“What do you mean ‘you suppose’? Is she pretty or not?”
He could feel the heat rising to his face. “She’s beautiful, all right.”
That seemed to satisfy her. She moved toward the stove and dumped the vegetables into the hot skillet, the sizzle loud, drowning out her happy humming.
He looked toward Royce. The man had the good graces to blush and shake his head, though he did give him a look as if to say ‘Your mother is incorrigible.’
Wyatt rose from his seat, more than a bit uncomfortable. “Did you bake anything for dessert?”
“No, dear, we didn’t have time.” Delilah slipped the dog a piece of potato. Duke took it from her hand gently then laid down on his bed of blankets and proceeded to crunch it into nothing.
“Why don’t I just head into town and get a cake or pie from Sweet Somethings?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He simply exited the kitchen at a fast walk, put on his coat and hat, and left the house.
“And where are you going all dressed up in your Sunday finery?” Mrs. Gallagher asked as Sheridan walked through the parlor, heading for the front door.
She stopped, her hand on the doorknob. “I thought I’d take a walk. Get to know the town a little better.”
Mrs. Gallagher beamed and let out a happy little sigh. “You’re staying.”
“For a little while, at least. Until I can figure out what to do.” She pulled the letter she’d written to Odette—she simply couldn’t call her grand-mère at the moment—from her drawstring purse. “Do you know where I can mail this?”
“Gemma over at Goldwater’s handles the mail.” Mrs. Gallagher looked at it with a little curiosity, though she didn’t ask who the letter was to. “She’ll take care of you.”
“Thank you.”
Sheridan stuffed the letter back in her purse and reached for the doorknob.
“If you’re going for a walk and dropping off that letter, you might as well pick up a cake from Sweet Somethings for dessert, too, but you can’t go out in that little jacket.”
Sheridan looked down at her jacket. “Why not?”
“Because it’s too cold for you to be traipsing about without something heavier.” Mrs. Gallagher dropped her dust rag and tin of lemon polish on the side table then met her at the door. She reached for a heavy winter coat from the coatrack. “Here. Wear this.”
The coat did not match her pale green day dress with its thin stripes of darker green, but it was cold outside—colder than she was used to. She accepted the dark brown coat gratefully and slipped into it, feeling its warmth immediately, despite the fact it was too big. “Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”
The woman shrugged then headed for the dust rag once more. She spoke over her shoulder as she swirled the rag against the polish in the tin. “While you’re out and about, you should stop in at Miss Carmichael’s.”
“Miss Carmichael’s?”
“Aye. She owns a dress shop. Your mother purchased almost all of her clothes from Miss Carmichael. The other girls, too. She might have a winter coat that will fit you better.” Mrs. Gallagher started rubbing the polish on the table to bring out its lustrous shine. “She knew your mother quite well. You could ask her some of the things you want to know about her.”
“Thank you. I think I will. How do I get to her shop?”
After Mrs. Gallagher supplied the directions to everywhere she needed to go, Sheridan left the house, wrapped in the woman’s warm winter coat. And it was a good thing, too. It seemed colder than yesterday, colder still than the day before. Her breath formed mist-like clouds as she walked up the street and found Miss Carmichael’s shop.
The shop wasn’t quite what she’d been expecting though there was a sign next to the door. It was actually the woman’s home, but it looked like the parlor and dining room had been transformed into one room with big plate-glass windows. In those windows were dressmakers’ mannequins, all wearing the beautiful clothes Miss Carmichael made. They may have been last year’s fashions, but they were exquisite.
She strolled up the walkway, climbed the stairs and noticed a little sign hanging from the doorknob that read ‘Come in,’ so she did. There was no little bell like there had been at Sullivan’s to announce her. “Hello?”
“I’ll be right with you,” a feminine voice called out from behind a closed curtain. “Please help yourself to a cup of tea or coffee. There are some pastries, too.”
Sheridan went over to a small cozy sitting area. On the pot belly stove that exuded much welcomed heat, she found a coffeepot and a teakettle. Beside the stove was a credenza, which held cups and all the necessary items to make tea or add cream and sugar to one’s coffee. Sheridan didn’t help herself as she’d been offered. She did, however, extend her cold hands toward the heat.
“Good afternoon! How can I help—” Her words died as Sheridan turned around, though the woman recovered rather quickly. She moved forward, extending her hand as she did. “You must be Sheridan.”
The simple statement shocked her, but truly, it shouldn’t have. It wasn’t the first time someone recognized her.
“I’d know you anywhere. You look very much like your mother.”
