Magnolia

2

IN THE SPACE OF TWO HOURS, CLAIRE’S LIFE changed forever. Her uncle never regained consciousness. Her frantic telephone call from a neighbor’s house to the doctor brought the family physician within minutes.

“I’m very sorry, Claire,” Dr. Houston said softly, with a paternal arm around her shoulder. “But at least it was quick. He never knew a thing.”

Claire stared at him with dull eyes.

“Gertie, bring a sheet, please, and cover him,” he asked the housekeeper, who was quiet and solemn.

She nodded and went away, returning quickly with a spotless white sheet. Fighting tears, she put it lovingly over Will.

That made it all final somehow, and Claire felt her eyes welling with tears. She brushed at them as she began to sob. “But he was so healthy,” she whispered. “There was never anything wrong with him. He never even had a cold.”

“Sometimes it happens like this,” the doctor said. “Child, do you have family? Is there anyone we can get to come and help you sort out the estate?”

She looked at him blankly. “We only had each—each other,” she said, faltering. “He never married, and he was my father’s only living sibling. My mother’s people are all dead, as well.”

He glanced at Gertie. “You and Harry will be here, won’t you?”

“Of course,” Gertie said, coming forward to put her arms around Claire. “We’ll look after her.”

“I know you will.”

He filled out the death certificate, and, by the time he finished, the coroner came and a horse-drawn ambulance took the body to the mortuary. It was only then that Claire realized her position. The doctor and the funeral home would have to be paid. The sale of the buggy and horse would barely cover it. The house was mortgaged; the bank would surely foreclose.

She sat down heavily on the love seat and clenched a handkerchief in her hand. Her beloved only relative was gone; she was soon to be penniless—and homeless. What could she do? She tried to calm herself; after all, she had two skills—sewing clothes and repairing motorcars. She designed and made gowns for rich society matrons in Atlanta. That she could do, but there wasn’t a motorcar in nearby Atlanta, so working on them was no solution.

A renewed wave of panic left her momentarily in tears. But they soon were dried by Gertie, who reminded her that she had few equals with a needle and thread and the fine Singer treadle sewing machine in the bedroom. Claire made all her own clothes, designs of her own creation that most people thought were store-bought because they were so richly and lavishly embroidered and laced.

“Miss Claire, you could work as a seamstress anytime,” Gertie assured her. “Why, Mrs. Banning down on Peachtree Street can’t make clothes fast enough to meet the demand. I bet she’d hire you in a second to work for her. Said she thought your pretty blue suit was a Paris fashion, she did! And she knows you sew for Mrs. Evelyn Paine.”

That made Claire feel a little bit better. But, still, the prospect of a job and an income was only that—a prospect. She was afraid of the future, and trying hard not to let it show.

Barely an hour later, people who knew and loved Uncle Will began filling the house. Claire’s pride and self-control were sorely tested with condolence after condolence. Women brought platters of food and desserts, and jugs of iced tea, and urns of coffee. Everything was taken care of in the kitchen, with Gertie’s supervision. Kenny Blake came early and would have stayed, but Claire knew his business depended on the personal service he gave his customers. He needed to keep his shop open for long hours, too. She promised she would be all right and sent him back to work. They came all day and into the evening, until at last a familiar but unwelcome face showed itself at the door.

Claire’s eyes were red with tears as she let the bank president, Mr. Eli Calverson, and his beautifully dressed and coiffed blonde wife into the house.

“We’re so sorry, my dear,” Diane Calverson said in her cultured voice, extending a graceful hand in a spotless white glove. “What a terrible tragedy for you, and how unexpected. We came the moment we heard.”

“Don’t worry about a thing, young lady,” Mr. Calverson added, pressing her hands in his. “We’ll make sure the house is sold for the highest possible price, so that there will be a little something left over for you.”

Claire wasn’t even thinking properly as she stared at the old man, who had the coldest eyes she’d ever seen.

“And he did have that infernal motorcar, as well,” the banker continued. “Maybe we could find some buyer for it…”

“I won’t sell it,” she said at once. “The buggy and the horse are at the livery stable and they can be sold, but I won’t part with Uncle’s horseless carriage.”

“It’s early days yet, my dear,” Mr. Calverson said smugly. “You’ll change your mind. Diane, have a chat with Miss Lang while I speak to Sanders over there. I believe he’s had his eye on this property for quite some time.”

“Now just one moment—” Claire began, but the banker had already walked away.

“Don’t worry your head about it, dear,” Diane said languidly. “Leave business to the men. We women were never meant for such complicated things as that.” She looked around. “You poor thing. What a dreary place. And you haven’t even a decent dress to wear, have you?” she asked gently.

Claire had been too upset to change the old dress she’d worn to work with Uncle in the garage. Still, she bristled at the woman’s remark. She had dresses upstairs that would have made Mrs. Calverson’s Paris import look tacky by comparison. “My uncle had just died, Mrs. Calverson. Clothes were not much on my mind,” Claire said.

Diane shook her head. “Nothing is more important to me than to be correctly dressed, whatever the occasion. Really, Claire. You should go and change before other people come.”

Claire gaped at her. “My uncle died only hours ago,” she repeated, loud enough for her voice to carry. “I hardly think my clothes matter just now.”

Diane actually blushed as heads turned toward her. She made an awkward little gesture and laughed nervously. “Why, Claire. You misunderstood me. I never meant to demean your ensemble. And certainly not on such a sad occasion.”

“Of course you didn’t,” John said quietly, joining Diane at Claire’s side. Claire hadn’t even noticed his arrival and her heart jolted at the sight of him, even through her grief.

He took Diane’s arm, staring down with concern at Claire. “I’m very sorry about your uncle, Claire,” he said gently. “I’m sure that Diane is, too. She was only concerned for you.”

Claire searched his lean, hard face and wished desperately that he would defend her so valiantly. If only she could lay her head on his shoulder and cry out her pain. But his comfort seemed reserved for Diane. One more thing to add to her burdened spirit.

“I haven’t misunderstood one single word, Mr. Hawthorn,” she said. Her eyes went to his hand on Diane’s arm. “Nor one single action.”

They both looked uncomfortable. He moved quickly away from Diane, but not before Mr. Calverson had seen and noted the byplay. He came back to join them, taking his wife’s arm with a look that spoke volumes.

“Come over here, my dear, and meet a new client of the bank. You’ll excuse us, I trust?” he asked John coldly, then turned and led his wife away.

“You’d better be careful, hadn’t you?” Claire whispered. “He isn’t blind.”

John’s eyes darkened with distaste. “Be careful. I’m not the same tame breed as your pet clothing-store manager.”

She lifted her chin, angry at his pointed reference to Kenny, who was a darling but hardly a man of action. “Do you want to snap at me, too? Well, go ahead,” she invited. “Diane’s had a ripping go at me already about my clothes, and her husband is busy trying to sell the roof over my head so that your bank doesn’t lose a penny on the loans you made to Uncle Will. Don’t you have anything hurtful to say to me? It would be a shame to waste this opportunity. You should always kick people when they’re down!”

The mettle in her words contrasted painfully with the wobble in her voice and the sheen of tears in her gray eyes.

“Excuse me. I don’t feel well,” she said in a husky tone, and went quickly out of the room, into the hall. She leaned, resting her forehead against the cool wall, while sickness rushed over her. It had been such a long, terrible day.

She heard the door behind her open, then shut. The voices in the parlor receded as footsteps sounded. She felt the pull of a steely hand on her upper arm, turning her, and then she was pressed against scratchy fabric. Strong, warm arms held her. Under her ear, a steady, comforting heartbeat soothed her. She breathed in the exotic cologne and gave in to the need for comfort. It had been a very long time since her uncle had held her like this when her parents had died. In all the years of her life, comfort had been rare.

“My poor baby,” John said softly at her temple. His hand smoothed over her nape, calming her. “That’s right. Just cry until it stops hurting so much. Come close to me.” His arms contracted, riveting her to him.

She’d never heard his voice so tender. It was comforting and exciting all at once. She pressed closer, giving free rein to the tears as she cried away the grief and fear and loneliness in the arms of the man she loved. Even if it was only pity driving him, how sweet it was to be held so closely by him.

A handkerchief was held to her eyes. She took it and wiped them and blew her nose. He made her feel small and fragile, and she liked the way his tall, muscular body felt against hers.

She pulled slowly away from him, without raising her head. “Thank you,” she said, with a watery sniff. “May I ask what provoked you to offer comfort to the enemy?”

“Guilt,” he replied, with a faint smile. “And I’m not the enemy. I shouldn’t have spoken to you as I did. You’ve had enough for one day.”

She looked up at him. “I most certainly have,” she said angrily.

John searched her fierce eyes and wan face. “You’re tired,” he said. “Let the doctor give you some laudanum to make you sleep.”

“I don’t need advice from you. I doubt anyone close to you has ever died,” she said miserably.

His eyes flared darkly as he remembered his younger brothers, the frantic search of the cold waters for bodies, the anguish of having to tell their father that they were dead. “Then you would be wrong,” he said abruptly, dismissing the painful memories. “But loss is part and parcel of life. One learns to bear it.”

She wrung the handkerchief in her hands. “He was all I had,” she said, lifting her gaze to his. “And if it hadn’t been for him, I should have ended up in an orphanage, a state home.” She drew her shoulders up. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye to him, it was that quick.” The tears came again, hot and stinging.

He tilted her chin up. “Death isn’t an end. It’s a beginning. Don’t torture yourself. You have a future to contend with.”

“Grief takes a little time,” she reminded him.

“Of course it does.” He pushed back a strand of unruly hair from her forehead. As he moved it, he noticed a smudge of grease. Taking the handkerchief from her hand, he wiped away the smear. “Grease smears and dirty skirts. Claire, you need a keeper.”

“Don’t you start on me,” she muttered, snatching the handkerchief away.

His lips curved in a semblance of a smile. He shook his head. “You haven’t grown up at all. Instead of teaching you to work on motorcar engines, Will should have been introducing you to young men and parties. You’ll end up an old maid covered in grease.”

“Better than ending up some man’s slave!” she shot right back. “I have no ambition to marry.”

John cocked his eyebrow in amusement. “Not even to marry me?” he chided outrageously, grinning at her scarlet blush.

“No,” she replied tightly. “I don’t want to marry you. You’re much too conceited and I’m much too good for you,” she added, with a twinge of her old impish nature.

He chuckled softly. “That tongue cuts like a knife, doesn’t it?” He took a slow breath and tapped her gently on the cheek. “You’ll survive, Claire. You were never a shrinking violet. But if you need help, I hope you’ll come to me. Will was my friend. So are you. I don’t like to think of you being alone and friendless, especially when the house is sold.”

She looked vaguely panicked, and John understood why at once.

“I won’t own anything, really, will I?” she asked suddenly. “Uncle Will mentioned that he’d just taken out another loan…”

“So he did. The bank will have to foreclose on the house and sell it. You’ll get anything over the amount necessary to pay off your uncle’s debts, but frankly I doubt there’ll be much left. The motorcar will have to go, too.”

“I won’t sell it,” she said through her teeth.

“And I say you will.”

“You have no right to tell me anything. You’re neither my banker nor my friend!”

He only smiled. “I’m your friend, Claire—whether you like to admit it or not. Mr. Calverson won’t act in your interest.”

“And you will? Against your employer?”

“Of course, if it becomes necessary,” he said surprisingly.

She dropped her gaze to his expensive tie. He sounded very protective. He’d always been protective of her. She’d never quite understood why. “I won’t sell the motorcar, all the same.”

“What will you do with it?”

“Drive it, of course,” she said. Her eyes lit up. She lifted them to his. “John, I shan’t have to sell it! I can hire it out to businessmen, with myself as the driver! I will start a business!”

He looked as if she’d hit him in the head. “You’re a woman,” he pointed out.

“Yes.”

He took an exasperated breath. “You can hardly expect me to condone such a harebrained scheme.”

She drew herself up to her full height. It didn’t do any good. He still towered over her. “I’ll do as I please,” she informed him. “I have to make a living for myself. I have no means of support.”

He studied her curiously. Several things were becoming clear to him, foremost among them that he was about to land himself in one hell of a scandal because of Diane. Her husband was very suspicious—and if what Claire had told him was accurate, he was being gossiped about. He couldn’t afford to let one blemish attach itself to Diane’s good name.

His eyes narrowed. Claire wasn’t at all bad to look at. She was spunky, and she had a devilish sense of humor. She had a kind heart, and even passable manners, and most of the time she delighted him. He had a soft spot for her that he’d never had for any other woman. Besides all that, she worshiped him. “You could marry me,” he suggested wickedly. “Then you’d have a husband to look after your interests as well as a roof over your head.”

She felt the ground go out from under her feet. It was the oddest sensation, as if she weren’t touching the floor at all. “Why should you want to marry me?”

“It would solve both our problems, wouldn’t it?” he drawled mockingly. “You get the husband of your dreams,” he said, smiling at her blush, “and I get a respite from gossip that could ruin Diane’s good name.”

Diane’s good name, she noticed, not his own. He was still putting the woman above his own reputation. And the unkind remark about her infatuation for him hurt. She hated having him know how she felt.

“Marry you?” she replied haughtily. “I’d sooner eat an arsenic casserole with deadly nightshade sauce!”

He only smiled. “The offer stands. But I’ll let you come to me when you’ve discovered that it’s the best solution to your problem.”

“I’ll drive the car and make my living!” she said belligerently. She knew she wasn’t facing reality, and she almost added that she could support herself equally well if not better by becoming a seamstress. However, since he knew nothing of that particular talent, she thought it best to keep it to herself for the time being.

He shrugged. “Drive the car, by all means,” he said, turning to leave, “but, just remember, no self-respecting businessman is going to permit himself to be driven through the streets of Atlanta by a woman.” He gave her a rueful smile. “I’ll be waiting to hear from you, Claire. When your situation is desperate enough, come and see me.”

“I’ll never do that!” she said to his retreating back.

It was all bravado. She didn’t know how badly she might end up, or what measures she might be forced to take. But how dare he make her such an offer of marriage—so cold and calculating that she got chills down her back just thinking of it! He couldn’t believe she’d accept such a proposal—without even the pretense of warmth or affection! He could believe it because he cared so much for Diane. She didn’t have to hear him say that to know the truth of it. He loved the woman more than anything, so to save her the vicious gossip of society dames, he would sacrifice himself on the altar of marriage to another woman. It was rather noble and heroic, except that Claire would also be making a sacrifice to marry a man who didn’t love her. She knew how he felt about Diane. That wouldn’t change. She would be a fool to link her life to his.

But what if she could make him love her? asked a tiny voice deep inside her mind. What if by living with her, sharing things with her, being around her constantly, he could learn to love her? There might even be a child, she thought with a scarlet blush, and surely he would feel something for the mother of his son?

She put the thought away as quickly as she entertained it. He might be able to make love to her, as men were known to be capable of it with any woman. But he would be thinking of Diane, wanting Diane. How could she bear his kisses and his embraces when she knew he wanted someone else, even if the someone else didn’t want him back?

The answer was, of course, that she couldn’t. She had to pick up the pieces of her shattered life and become independent. There would surely be a way. If her uncle’s beloved motorcar wasn’t the answer she would think of something else. Then let Mr. High-and-Mighty Hawthorn come calling with his infamous proposals!

FOR TWO WEEKS AFTER the funeral Claire only went through the motions of living. Kenny came once and offered to do anything she needed done, including trimming the hedges. She didn’t take him up on his offer, because she didn’t want to raise his hopes. He had a mild crush on her, but she had no love for him, only friendship.

She missed her uncle terribly. Money was already a problem. She’d had to let Gertie and Harry go, a blow to all three of them, and not done without a tearful parting and promises to keep in touch. They easily found work, because locally they were known as hard workers. That, at least, took some of the burden from her conscience. The house was sold; Mr. Calverson had sent word that he had a buyer who wanted to move in within the month.

Claire would receive two hundred dollars as her part of the sale, but that would quickly be gone, because the funeral expenses had to be paid out of it.

She had tried to find clientele for her motorcar enterprise, but as John Hawthorn had predicted, businessmen didn’t flock to her door to become clients. In fact, she was brushed off unceremoniously. She did back the motorcar out of the drive and run it around the block, dressed in the long white driving coat and goggles and cap her uncle had always worn. Young boys threw rocks at her, and she frightened a horse into jumping a hedge. Afterward she parked the motorcar in the garage and locked it away.

She had briefly considered work as a seamstress in a local fabric and notions shop, but the woman Gertie had suggested as a potential employer had just taken on a new seamstress and had no need of help. The only alternative was to sell her designs door-to-door or find a shop owner who would let her do alterations. Kenny came to mind, but she had no wish to sew men’s fashions, much less do alterations on them.

Sewing at home was a good possibility, except that the house would soon be gone. The chickens were hers, and the eggs they laid, but where would she take them to live in order to keep getting her egg money from her regular customers?

John had predicted that she’d have to come to him for help, and she was almost to that point. Only pride held her back. Pride was very expensive, though, and she was running out of money fast.

SHE’D ONLY JUST PUT UP HER CLOAK and hat when there was a knock on the front door. She went to open it and found John on the doorstep.

Her heart skipped, but anger overrode attraction. “Women run brothels and boardinghouses!” she raged, shaking her finger at him. “If they can run one sort of business, certainly they can run others!”

“Are you planning to open a brothel?” he asked, with faint amusement. “I shouldn’t advise it—not in Colbyville.” He leaned down. “However, if you do, I promise to be your first customer,” he whispered.

She flushed to her neckline. “You know very well that I had no idea of doing any such thing! I was merely making a point,” she added, while the thought of being in John’s arms in bed made her knees weak. He was only joking, of course. “What do you want?”

He smiled gently. “I wanted to see how you were,” he replied. He searched her eyes. “I’ve been keeping up with you through your neighbors. You seem less than prosperous at the moment.”