Ramshackle Rose Read online

  “Mr. Diamond, you’ve most assuredly chosen the profession best suited to your skills. I declare, I’ve never met a man who could find a bit of down fluff on a sleeve and sell the person a Christmas goose—at least, I never had until I met you.”

  His scowl looked anything but genuine. The glint in his hazel eyes and the lilt in his voice proved so. “Miss Masterson, I’m affronted by such an accusation. I’d never sell a customer a Christmas goose at this time of the year. Pillows would be far more suitable as replacements during spring-cleaning.”

  “Joel Creek’s farm isn’t far out of town. His wife tends to bring eggs, butter, and milk in once or twice a week, and she made a few superb pillows last year.”

  He held her arm as they stepped off the boardwalk and crossed the street. “You are a treasure trove of information, Miss Masterson. I can see I’ll need your assistance in getting to know everyone.”

  Rose didn’t mind being friendly or making introductions, but if all Mr. Diamond wanted was to coax information out of her so he could sell things, he was barking up the wrong tree. But no—he’d just offered her staples so she could bake for their neighbors, and he’d wanted Mrs. Kiersty to have an expensive lemon to help her throat. Surely that proved him to be compassionate and concerned.

  “I chose to open my store in Buttonhole because the town seems to have a gentle charm and caring about it.”

  She remembered aloud, “I came for the same reason. I visited several places before I decided to live here.”

  The jars clinked softly in cadence with his steps. “Meeting so many folk today confirmed my impression of how friendly everyone is. It heartens me to see how you’re an integral member of the community after living here just a few years.”

  “Seeing the changes you’ve made and how you want to conduct a quality emporium, I can promise you, everyone is going to embrace your presence here. I daresay it took me almost a year to be regarded with the ease with which you’ve been welcomed.”

  “Why would that be?”

  “I’m afraid they didn’t quite know what to think of me. They eventually despaired of fitting me into a normal mold and decided I’m a bit dusty in the attic.”

  “Dusty in the attic?” He echoed her words with an equal measure of amusement to that which she’d instilled in them. “Just what is so dusty about your attic?”

  “When I moved here, most of the gentlemen in Buttonhole felt I needed a man to tend my personal business, but I neither depend on nor answer to anyone except the Lord. Their wives and marriageable daughters felt I posed competition for the eligible young swains. It took them some time to realize none of that was true. Now, they accept me with genteel amusement. The fact is, I’m happy to be a spinster. The apostle Paul wrote about the ability of a single person to serve unhampered by marriage, and I find delight in doing just that. I confess, it’s not the usual choice a woman makes, so they’ve decided I’m gently daft.”

  He pursed his lips and whistled a few notes. “Miss Masterson, as long as we’re making confessions, I’m afraid I have one of my own to make.”

  “You do?” She stopped and looked at him.

  The left side of his mouth kicked up in a rakish grin. “I’m just as dusty in the attic. At least, I plan to keep a very dusty attic for a few years.”

  Rose held her silence. She knew full well the mamas in the town were about to turn the table on this salesman. All day long, he’d charmed and convinced them to visit his store and tempted them to snap up what he offered. Have you seen my wonderful. . . ? Wouldn’t you like. . . ? It’s perfectly suited to you. . . Tomorrow, he’d be in church, where those selfsame women would have their daughters gussied up. Have you seen my wonderful daughter? Wouldn’t you like to sit with us? The church is lovely, isn’t it? Perfectly suited for a beautiful wedding.

  “For shame, Miss Masterson.”

  Rose snapped out of her thoughts and gave him a startled look. “I beg your pardon?”

  Mr. Diamond chuckled. “I hoped you’d be a kindred spirit and accept me as a man who needs to establish his business before he could devote himself to one of the local ladies and start a family. I can see you’ve already cast me to the vagaries of the matchmakers and consider my cause lost.”

  “I know the matchmakers.”

  “Ah, but you don’t know me.” He took her arm again and steered her toward the boardinghouse. “Suffice it to say, I’m about to confound Buttonhole’s citizens by failing to fall madly in love with one of the fair maidens.”

  “Do you read much, Sir?”

  “It’s among my favorite pastimes.”

  “Perhaps it’s best if I just quote from Robert Burns. ‘The best-laid plans of mice and men oft go astray.’ ”

  He opened the door, and his breath washed over her as he dipped his head and added in a tone only she could hear, “Don’t stop there. ‘And leave us naught but grief and pain/For promised joy.’ I’m not about to be ensnared by the plans and promises of others. I’ve plenty of plans for myself.”

  ❧

  Punctuality, for being a virtue, should carry with it some level of protection. The wry thought made Garret smile as he wiped the last dab of shaving lather from his chin. He’d determined to show up on the church steps just two slim minutes before the service began. After worship, he’d gladly greet his new neighbors, then make his excuses and go to the parsonage to dine with the minister and his wife.

  Garret had concentrated his attention on setting up the store, and he’d been so busy with the grand opening, he’d failed to see the obvious. Rose Masterson did him a great favor by letting him know he was considered eminently eligible. Or was that imminently?

  He’d awakened this morning with a plan in place—he’d keep a friendly distance and let the good parson and his wife spread the message that Garret Diamond couldn’t commit himself to a bride until he’d established himself.

  Oh, he’d certainly not mind meeting the young ladies who were prospective bridal candidates. It would be wise to get to know them, learn of their temperaments, personalities, and quirks. Rushing recklessly into marriage simply wouldn’t do. If he kept a slight distance at the start, it would permit him to meet the full selection instead of misleading one particular young lady into thinking he’d been smitten by love at first sight. It wasn’t right to dally with a girl’s heart, and since he had to wait to marry until his business flourished, it was essential to make his decided lack of romantic intentions quite clear from the start.

  When the time came, he wanted a woman who would be his helpmeet in the fullest sense of the word—to help with the store, to be a loving wife and a good mother. Hard working. Sweet spirited. Caring. Virtuous.

  Caring and virtuous. . . He thought of Miss Masterson. She hadn’t bought the honey for herself. It wasn’t expensive in the least, but if Miss Masterson’s finances were half as strained as Mrs. Evert claimed, her small sacrifice of giving that jar to Mrs. Kiersty was akin to the widow in the parable who tithed her last mite. When he delivered the flour, butter, yeast, and eggs he’d promised, Garret would slip in a jar of honey for her to keep for herself.

  With that decision made, Garret smiled at himself in the small mirror over the sink. He purposefully avoided splashing on his customary bay rum, snapped his elastic suspenders in place over a spanking new French percale shirt, and secured a turn-downed collar he’d saved for today. He felt a momentary twinge of homesickness. Great-aunt Brigit knew just the right amount of starch to use.

  The school bell pealed. Parson Jeffrey had mentioned the church didn’t have a bell yet, so they used the school’s bell as a call to worship. Half an hour ago, it rang twice. Now, it rang thrice. Ten minutes until the service. Garret donned a subtle charcoal-and-black vest, grabbed his suit coat and hat, and went downstairs. He allowed himself a few minutes to eat a shiny red apple before he stepped out his door. . .and into a sea of pastels and foamy lace.

  Four

  “Good morning!” a chorus of sopranos sang out
.

  “No better way to start the day than with worship.” He shut the door to the mercantile and removed his hat. A gentleman didn’t keep his hat on in the presence of ladies. It also gave him something to do with his hands. “I’m sure the preacher has a good message for us today.”

  “You won’t hear a word of it if these gals won’t stop flocking and clucking like hens.” A spry old man hobbled through the bustled dresses and batted away a few feathers arcing from Sunday-best hats. He extended his hand. “I’m Zeb Hepplewhite, owner of the boardinghouse, and I’m invitin’ you to come sit by me on the bachelor bench.”

  Garret had no idea what the bachelor bench was, but from a few crestfallen sounds the girls around him made, he surmised he’d just been tossed a rope. He shook Zeb’s hand as if it were a lifeline. “Pleasure to meet you, Hepplewhite. I’d be honored to join you.”

  Once seated in church, Zeb rumbled, “This back bench is bachelor territory. Back bench t’other side’s for the mamas with crybabies. Front pew on the left is for the parson’s family, and front pew on the right is courtin’ row. A buck sits there with a gal, and the good folks of Buttonhole take it to be a declaration of intentions.”

  Garret nodded his understanding as he looked at the rows of oak pews that lined the boxy white church. “Thanks,” he said in a low tone. “I might have blundered badly.”

  Zeb opened his hymnal and covered his chuckle with a rusty cough. “Wouldn’t be the first person to. Miss Rose sat here on the bachelor bench the very first Sunday after she moved to town. As it turns out, ’twas a fitting choice. Oliver Sneedly told her she was in the wrong place, so she scooted across the aisle. Was a few months afore the folks hereabouts stopped squawking and let her be. She has a knack of taking a fussy babe and hushing it.”

  As the congregation stood to sing the first hymn, Rose Masterson slipped into the crybaby pew. Garret had seen her three times by now, but this was the first time he caught sight of Miss Rose when she’d bothered to tend to her appearance. She made for quite an eyeful. Tamed coils of golden hair framed her face and peeped out beneath a sensible black straw hat trimmed with a minimum of folderol. The midnight blue silk military loop and hooks on her snowy bodice might have looked mannish on someone else, but the way they graduated in size from her tiny, cinched waist up the front served to prove just how feminine she could be. Her deep blue skirt draped over a very modest bustle, giving her a silhouette any man would find admirable. Then, her head turned.

  She had a smudge of white on her right cheek.

  Rose didn’t have a vain bone in her body. If he were a gambling man, Garret would bet his bottom dollar it wasn’t powder on her cheek. It had to be flour. He reached up and brushed his own cheekbone in a silent message.

  She didn’t understand.

  “Flour,” he mouthed silently.

  Any other woman in the world would have been mortified. Rose’s eyes lit with appreciation, and she swiftly rubbed away the white with her gloved hand as she sang every verse and the chorus of “Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing” by memory. She looked back at him, her brows raised in silent query.

  Garret nodded and grinned. She’d erased the evidence of her baking, at least from her face. As she lowered her gloved hand, the flour made a faint swipe on the side of her dark skirt.

  By the time Parson Jeffrey finished an excellent sermon on living by faith and the congregation stood to sing the benediction, Rose held a sleeping baby in each arm. Instead of her full sleeves ballooning out as fashion dictated, they both caved in. The knot in the uppermost military cord loop was soggy from having become a teething chew. A suspicious damp spot marred her skirt, yet she wore a look of utter contentment.

  The Scripture of the day from the third chapter of 1 John ran through his mind again. “My little children, let us not love in word, neither in tongue; but in deed and in truth. And hereby we know that we are of the truth, and shall assure our hearts before him.”

  Yes, he’d come to the right place. Good people—people like Rose Masterson—lived here.

  ❧

  “King me!” Leigh Anne clapped her hands delightedly.

  “Now weren’t you clever.” Rose slipped a draught atop one of Leigh Anne’s red ones. They sat by the cracker barrel in Diamond Emporium and chattered as they played the game. Rose knew Leigh Anne’s grandma timed her shopping to coordinate with the end of the school day, but she’d been a bit late today. It was too hard for Leigh Anne to walk about the store due to the heavy steel-and-leather leg braces she wore, so Rose challenged Leigh Anne to a game of draughts.

  “I get a lot of practice at board games.” Leigh Anne tried to be subtle as she scratched below her knee.

  Rose knew the brace often rubbed, so she leaned across the board and whispered, “Do you need some salve?”

  “I ran out,” Leigh Anne admitted.

  Garret sauntered over. He looked quite dashing in a casual sort of way. Instead of wearing a suit coat as he worked, he always wore a vest and gartered his shirtsleeves.

  From the way the young girl blushed, Rose decided to say something so Garret wouldn’t know what the conversation was about. Leigh Anne loathed her braces and would probably rather be shaved bald than to have them become a topic of conversation. Rose teased, “Seems to me you’ve said the same thing about root beer barrels in the past—that you’ve run out.”

  “Root beer barrels?” He squatted down beside Leigh Anne and studied the checkered board. “Looks like you have Miss Masterson on the run. Why don’t you hand me one of those draughts you captured?”

  Leigh Anne happily handed over one of the black wooden pieces.

  Garret hefted it in his hand a few times, then stood. He grabbed a few root beer barrel candies and soon was juggling the draught amidst a flurry of candies. When he stopped with a flourish, he dumped the candies into Leigh Anne’s lap. “Miss Masterson trounced me in a game a few days ago. From now on, any time you beat her, I’ll pay you a piece of candy. We’ve got to stick together, you and I.”

  “I’ll share with you, Miss Rose.”

  Rose shook her head. “No, Leigh Anne. You earned those candies.”

  “Grandma says a girl should only accept gifts and candy from a man if he’s her beau. I can’t have a beau.”

  “You are a bit young,” Garret agreed.

  Leigh Anne shook her head so vehemently, her dark brown curls swirled. “I’m almost fourteen. Gladys is twelve, and her initials are already carved in the sweetheart tree. No one will have me.”

  “Leigh Anne, you don’t know that,” her grandmother refuted, having just arrived. “God might have someone special just for you.”

  Hands knotted around the candies in her lap, Leigh Anne whispered, “I’m crippled.”

  Garret hooked his thumbs in his suspenders and scowled. “Miss Leigh Anne, your limbs might be on the weak side, but your mind’s sharp as a tack, and your heart is sweet as honey. It occurs to me, one of these days, some smart fellow is going to count himself mighty lucky to have an excuse to sweep you into his arms and carry you about.”

  “You’re so romantic, Mr. Diamond.” Leigh Anne drew in a quick breath and blurted out, “Why aren’t you married?”

  “Leigh Anne!” Her grandmother pressed her hand to her bosom and nearly had apoplexy.

  The door to the emporium opened, and as a couple of ladies entered, Garret nodded his greeting, then blithely turned back to Leigh Anne. “You’re asking what everyone else is wondering. The truth is, a man has no right to call on a woman when he doesn’t have the time to attend her. I need to build my business so I’ll be able to provide well for a family. When the time comes, I want my emporium to be stable so I can dedicate myself to being a good husband, just as Christ cared for His bride, the church.”

  “Why, now, isn’t that sensible of you?” Lula Mae Evert cooed as she came closer. “As busy as you’ve been, it should not take long at all for you to realize great success with your store.”

 
“It’s thriving. Everyone says so,” Mrs. Busby agreed.

  A little boy at her side tilted his head far back so he could look up at Garret. “Papa says you’ll be ready to marry up by Christmas.”

  “Is that so?” Garret nearly choked on the root beer candy he’d popped into his mouth.

  Rose stood and started smacking him between the shoulder blades.

  “Yeah, to my cousin, Missy Pat—”

  His mother’s hand clapped over the boy’s mouth. “We really must hurry. I just stopped in to buy. . .” Her voice died out, and her already-pink cheeks went positively scarlet.

  “Some?” Garret recovered enough from his choking that he rasped out the prompt.

  “Matches,” Mrs. Busby said in a strangled tone.

  Rose had to credit Garret. He resumed his professional demeanor and ignored what amounted to an embarrassing pun. He acted as if the simple request couldn’t be interpreted in any other manner and nodded sagely. “Matches. Parlor, small box, or vest matches?”

  “Mr. Busby doesn’t smoke. I believe I’ll take some for both kitchen and parlor.”

  Garret walked toward a nearby shelf, tapped the edge, then turned around. “Mrs. Busby, I know my predecessor sold lucifers, and I have the remaining stock on the shelf. Keeping them there goes against my grain. I’d far rather give you a flint striker than sell you these old-fashioned phosphorus lucifers. I don’t think they’re safe. I have Red Top matches due in later this week.”

  “Oh, la!” Mrs. Busby waved her hand dismissively. “I learned to cook and keep house with lucifers, and I’ve never once had a single spark go astray.”

  Mrs. Blanchard bobbed her head in agreement. “They’re ever so much more convenient. Why, I simply keep a quart jar of water close by to douse the match when I’m done.”

  “I’ve seen too many sparks from those for my own comfort. I took to mail-ordering Red Tops a year ago,” Rose said.

  “As do I.” Leigh Anne’s grandmother put a can of Wedding Breakfast coffee on the counter. “Leigh Anne, are you and Rose about finished with your game?”