Page 2 of More than Words Can Say

He shrugged and kept on smiling, as if unaware of the daggers he tossed at her heart. “I want your building. That can’t be a surprise to you. Perhaps I stated my intention a tad bluntly, but in deference to your apparently tight schedule, I decided to omit the standard niceties and cut to the chase. My offer to buy still stands. My price is fair and will allow you to set up shop in another town that doesn’t have such strict ordinance codes.”

Ordinance codes? He knew about the appeal. About the decision. But how?

Abigail narrowed her eyes and lowered her voice to keep any passersby from overhearing. “You put the council up to this, didn’t you? Dug up this obsolete ordinance about women not owning businesses and somehow persuaded them to enforce it. Just so you can get your hands on my shop. Well, I promise you, Mr. Gerard, that if I sell, it won’t be to you.”

“Careful where you fling those unfounded accusations, Miss Kemp.” He chuckled, though no levity softened his gaze. He placed his hand over his heart and sketched a slight bow. “I assure you that I had nothing to do with uncovering that ordinance. In truth, I didn’t even know it existed. Not that I’m sorry it came up, of course. Whoever dug up that old law did me a great service.”

Samson Gerard was a slug, but Abigail had to admit that he’d always been aboveboard in dealing with both her and her father. Yes, he coveted their prime real estate on the town square and made no secret of that fact. Yet theirs wasn’t the only business he’d sought to buy out. Many of her neighbors had received similar offers.

But if he hadn’t targeted her with this obscure law, who had? The mayor might have made it sound like they had given her time to grieve before bringing the issue forward, but the more likely scenario was that no one recalled the ordinance’s existence until someone brought it to the council’s attention. That someone could have been Mr. Gerard, but that idea didn’t sit as well with her now as it had a moment ago.

“How did you know about the council’s decision?” she challenged, not quite ready to deem him innocent. “I just came from meeting with them. The rumor mill works fast in Honey Grove, but not that fast.”

“You forget that my wife’s father is an alderman. He knows of my interest in your property and informed me of the council’s decision ahead of time. He knew your appeal would be denied. The law was too clear to argue. So he told me the date and time of your hearing so I might be the first to offer a solution to your problem.”

“You are not the solution to my problem, because I won’t be selling.”

“You will if you don’t find a financial backer.” Did he really have to look so sure of her demise? It was hard enough to hold on to hope amid her own doubts without someone else shoveling skepticism on her head. “And no man in town will invest in a business without being given a say in how to run it. I may not know you well, Miss Kemp, but you’ve proven to have a stubborn streak—one that would surely irritate any business partner you might acquire. Knock heads on too many issues, and you’ll find yourself on the losing end of a dissolved partnership, which would leave you without a building altogether. Once you’re out of the way, your partner—whose name will be on the deed to your property—will be clear to sell. I’ll make him the same offer I’ve made to you, and my guess is he’ll accept. So your choice is to take my money now, or watch me give it to someone else in a few months. Either way, you end up without a storefront. You can ensure you have the funds necessary to start over elsewhere if you deal with me, or roll the dice on a financial backer and risk losing everything your father built. The wise choice is clear.”

Clear to him, maybe, but she wasn’t ready to concede. Not yet.

“You are entitled to your opinion, sir. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Abigail turned away from the irritating man and resumed her trek to the bakery, wishing she could leave all her problems behind so easily.

Mr. Gerard didn’t follow, but he did call after her. “Unless you have a secret male relative lying around who will stand up for you, Miss Kemp, my offer is the best you’re going to get.”

Abigail stiffened but kept walking. If she had a male relative, she wouldn’t be in this predicament in the first place, because her father would have willed the bakery to him. He’d never thought a daughter good enough to carry on the family business.

She stewed over that regret for a moment or two, but as she let go of the old hurt, it fell into fertile soil and germinated an idea. An idea so crazy it just might work.

A smile creased her face. Only God could bring good out of a meeting with Samson Gerard. He might be a slug, but he’d given her a strategy. One that, if it worked, would give her father the male heir he’d always wanted.

CHAPTER

2

Choosing a husband was much like choosing a good baguette. One looked for a strong outer shell, a tender interior, and most importantly, a tractability of dough to hold whatever shape the baker deemed appropriate.

Abigail needed a good baguette by the end of the week.

The crust could be a little stale. The crumb could be chewy and tough. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, after all. But she refused to scrimp on malleable dough. Too much depended on the outcome.

From her place behind the Taste of Heaven Bakery’s counter, Abigail eyed the three matrimonial candidates breakfasting in her small eating area. None of them knew they were matrimonial candidates, of course. If they did, they’d probably knock one another over in a race for the exit. Thankfully, their ignorance was to her advantage.

Bachelor Number One sat by the window. Bran muffin and tea with sugar. Man and muffin shared a remarkable resemblance—both a bit squatty and thick around the middle with smooth, round tops. Abigail forced her quirking smile back into a straight line. Be kind, Abby. You might end up married to that muffin man.

Elmer Beekman was a sweet man. A deacon at their church, soft-spoken and mild-mannered. She’d never witnessed him lose his temper or even raise his voice. She couldn’t imagine him as a dictatorial husband. If his wife insisted on continuing to run her family’s bakery, he might make a cursory objection, but if said wife held firm to her intentions, he’d capitulate in order to keep the peace. A quiet man who valued a quiet life. She could work with that. Unfortunately, Mr. Beekman was nearing fifty and had breath that could kill a bread dough’s rise at twenty paces. A plain woman herself, Abigail didn’t put much value in physical appearance, but odors lingered even when eyes were closed and lights were doused.

Bachelor Number Two sat near the entrance, chatting amiably with a striking older woman. He was a well-dressed fellow with a full head of hair and a slender build, similar in age to Abigail and possessing non-lethal breath. He exhibited impressive solicitousness toward his companion as well, a trait that marked him as biddable—the attribute at the top of her husbandly qualities list. Yet the very feature that made him an ideal candidate for her purposes was also his greatest liability, for he was already firmly entrenched beneath the thumb of another woman—his mother.

As if sensing Abigail’s regard, the austere woman sitting across from Clarence Ormandy accidentally dropped her teaspoon. The utensil clattered to the floor. “Clarence, be a dear, would you?”

Her son leapt from his chair and retrieved the fallen spoon. When he handed it back to her, however, his mother arched a brow in disapproval. Clarence circled back to his seat, his face red. But then he brightened. He passed his unused teaspoon across the table to her and claimed the fallen spoon for himself, taking a moment to wipe invisible dust off it with his napkin before searching his matriarch’s face for approval.

This time it came. A hint of a smile and a nod, much like a pat on the head for a well-trained pup. Abigail half-expected to hear the thump of a wagging tail against her floorboards.

With a barely perceptible twist of her chin, Madeline Ormandy arrowed a barbed glance at Abigail. With nothing more than a lift of her brow, she made her position clear. Clarence might enjoy Abigail’s croissants, but he wouldn’t be turning his attentions in a direction Madeline did not approve. And a baker’s daughter did not qualify for Madeline’s approval. Abigail doubted any woman did.

Pretending to be oblivious of the meaning behind the motherly glare, Abigail smiled sweetly before turning her attention to straightening a tray of cheese scones in her display case. Perhaps she should remove Clarence from her list of potential grooms. In his mother’s absence, he had actually flirted with Abigail a time or two over the bakery counter, so she’d initially thought him the most likely to say yes to her unconventional proposal, but now she felt it prudent to recalculate. Even if she could convince Clarence to marry her against his mother’s wishes, Abigail doubted she could shift his loyalties enough to be effective. More than likely she’d inherit a mother-in-law who would not only try to run her son’s life but her daughter-in-law’s as well. That would never do. The whole reason Abigail was seeking a husband in the first place was to retain control of her family’s bakery. Autonomy and authority were key, and with Madeline Ormandy in the picture, Abigail’s sovereignty would be constantly threatened.