“I’ve known her about that long, too.” Rafael chimed in. “Knew her late husband as well.” His smile gentled and Devlin wondered if the man had been in love with her at one time. “She’s a good woman. Kind. Smart. Generous to a fault. Big heart.” He collected the plates and silverware and disappeared into the kitchen, though he never stopped talking, his voice drifting into the room from beyond the doorway.
“She’d be perfect to take care of your daughter. She has a lot of experience with that.” His voice grew louder as he came back into the main room carrying a cup of coffee. “Took care of her mother when she became ill—Tresia was only thirteen at the time—then took care of Brett, too, before he passed. These past two years, she’s been taking care of her father. He had a stroke in the middle of the Emporium one afternoon, right in front of her.” He took his seat but never stopped talking, not even to take a sip of his coffee. “Lyle passed three months ago. Whole town turned out for his funeral. It was a sad day.”
Rafael finally paused long enough to take a drink and leaned back in his chair, as if lost in memory then suddenly wagged his finger as if he thought of a way to diminish the sadness. “The one you have to watch out for is Lucy Hart. That sign she has hanging beside her door ain’t just wishful thinkin’.”
“What do you mean?” He thought back to when he’d met with Lucy Hart earlier in the day. Standing on her front porch before she’d invited him in and introduced him to her husband, Doctor Ben Hart, he’d noticed several signs, one of which said ‘Doctor,’ but couldn’t recall what the other two signs had said. “What sign?”
Rafael laughed. “The one that reads ‘Matchmaker.’ Our Lucy is real serious about that.” He puffed out his chest. “In fact, it was Lucy who introduced me to my wife, Ventura. Can’t say I’m not happy, either. Best thing that ever happened to me.”He glanced at Deputy Shotton, grin in place. “Wasn’t it she who gently steered you toward Polly?”
The big man blushed at the mention of Polly’s name and once again, beads of sweat popped out on his head. “I wouldn’t say that exactly.” He turned toward Devlin as he pulled the handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his head. “Lucy simply asked me to pick up pies for the silent auction she was sponsoring...” His voice drifted off as he studied the handkerchief in his hand then shook his head before an expression came over his face, one of disbelief yet at the same time, acceptance. “I’ll be damned,” he chuckled. “She did.”
Rafael laughed and slapped his knee, then turned toward Devlin. “You better watch. You might be next.”
Devlin stiffened. He wasn’t interested in finding a wife. He’d had Hannah, whom he loved very deeply, and yet, he hadhada sudden reaction to Mrs. Morgan. Tresia. Was sending her to him to take care of Avery the first step in Lucy’s plan? No, that wasn’t possible. They’d just met. “I don’t think so. I’m not interested.”
Merrill laughed. “I wasn’t either. And look at me now.”
CHAPTER 3
Tresia watched the bank of clocks for sale, counting the minutes until she could walk into Arnold’s office and announce she was quitting. Anticipation and anxiety made her belly tighten, but she was determined. She tore her gaze away from the slowly moving minute hands on the grandfather clock, as well as the cuckoo clocks on the wall beside it, and glanced at the little girl who was now her responsibility. A smile twitched the corners of her mouth.
Avery had awakened from her nap, still clutching one of the store’s dolls. Now she was busy re-arranging the display of soaps Tresia had arranged earlier—and seemed to be doing a much better job at it. The display was so much more attractive now, drawing one’s eye and tempting one to pick up a bar and bring it to their nose for a sniff.
She watched Avery take a step back, much as she’d done, cross her arms over her chest despite the doll, and study the display.
She glanced at the clock. One minute to six. It was time. “You stay right here, all right, Avery?”
Avery nodded and went back to moving bars of soap around the little table covered in a forest green tablecloth, whichcomplemented the flowered paper-packaging. Tresia marched toward the door with the little sign which read ‘office.’ She didn’t bother knocking, but simply opened the door. Arnold was in the same position she’d seen him in at lunchtime—leaning back in his chair, both feet up on the desk, crossed at the ankle, blowing smoke rings toward the ceiling. One of his beefy hands lay across his big belly, the other held a half-smoked cigar, the end of which glowed red. Ashes were all over the floor as well as the top of the desk, like he still couldn’t be bothered to use the cut crystal ashtray.
She wrinkled her nose at the smell. Oh, there was nothing wrong with a good cigar—her father had smoked them all the time—but combined with the aroma of Arnold’s rank body odor and the disgusting cologne he used to cover that odor made her eyes water. She stepped further into the room even though she didn’t want to.
“What do you want?” His tone bordered on belligerent, but she didn’t take offense. He’d never really spoken to her any other way, not since the moment he’d learned her father had had a stroke and he saw an opportunity to worm his way into Lyle’s good graces.
Every muscle in her body tensed. She took a moment to gather her thoughts, choosing to ignore the manner in which he spoke to her. “I quit.”
He scoffed at her announcement, his beady eyes drifting over her. “You can’t quit. Your father’s will states that I have to keep you gainfully employed.”
“I most certainly can, Arnold.” She smiled, knowing something he didn’t. “Daddy’s will states that even if you do keep me employed, I don’t have to stay if I don’t want to. I can quit any time I want. It also mentions that you still need to give me two per cent of the profits, whatever those profits might be, evenif I’m not employed here. I listened to the entire will when Mr. Applebaum was explaining it to us and then I read it. Did you?”
She assumed from the way the blood drained from Arnold’s face that he hadn’t either listened closely to or read her father’s Last Will and Testament, simply too ecstatic that he’d gotten everything he’d wanted—the store as well as the apartment above it.
Finally, the man was going to pay for how badly he and his wife had treated her. “We can walk up the street right now and see Mr. Applebaum if you’d like. He’s the one who drew up Daddy’s will.”
His feet came off the desk and he stood up quickly, making the chair crash into the wall behind him. For a moment, she thought he might strike out at her, but it seemed the effort to stand had taken all the wind out of him. “You can’t quit,” he repeated, his face beginning to redden.
“Of course, I can. I just did.” Her gaze roamed over him, noticing a stain on his vest as well as one on his trousers. He blinked then brought his hand up and wiggled his pinky in his ear, as if there might be something wrong with his hearing. The slight action made his cheeks jiggle. It was all she could do not to laugh.
“I will continue to keep the books.” The offer wasn’t made out of pity. It was made out of self-preservation. If she wanted the store back—and she did—she’d be willing to help him, even though he didn’t deserve it. Neither did his wife.
“But…but…” he stuttered, the redness on his face deepening, becoming a little more purple. She’d only seen that color once before, when he’d found out that her father hadn’t left all his money to him. Apparently, at the time, he thought he deserved that as well. He was shocked now though. He probably assumed she’d never leave the store, no matter how badly he treated her.
“When?” he asked, an expression of resignation coming over his face.
She glanced at the clock on the wall behind him. “As of two minutes ago.”
And with those words, she turned on her heel and left his office, softly closing the door behind her. The feeling of satisfaction made her smile as she heard him fall back into his chair through the panels of the door. She imagined he put his face in his hands, wondering what he was going to do now. He had depended on her love of Sullivan’s Emporium—and her late father—to do whatever he wanted her to do, never considering that he might be wrong.
“Come on, Avery, let’s go home.”
