”

  Prentice scrunched his freckled nose. “You mean, we’d send away, mail order?”

  “Certainly. It makes it so much more fun. Each day, you get to wonder if it will come. Anticipation means waiting with excitement for something to happen. You’ll get to anticipate your. . .” She paused for a moment, then said with hushed, drawn-out relish, “Harmonica.”

  “Harmonica? A harmonica!” Prentice tugged on her full leg-o’-mutton sleeve and confessed, “I don’t know how to play one.”

  Rose nodded. “I know. That’s what makes it even better. You’ll come to my house every day, and you can learn in secret. It shouldn’t take much time; then you’ll be walking down the street, astonishing everyone with your grand talent.”

  “I’d leave it here?” His features fell for just a moment. “But I can come every day?”

  “There might be a day every now and then when I’m not at home, but you know you are always welcome, Prentice. Why, you could come right after school.”

  “Hurrah! Will you have cookies sometimes?”

  Rose laughed as she stood. “Of course I will.”

  “Won’t it take forever for the harmonica to come?”

  “Just about the time you decide it’s never going to arrive, it comes. Besides, you’ll need a tiny bit of time to start letting those new, grown-up teeth come in.”

  “Stinky Callahan tole me they’re going to come in all buck-toothed.”

  “No one can foretell the future.”

  Prentice kicked a pebble and sent it skittering away. “He said my teeth would be as crooked and ugly as your fence.”

  Rose sat on the stoop, and Prentice flopped down next to her. She slid her arm around his thin body, and he wiggled closer. From the way he dipped his head, she knew he was trying to hide the tears that threatened to fall. Rose threaded her fingers through his corn-silk hair.

  “I could change my fence if I wanted to, Prentice. I could, but I won’t. Weak and wobbly as it is, it does a very special job right now. When I think on that, it gives me joy. It makes my fence beautiful to me.” She bowed her head and kissed his hair. “I don’t care if your teeth come in straight as a row of soldiers or crooked as can be. As long as you smile at me, you’ll be handsome.”

  His litt
le arms wrapped around her knees. “You make me wanna smile, Miss Rose.”

  ❧

  Garret Diamond dusted the last shelf of canned goods and nodded to himself. His emporium already looked better. Then again, that wasn’t saying much. When he’d bought it two weeks ago, the emporium qualified as the most pitiful business he’d ever seen. As Buttonhole’s only mercantile, this place should have been a thriving concern; but between the lack of customers and the abysmal figures in the books, the place simply wasn’t turning anything close to a profit.

  Ever ready to tackle a challenge and wanting to put his mark on the world, Garret took ownership and promptly locked the doors upon the completion of the transaction three days ago. Since then, he’d scrubbed, dusted, swept, sorted, and ruthlessly cut his losses. A list of things to order that ran at least two sheets long sat on the counter each evening. A heap of things sat near the back door—items that were of inferior quality, badly outdated, spoiled, or even chewed on by mice. Tomorrow, he’d haul it all out to the dump. Come Friday, the wagons would arrive bearing his new merchandise.

  The post office occupied a back corner of the mercantile. In fact, the small rent the post office paid and the fact that its customers would have to wander through the store influenced Garret’s decision to buy this particular store. He and the gnarled old postmaster, Mr. Deeter, got along well.

  Garret hefted a box of canning jars and hauled them to the back door. Carefully, he set it down next to a crate of sun-faded fabric. The lids on the jars bulged, warning him if he jostled them and the glass broke, he’d end up with a stinky, explosive mess. As he straightened, someone rapped smartly on the glass window of the storefront.

  Wiping his hands and face clean with a damp cloth, Garret headed toward the waiting customer. He knew the Pinaud’s Brilliantine in his hair must have attracted an appreciable layer of dust, but that simply couldn’t be remedied. Hastily readjusting his leather work apron to disguise the streak of dirt over his heart, Garret decided this was all he could do for the moment. It wasn’t the best first impression, but. . .

  He opened the door and couldn’t think of a word to say to the woman standing there.

  She wore a worn-out, striped dress that might have been pulled from a missionary barrel. What could have passed as a becoming hairstyle that morning now featured a wheatcolored topknot that slid precariously off to the left and a good dozen wisps and coils corkscrewing around her face and neck. Midafternoon sun illuminated her from behind, making her hair glow like a golden halo. Her eyes were more green than gray—definitely her best feature. She held a little towheaded boy in front of herself.

  “I’m sorry, Ma’am, but we’re closed still. The mercantile will open for business again on Saturday.”

  “We’ve come just to visit the post office. Surely, we can purchase a few stamps and mail a letter.”

  “Mr. Deeter is out to lunch.” He couldn’t very well send them away or leave them standing out in the sun, so Garret opened the door wide and gestured for them to enter. “You’re welcome to wait a few moments if you’d like. Please watch your step. I’m rearranging things and trying to establish some order. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Garret Diamond.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sir. I’m Rose Masterson. This is Prentice—”

  “Man, oh, man!” The little boy gawked about. “It’s all different in here!”

  The woman kept her hands on the boy and looked up at Garret. “Indeed, it is, but the post office is still in the corner. Imagine how hard it would have been to move all of the metal mailboxes and counter!”

  The little boy giggled. “And the bars on the window. Daddy let me pull on the bars on his window at the bank. No one could ever move a window made of bars.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.” Garret glanced about the store, then grinned apologetically back at the mother and son. “Mr. Deeter has the post office shipshape. Wish I could say the same thing about the rest of the place.”

  “Prentice, there are boxes on the floor in this aisle. Let’s go around to the far wall. We can play a game of draughts while we wait.”

  Garret took a closer look and noticed the boy had a problem with his eyes. The woman managed to guide him around the dangers. “I could hold the letter for you and give it to Mr. Deeter when he returns.”

  She smiled. “Why, thank you. I’d appreciate that.” She handed him the letter and reached into the pocket of her apron to find her money.

  Garret frowned. Her letter was addressed to Sears, Roebuck, and Company in a flowing, elegant script.

  “You mightn’t need to order things, Ma’am. I have fresh stock arriving tomorrow. Saturday will be the grand opening.”

  “Thank you, but Prentice and I read all of the descriptions in the catalogue and decided on one particular item.”

  Not one to dissemble, Garret still felt it reasonable to state his case. “I realize the emporium has fallen into disrepair and may not have met your needs. Those times are past. I’ve bought the place and plan to make it a going concern and serve Buttonhole’s every need. If the article you wish is of a personal nature, I guarantee I’m a man of discretion.”

  “I appreciate your assurances, Mr. Diamond. Prentice and I have made our choice.”

  He inclined his head. “As you will.”

  The little boy tugged on her skirts. “I’m not going to get to lick the stamp now, am I?”

  “I suppose not.”

  Garret smiled at the boy’s wide, toothless mouth. “Looks like you would have done a fine job. Not many teeth in the way of your tongue.” He snapped his fingers. “You know, I think I remember having a stamp. Let me check.”

  A few minutes later, he found his Little Stamp Book. “Aha! Just as I recalled. I have one last first-class stamp.”

  “Thank you for checking.” The woman handed him two battered pennies.

  “I lost my teeth today.” Prentice diligently licked the stamp and stuck it in the corner of the envelope. His mother had stooped to hold it for him, and Garret noted how she made subtle allowances for her boy’s vision problems, yet honored his independence. Prentice had her light hair, but he otherwise must have taken after his father. His mother’s features were too finely chiseled, her form far slighter in build.

  “I’ve been busy, so I haven’t had an opportunity to meet anyone in town yet. Where do you folks live, and what does your husband do?”

  Prentice giggled. “Miss Rose doesn’t have no husband.”

  “My apologies,” Miss Masterson interjected in a laughter-filled voice as she straightened up. “I should have thought to be more forthright. I moved to Buttonhole two years ago and went through the same confusion, so I understand precisely what lies ahead for you. I’m a spinster and live down the street and around the corner.”

  “The house with the tip-tilty fence,” Prentice added on.

  “Prentice and his father live across the street from me. His father is Hugo Lassiter, the bank teller.”

  Garret nodded. Miss Masterson had done him the kindness of subtly letting it be known that Prentice had no mother. No doubt, she minded the boy. Lucky kid. She has a ready smile and a gentle heart. Odd that she seems so blithe about being a spinster. Any other woman would be embarrassed or coy, but she seems content as can be.

  “We ought to leave and allow Mr. Diamond to get back to his tasks.” Miss Masterson set the envelope by the postal window. She took hold of Prentice’s hand.

  “You promised I could see Tom.”

  “Yes, I did.” She looked up at Garret and explained, “You have a mouser named Tom who likes to sleep under the backporch steps. Would you mind if we exited from the storeroom?”

  “I’ll need to assist you.” Garret lifted Prentice onto his shoulders. “I have discards piled by the back door.” He offered his arm to Miss Masterson and led her through his store.

  She halted and gasped when they got past the curtain that led to the storeroom. “Mr. Diamond, surely you cannot mean to
waste all of these things!”

  “I’m not disposing of all of it. Much of it is out of season, so I’m hauling it up to the attic.” He frowned at several bolts of fabric. “Between the sun and the mice, those yard goods are ruined. The lids are bulging on those jars, and I won’t sell anything that I think is spoiled or might make a customer sicken.”

  Miss Masterson squeezed by him, opened the back door, and tugged Prentice free. She set him down and ordered, “Go see Tom Cat.” After the boy left, she turned back. “Mr. Diamond, Cordelia Orrick is a widow with three little girls. She lives in the green cottage at the far east end of Main Street. If you cut the first few yards off of those bolts, the fading problem is gone, and Cordelia is resourceful enough to work around the other parts. I’m sure she’d find the flannel particularly useful. As for the jars—if you empty them, I’ll wash them. They can be filled with soup for shut-ins.”

  Garret leaned against a shelf and looked at the piles of junk. “A widow shouldn’t have to mess with mouse nibbles.”

  “Ruth and Naomi gleaned.” She smiled. “I have no doubt they ran into a few field mice.”

  Garret frowned. “Sharing the field with mice is to be expected; sharing flannel isn’t.”

  Miss Masterson let her gaze wander about the storeroom. “Cordelia is a hard worker. You said you have stock arriving on the morrow. I’m not one to tell you how to run your business, but I’m willing to mind her daughters for the day if it would help.” Before he could reply, she sashayed out of his store and collected Prentice.

  Garret watched Rose Masterson wander down the street. He had the odd feeling she was completely unaware she’d left home without a hat. She’d worn dainty lace gloves, but she had a smear across her apron that looked suspiciously like jam. It matched the level of Prentice’s mouth, a fact that Garret found charming. If the rest of the town were half as delightful, he’d settle in quite happily.

  Two

  “Your emporium looks wonderful, Mr. Diamond.”

  “Thank you, Miss Masterson.” The store owner tucked a pencil behind his ear. “You deserve part of the credit for its condition. You recommended Mrs. Orrick and watched her daughters after school yesterday. She was a tremendous help. I doubt I’d have gotten everything ready in time without her assistance.”