Harmony (6 page)

Tom went to the heater, pitched the chalk nub into a box, and took a load off on the sawhorse. He ran his red-stained hands down the sides of his denims, then reached into his breast pocket for his Richmonds.

Lighting one, he dropped his elbows to his knees and settled onto the plank to enjoy his smoke while watching Miss Edwina Huntington's backside shimmy.

•  •  •

Edwina could feel Mr. Wolcott's hot gaze on her back and grew perturbed. Didn't he have anything better to do than to stare at her? She and Marvel-Anne had been working themselves to the bone all morning, and he'd done nothing to improve the appearance of his side of the building. All he'd accomplished was scratching red chalk on the floor, drinking coffee, and smoking cigarettes. He certainly wasn't as ambitious as she was.

At least that oversized dog of his hadn't returned to sniff her silly. She could only pray that Marvel-Anne hadn't heard her slip of the tongue. Mortified, she hadn't been able to meet Tom Wolcott's gaze. She should have stopped herself from blurting such crass words without thought. But she'd been surprised senseless, and not by accident. Surely that bloodhound had been positioned there as a deliberate scare tactic. She took it as an omen of things to come.

If only she hadn't said those things about his eyes to Marvel-Anne. Extreme humiliation washed over her anew. She'd never wanted him to know that in spite of his ill-kempt appearance the other day, she hadn't been
immune to the appealing features of his face. They'd been made all the more appealing this morning by the time she'd entered the warehouse.

She hadn't been prepared to confront him after he'd given himself a stern grooming. Though he'd left his hair untrimmed, without his hat, the heavy waves fell half behind his ears—the right side deliberately put there. The not altogether unpleasing length ended softly over the collar of a royal blue overshirt. His beard and mustache had been shaved away to smoothness, leaving his square jaw visible.

Seeing him this way made her hard pressed to remember he was someone she didn't like. He'd finagled purchasing the warehouse for fifty dollars less than her. That meant he was a man not to be trusted. He took advantage of those—namely her—who hadn't had the foresight to negotiate the price down, too.

Getting off the crate, Edwina flashed a furtive look in Tom's direction. He still remained perched on the sawhorse, a cigarette dangling between his fingers. Gall rose inside her that he would openly gape. His slow gaze burned over her body, making her feel annoyingly warm and flushed—even with the warehouse's chill. He sat in a casual way, legs spread apart and boot heels hooked on the wood brace, as if he didn't have a care in the world. She only wished she could act so free and unrepressed.

Edwina freshened her cloth, then worked on the lower panes of the window. Any gentleman would have had the decency to offer his assistance once he saw that she and Marvel-Anne were tackling a big job. Though she didn't really want to be indebted to Mr. Wolcott, so better to chap her own hands than accept his helping one.

A brittle cold remained in this section of the spacious room, despite the heater on full service at Tom's side. This brought to mind a problem Edwina hadn't foreseen: sufficiently heating her school. She had the means, but it meant she would do without at home.

Marvel-Anne came toward her with the mop to swish the dingy ropes in the ammonia bucket.

“We'll have to use the heater from my room,” Edwina said as water sloshed in between Marvel-Anne's fingers while she squeezed the mop head. “It's a good thing we didn't lug it in there from the attic already.”

“But you'll get too cold without a heater.”

“My bedroom is above the parlor. I'll keep the embers banked high in the fireplace so they stay hot most of the night. And there's extra blankets.”

Marvel-Anne nodded. “I'll step out and do the other sides of the windows, then we'd best go home for lunch and a cup of hot tea.”

If Mr. Wolcott continued with his unrelenting stare, Edwina wouldn't need anything hot. Putting her hands on her hips, she assessed what to do next, trying to keep from looking in that man's direction. She took a few steps in a small circle, envisioning where her entry door would be and how the windows would appear once she hung some handsome curtains. If she'd had the money, she would have had the walls plastered so she could paint them an eye-pleasing color. As it was, she'd been giving serious thought to putting a coat on the faded exterior. Buttercup yellow with white window sashes. Ideally, hiring a painter would have been best, but she couldn't spare the expense.

Turning, she stole a glimpse of Tom. He just sat there, staring with those clear blue eyes of his, as if he were trying to strip her raw. Fresh annoyance flared inside her. She bent to pick up the broom, intent on brushing the cobwebs from the walls. If she hadn't been so put out of sorts by his unwavering eyes, she would have grabbed the handle instead of sticking her hand in the scrub bucket. Snapping her wrist to fling the water from her fingers, she muttered her exasperation beneath her breath. The blunder wouldn't have bothered her nearly as much if the low chuckle coming from his corner of the room hadn't reached her ears.

“What?” she shot at him.

Broad shoulders shrugged, and a mild smile didn't mask his false innocence. “What what?”

She held her position for as long as she could, staring right back at him to see how he liked it. But rather than feeling any satisfaction, she felt increased discomfort. Her heart began to foolishly hammer, and her senses became disordered.

He could make her squirm inside her skin just by doing nothing, by sitting there with an attitude that exuded more masculinity than the whole baseball team, sponsored by Kennison's Hardware Emporium, had in its entirety.

Sharply inhaling to suppress her ire, she did her best to ignore him, but it was difficult, given that there was no place to be free from his prying eyes. That was unless . . .

With a satisfied walk, she went into the storeroom. The haven offered little space for contemplation; tools and curls of tin cluttered narrow shelves. Sheets of shiny metal, as well as unfinished projects, lay strewn here and there. One piece was a ceiling pendant from which to hang a gaslight.

Now that she was hidden, she wrinkled her nose and mulled over her next move. She couldn't seek sanctuary in the small storeroom forever. Leaning her hip against the wall, she crossed her arms beneath her breasts.

“Find anything you want?”

Edwina started, her pulse tripping. She absently laid the palm of her hand over her heartbeat. “I wanted a moment to myself.”

“Coward.” His face loomed over hers, and he'd positioned himself far too close for her comfort. “You're hiding.”

Her gaze shot upward, and before she thought better, she blurted, “Yes! I don't like the way you keep looking at me.”

“How's that?”

The rebuttal that formed in her head wasn't going to reach his ears. She wasn't about to tell him that he was
making her feel undressed. He already knew that. “Never you mind.”

She made a move to leave, but from where he stood, he blocked the only exit.

“Pardon me,” she said, inching left.

“Okay.” He inched left.

Frowning, she repeated, “Pardon me,” and inched right.

“Okay.” He inched right.

Her indignation bristled. “You're trifling with me, Mr. Wolcott.”

The resonant sound of his laugh rippled through the air. “Yeah.”

“Whatever for?”

“I wanted to see if you'd say dammit again.”

Embarrassment gripped her. “I can assure you it won't happen again. In my defense, my father would occasionally use that word when discussing politics at the dinner table. I unconsciously picked it up, but I never use it.” Then she went on in a rush, “Habitually, that is.”

One corner of his mouth crooked, revealing a faint dimple that she found—to her chagrin—utterly seductive. “Whatever you say.”

“I say I'm not saying anything more on the subject.”

Relief overtook her discomfort when a familiar woman's voice called out from the warehouse, “Miss Huntington? Marvel-Anne said you were inside.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Wolcott,” she said firmly. This time her request wasn't met with any “trifling.” He allowed her to pass, and Edwina made her escape to visit with Crescencia Stykem.

The statuesque young lady hovered over the tin replica of a large bird. Seeing Edwina, Crescencia squinted through her glasses at her. “I've never seen anything like this. Is it yours, Miss Huntington?”

“Good heavens, no.”

“Lucky for me,” Tom commented behind Edwina as
he strode to his side. “I was prepared to fight you for it. A real knuckle-bruiser knockout.”

Crescencia's eyes widened, and she whispered, “He's not serious?”

“Don't pay any attention to him,” Edwina said, brushing off his droll remark. “What can I do for you, dear?” The endearment seemed too matronly to be spoken to a woman only two years younger than Edwina, but she felt motherly toward Crescencia. She was pretty and should have been married—except for one slight problem: she couldn't hold a conversation with a prospective groom without stammering her way into a state of blushes and acute hyperventilation. By showing her how to converse and carry herself in a mixed crowd, Edwina hoped to help the poor thing overcome her shyness.

“I've brought my application by. Papa agreed to let me have the mornings off to attend class. He said . . . well, never mind what he said.” She straightened her wire spectacles.

Edwina pressed her hand over Crescencia's. “It'll be all right.”

“He said I'm as graceful as an elephant when I'm using the typewriter, and I have as much chance as a grasshopper in an anthill of ever getting a husband. Do you think so?”

Giving Crescencia's thin fingers a squeeze, Edwina decreed, “Stuff and fiddlesticks. I think you're a lovely and likeable young lady. You'll come into your own. Sometimes it just takes longer for some than others.”

“Thank you, Miss Huntington.” Crescencia smiled at the encouragement, then handed Edwina the quarter-folded paper and a bank check she took from her purse.

“I'll keep you informed as to the starting date of the school.” Edwina walked her to the door.

“I hope it's soon.”

Crescencia stepped through the doorway just as a man rounded the blind corner. They bumped into one
another, brushing arms. He immediately laid his hand on her shoulder and made an apology. “Sorry about that, sweetheart. I hope I didn't hurt you.”

Her glasses slightly askew from the encounter, she fumbled to adjust them on the bridge of her nose. Lashes flickered; a quiver hitched her breathing. “I—I—I—” Crescencia's face paled to ashes; even her gaping mouth went gray.

Then she dropped into a dead faint.

3

W
alking with his thumbs hooked in his denim pockets, Tom threaded his way between the aisles of Kennison's Hardware Emporium, taking in the inventory. With his lips together, he worked on a stick of spearmint chewing gum. The paint section loomed, gallons stacked on gallons. A dollar eighty a can: Light Blue, Quaker Drab, Old Gold, Myrtle Green . . . but Vermillion—thirty cents.

“Hey, Kennison, how come the vermillion is only thirty cents?”

Mr. Kennison came around from behind the counter. The suit padding bulged on his shoulders, and his neck was rigid in a starched collar. “Mrs. Kirby ordered that for the trim on her house, but then she changed her mind. She bought English Venetian instead. I'm overstocked on the vermillion, so I'm offering a discount.”

The proprietor tapped his finger on a can of paint. “This reminds me. Miss Huntington said she'd come by this morning to pick up three gallons of the Canary and one of Old Revival White. I'd better write her order up.”