The Braxtons of Miracle Springs (5 page)

That afternoon we spent shopping. Everywhere we walked, all the merchandise booths outside many of the shops did their best to lure us inside, and finally, in store after store, we succumbed.

Christopher bought me a lovely handbag, Tad and Zack both bought themselves leather vests, and Christopher bought himself a Western-style hat.

We all laughed until our sides hurt as he was trying it on, looking in the mirror this way and that with now a funny and now a serious expression.

“What do you think, Corrie?” he asked finally, cocking his head playfully to one side, glancing at me while still keeping one eye on himself in the mirror.

“It's perfect!” put in Tad before I had a chance to answer. “Strap a holster to your side and you'll look like a regular gunslinger!”

“No one would ever look at you and take you for a preacher—that much I can say,” I answered.

“Not in a hundred years!” added Zack, laughing pretty hard by now at the sight. “But I like Tad's idea about the gun. That's really what you need now.”

“Somehow I don't think it would work,” said Christopher. “I'd probably shoot myself in the foot just with it hanging there!”

“That is a good idea, though, Tad,” Zack added, with a little more seriousness in his tone than I liked. “Maybe I'll get me a new holster and six-gun.”

“Zack!” I exclaimed. “Don't joke about something like that!”

“Who's joking? Sheriff Rafferty wears one. I think it looks kinda good.”

“He's the sheriff—it's different for him.”

Zack said no more, but I could tell he was still thinking.

“What about you, Becky?” I said, trying to divert the conversation away from the subject of guns.

“There was a pretty white blouse with multicolored lace I saw at the store where you got your bag,” she replied.

“Why didn't you try it on?”

“I wasn't sure about it. But I have been thinking about it since.”

“Let's go back,” I suggested. “I want to see what it looks like on you.”

“Not back to the women's store!” moaned Tad.

“How about if we men meet you back here in, say, about an hour,” suggested Christopher.

“All right,” I said, “but you keep them away from any gun shops,” I added, trying to make light of the worry I felt inside.

We split up, and the three of us girls turned around and walked back to Powell Street to the Women's Emporium.

Laughing Waters had been mostly quiet that afternoon. It was such a new experience for her—not only being with us, but being in the city, and shopping like this. Not that we were all that used to it either. This was a once in a lifetime adventure for us, too. But for someone like Laughing Waters, who had spent most of her life either in the desert with her people or at a mission school, walking through stores full of expensive clothes and white people was a tremendously unusual experience. I could tell she felt shy and awkward, yet she was enjoying herself at the same time.

I didn't know whether she had any money. I offered to buy her a blouse while Becky was trying hers on, but she didn't want me to.

Laughing Waters was so beautiful, with such dark, mysterious green eyes. And with the way she was dressed—more or less like the rest of us, with her black hair tucked up under a simple hat, no one would immediately recognize her as an Indian. But I knew she was afraid that someone might.

As we talked throughout the three days we were together, Laughing Waters had told me how nervous she had been about going with us. It was no secret that Indians were not very highly thought of in white society, and I had seen her glancing around from time to time, wondering if passersby were staring at her. But with Christopher, Zack, and Tad close by—all three tall, strong, and confident young men—I didn't feel nervous in the least.

Besides all that, San Francisco was such a mixed pot of nationalities that Laughing Waters blended in with all the rest.

When we met Christopher, Zack, and Tad an hour later, Zack had a package under his arm. It was all wrapped up in brown paper, but I knew well enough what it was.

I could see that Tad was a little quieter than he had been, but no one said anything about it.

I sure wasn't going to bring up the subject of guns again.

It had been a wonderful day!

We'd seen so much and gone all over the city and by late afternoon were nearly exhausted.

I didn't know exactly what Mr. Kemble had intended to do when we'd left him earlier in the day, but we were back at his office at five to find out. From the smile on his face that greeted us, I knew he must have been successful at whatever his scheme was.

“Are you ready?” he said enthusiastically.

“Ready,” I repeated, “but you still haven't told us where we're going.”

“I thought we decided on it earlier—we're going to Mammy Pleasant's place for dinner!”

The three men in our party gave a cheer.

“How did you manage it?” I asked.

“Never mind,” interrupted Mr. Kemble. “All I had to say was that Corrie Belle Hollister—excuse me, I mean Corrie Braxton, though I did have to tell her your maiden name so she would know who I was referring to—in any case, all I had to say was that you and your family would be accompanying me, and Mammy Pleasant immediately invited us all to have dinner at her place . . . as her personal guests.”

“My wife—the famous newswoman!” said Christopher.

“I am no such thing!” I protested.

“Oh, but you are, Corrie,” added Mr. Kemble. “I could never have secured such an invitation just for myself—but the mention of your name, and that was all it took. Shall we be off?” he added, glancing around first at Christopher, then at the others.

We walked back out to the street, where Mr. Kemble hailed a horse-drawn carriage big enough for all seven of us. As we climbed inside, I was thinking there must be more to the story than he had told us—something about his tone as he explained made me suspicious. But I didn't say anything. On the way I found out the rest of the story.

“Actually,” Mr. Kemble said as we bounced slowly along in the carriage, “there is one thing I'm going to have to ask you to do in exchange for this dinner, Corrie.”

“I thought so!” I said.

“A minor request,” smiled Mr. Kemble. “I knew you'd be happy to do it in order to treat your family to the best meal in San Francisco.”

“Do I have any choice?” I asked, pretending to be annoyed. I looked over at Christopher and smiled.

“Not really—not if we want Mammy Pleasant to let us in.”

“What is it I have to do?”

“The very thing you enjoy more than anything.”

I looked questioningly at Mr. Kemble.

“I told Mammy that you were the best woman newspaper writer in all California and maybe in the whole country, for all I know. I told her that you were just like her—not afraid to stand up for what you think is right. So I said that if she'd serve us dinner, you'd write an article about her boardinghouse and the fine table she serves and that I'd print it in the
Alta
. There, you see, nothing to it.”

“You want me to write a restaurant column?” I said, laughing.

“Something kind of like that.”

“But you've got reporters who do that all the time. I don't know anything about food.”

“You know what you like.”

“I reckon so, but—”

“And you do have one thing none of my other writers have.”

“What's that?”

“The name
Corrie Hollister
. You'll write about Mammy Pleasant's boardinghouse in a way none of my men could. People will read it, too. I haven't had a word from you in so long that just sight of your byline will grab interest.”

“Mr. Kemble!”

“On my honor, I mean every word. Mammy Pleasant knows that, too. That's why she agreed to let us come. Just write it like you were writing about your Aunt Katie and her seedlings from Virginia. Mammy Pleasant's an interesting person. But she's never been written about the way
you'll
do it. You have a special way of observing things in situations that most people can't see. And you have a talent for putting what you see onto the printed page in a most unusual way. That's what makes you a good writer, Corrie.”

“Are you trying to flatter me, Mr. Kemble?” I asked, smiling again.

“I'm not above such a ploy from time to time.”

“If you keep it up, it may just work!” put in Christopher from the other side of me where he was sitting. “I can tell that Corrie's defenses are weakening.”

“Exactly what I hoped to accomplish!” rejoined Mr. Kemble. “I've been trying to get Corrie writing again and back on my staff ever since she returned from the East. I have to tell you, Braxton, your coming along when you did has thrown some complications into my plans for your dear wife.”

Christopher laughed.

“I meant every word of what I said, Corrie. You are a skilled writer with a unique way of probing into the insides of what you write about. I hope—now that you are married and that you and this fine husband of yours will be settling down together, and after writing this brief piece about Mammy Pleasant's place—as I said, I hope you will reconsider my former offer.”

“I will think and pray about it, Mr. Kemble,” I answered.

“We will, however, have to give some thought about what to do concerning your byline. Dropping the
Hollister
may lose some readers.”

“I will think about that too.”

“That is all I ask. In the meantime, if you are uncomfortable with the arrangement about tonight, I'm sure I can—”

“No,” I said. “I'll agree to be a restaurant columnist for one evening. After all you've told us about this place, I don't think anyone would forgive me if I made us turn around now!”

Mr. Kemble had not exaggerated about the food nor about Mammy Pleasant herself.

The boardinghouse was a big two-story building. I don't know how many rooms it had or how many people there were living under its roof, but the dining room was full and bustling when we walked in about fifteen minutes before six o'clock.

Mammy Pleasant greeted us at the door. She was a stately-looking Negro woman, beautiful, and dressed very expensively.

“I'm happy to meet you, Mrs. Braxton,” she said, shaking my hand up and down in hers. “Mr. Kemble speaks so highly of your writing that I am honored for you to do an article about my home. I certainly hope you find the dinner to your satisfaction.”

“Thank you,” I replied. “I'm sure we will.”

She offered her hand to Christopher. He took it, smiled, but said nothing.

Mammy Pleasant showed us to a table at the far end of the dining room. We sat down and presently two young Negro women began to serve us our dinner.

I wasn't sure I liked the atmosphere of the place. It was dark despite the candles on all the tables, and the decor was too gaudy for my taste with red and black flocked wallpaper, big gold light fixtures, and two or three paintings of women on the walls whose expressions I didn't much care for. The sorts of men scattered about at the tables didn't look or sound like the kind you'd want to spend much time with. It wasn't what you'd call a family restaurant, and I knew from his face that Christopher felt a little uneasy too. But by the time we sensed that perhaps we'd made a mistake, it was too late. The eight or ten tables about the large room had been mostly filled, and people were already being served the famous food we'd been hearing so much about.

Despite the questionable atmosphere, the meal was absolutely delicious.

We were served savory potatoes, pork roast with fruit compote and gravy, yeast rolls, and chard in a fried egg mixture. All the items on the menu were familiar enough, but each one had a distinctive and different taste. It was obvious Mammy Pleasant's chef knew how to prepare things to enhance rather than diminish their natural flavors. The coffee served with the dessert, too, was strong and flavorful without being bitter. It was the best coffee I think I'd ever tasted.

As we ate, we talked lightly amongst ourselves, but I think we all felt a little bit intimidated by the surroundings. All except Mr. Kemble, that is. He spotted several people with whom he was acquainted and walked over to chat. He was having a great time. He'd been trying his best to find a way inside the place again ever since his first visit!

The rest of us, however, did more staring and watching and listening than we did conversing. I suppose we all felt like country folks around all those fancy-dressed city men. Suddenly I realized that Laughing Waters and Becky and I were the only women seated in the room, although there were fancy-dressed women among the servers.

I didn't know what I'd write about in an article. If I stuck to the food like some restaurant columns I'd read, the assignment wouldn't be too hard, because in all honesty it
was
one of the best meals I'd ever eaten. I didn't know if I'd be able to write very much about a dinner, though. How much time could you take describing something you're just going to stab with your fork, chew up, and swallow?

By the time dessert arrived, Christopher had grown more and more quiet. I could tell he was very uncomfortable.

As we began to eat the apple cobbler, he suddenly stood and excused himself, saying he wasn't feeling too well.

“I just need some fresh air, Corrie,” he said to me. “I'm sorry. Please, all of you, go on ahead. I'll be back in a minute or two.”

Then he turned and left the room by the front door.

I watched him go, knowing there was more to his departure than not feeling well. For Christopher to turn down apple cobbler was unheard of. And he'd been feeling perfectly fine all day.

I tried to make conversation. I'm glad Mr. Kemble didn't seem to notice, but the others knew something was wrong. The editor, however, was too busy relishing the cobbler.

As my eyes followed Christopher, I unconsciously saw him pass someone on his way out the door. I was watching Christopher so intently I paid almost no attention to the man walking into the dining room as he left. It was only later, as I recalled the scene, that I realized there had been a faint hint of recognition even then.

At the moment, however, I turned back to the table and the cobbler on the plate in front of me.

About three minutes later, suddenly the limp conversation at our table was interrupted with the last voice I ever expected to hear. It had been years, but I knew it instantly.

“Corrie Hollister . . . it
is
you!”

I looked up speechless, my face pale. Mr. Kemble was already shaking the newcomer's hand, while I struggled to find my tongue.

“How's it going, O'Flaridy?” he said. “I heard you were back in town.”

“Just got back last month.”

“Who you working for?”

Robin smiled. “Let's just say I haven't settled down to any of my options yet.”

“Still playing all the angles, eh, O'Flaridy?”

Robin laughed. “I keep busy. I've got some sizable irons in the fire that will make me more money in a week than I made writing for you in two years.”

“Maybe so, but confidence games can also get you put behind bars.”

“It's nothing so shady as that, Kemble.”

“I heard about the trouble you got mixed up in down in Nashville.”

“I tell you, I'm strictly on the up and up. But I didn't come here to talk to you; I can see
you
anytime—Corrie,” he said, sitting down in Christopher's chair and turning toward me, “what brings you to San Francisco . . . and who are these four friends of yours?”

“Uh . . . this is . . . my sister, and my . . . uh, these are my brothers, and our friend Laughing Waters.”

“I'm pleased to meet you all,” said Robin in his smoothest and most polished tone. “My name is Robert T. O'Flaridy. Your sister and I are old and very close friends.” He shook their hands, and I didn't at all like the way his eyes lingered longer than they should have on Becky.

“Robin, there is something . . .” I began, but the moment I hesitated, he turned toward me again and started up himself.

“It is wonderful to see you again, Corrie,” he said, more softly, taking my hand in his. “You look very beautiful tonight. Your brothers and sister appear old enough to take care of themselves in the city for one night. I'd like you to spend the evening with me. We'll go dancing, and I'll take you places you never even dreamed existed.”

“Robin, I . . . I can't. I—”

“Come now, Corrie. I know you were just a confused kid before. But you're a grown woman now. It won't take long for you to realize that I'm the kind of man you could easily fall in love with. I've loved you for a long time; I've just been waiting for you to—”

That did it! At last I found my tongue.

“Robin O'Flaridy, don't you dare talk to me like that!” I said, pulling my hand out from his.

“Surely you don't deny that you found me interesting and attractive.”

“I found you
interesting
, but certainly not attractive!”

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Mr. Kemble sitting there, silently enjoying the drama. I wished he would step in to help me, but he seemed to be enjoying watching Robin make a fool of himself too much to interfere. Tad and Zack looked nervously at one another.

By now I was furious. Robin had always been presumptuous, but this took the cake!

“You could love me, Corrie, if you only give yourself the chance.”

Again he took my hand. Once more I yanked it back, more forcefully this time.

“I have no intention of spending a minute more with you than I have to, Robin O'Flaridy!”

“Then, perhaps your sister—” he added, turning toward Becky with a smile I didn't like, “perhaps she would enjoy a night out in San Francisco with one who knows all the—”

Finally Zack jumped up in defense of his two sisters. If Christopher hadn't come back a minute later when he did, I'm afraid Zack would have clobbered poor Robin right in his face and bloodied his nose all over Mammy Pleasant's carpet!

“Both my sisters will be with me,” Zack said, “and neither of them will spend a minute of it alone with the likes of you!”

“Perhaps you should let your sister answer for herself,” rejoined Robin, with the trace of bite in his tone, eying Zack with caution, yet hardly able to keep himself from accepting the challenge.

I was so absorbed, I hadn't even noticed Christopher returning from outside and walking toward our table. All at once, Robin became aware of someone standing behind his right shoulder. He glanced around.

“Ah, this must be your chair,” he said to Christopher, rising.

Then he turned back to me. “Corrie, you never told me you had an
older
brother.”

“This is my
husband!
” I blurted out. If there wasn't smoke coming out my ears, I would be surprised.

Suddenly realizing his error, Robin stepped back so that Christopher could take his seat again. Christopher, however, continued to stand, not sure what to make of what he had seen upon reentering the dining room—a perfect stranger sitting in
his
seat, trying to take
his
wife's hand, and speaking to her in the confidential tones of a lover.

As Zack watched, still on his feet, the two men shook hands, stiffly on Christopher's part, while Robin not-so-subtly excused himself, trying to put the best face on the scene that he could under the circumstances.

“Oh . . . well—how are you doing? O'Flaridy's the name, Robert O'Flaridy.”

“Christopher Braxton.”

“Corrie and I go way back,” he added, already recovering his suave demeanor. “Old newspaper cronies, you know. We haven't seen each other in years. Well . . . nice meeting you all,” he added, sweeping his gaze quickly around the silent table. “And it's been wonderful seeing you again, Corrie.”

I didn't say a word. I was calming down now that Christopher was back.

Finally Robin turned to Mr. Kemble.

“I'll see
you
later, Kemble,” he said, with a significant tone, as if it had been the editor's design to set the whole thing up from the beginning so that he would wind up with egg on his face.

Mr. Kemble nodded, still chuckling over the incident. I certainly didn't think it was funny. Christopher remained silent. Zack, Tad, Becky, and Laughing Waters just sat there, hardly knowing
what
to think.

Robin turned and was gone as quickly as he had appeared, striding across the room to the table where the two men he had come in with were being served the first course of their dinner. I don't know why they were eating here, unless they were staying in the boardinghouse. By then I didn't care to know!

“I'd say it's time for us to leave,” said Christopher, still serious.

I was on my feet in a second.

“I'm sorry we must leave so abruptly, Mr. Kemble,” Christopher said to the editor. “If you would like to remain, we will be perfectly able to find our way back. We very much appreciate the evening, but I do think I ought to take my wife and her family back to the hotel.”

“Yes . . . yes, of course, Braxton,” said Mr. Kemble, getting up out of his chair somewhat awkwardly and shaking the hand Christopher had offered him.

“I hope you understand.”

“Of course. Perhaps I, uh . . . perhaps I
will
remain a few minutes more and finish my cobbler, perhaps have a glass of port. You're certain you can find your way?”

Christopher nodded.

I thanked Mr. Kemble and told him I would be in touch with him about the article. Then we all made our way out of the room and back outside. I couldn't help glancing again in Robin's direction, but he was looking away and wasn't about to pay the slightest attention to our leaving. I was glad Mammy Pleasant was in another room at the time, so we didn't have to talk to anyone.

In another minute we were out on the street. A thick fog was just rolling in from off the bay, and it felt good to breathe the moist, salty air.

Christopher and I sighed deeply, relieved to be out of the noisy, smoky, boisterous atmosphere. The six of us walked slowly down the street in silence.

Finally Christopher spoke.

“What do you say we walk back to the hotel?” he said. “I think the exercise will help us shake off the dust from that place.”

We all agreed. Christopher asked who in the world Robin O'Flaridy was, and as we went I told him the whole story.
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