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“I know, but somewhere there’s a man who’ll appreciate that part of me. I have no intentions of relying on quilts to keep me warm at night and neither should you, sister.”
“Don’t you have mail to deliver or something?” In addition to his vast business holdings, their uncle Rhine owned the government mail contract, and the unconventional Regan had talked him into letting her take charge of delivery. Twice a week she and her mule, Josephine, drove the five miles to Tucson to see to its distribution. As far as Portia knew there’d been no complaints about Regan’s race or gender; folks just wanted their mail.
“Not until the day after tomorrow, which you’d remember if you weren’t so focused on your duties.”
“I take my position very seriously.”
“I know.”
The tone made Portia look up.
Regan said sincerely, “I don’t claim to know a lot about life but there has to be more to it than work. When was the last time you spent the day sitting in the meadow listening to bird songs or riding out to the canyon to take in the waterfalls?”
“I don’t have time for that, Regan. A lot goes into keeping this hotel running. There’s staff to manage and menus to approve, guests to oversee...”
“Which is why you have a staff. This place won’t fall to pieces if you left your desk every now and again.”
“You sound like Aunt Eddy.”
“Good. She loves you, too, and we worry about you.”
“No need. I’m fine.”
Regan showed her exasperation and moved away from the window. “Am I to assume you don’t need my help for the anniversary dinner this evening?”
“You’re correct. Everything is in order.” They’d be celebrating their aunt and uncle’s fifteen years of marriage in the hotel’s main ballroom.
“Okay. Then I’m going over to Old Man Blanchard’s. He has a package for me to take to his daughter in Tucson.”
“Okay.” Mr.Blanchard lived on a ranch a short distance west of the hotel. “Make sure he’s coming tonight. Aunt Eddy will be disappointed if he chooses to stay home and play checkers with Farley and Buck.” Farley and Buck were his ranch hands.
“Will do,” Regan promised, and she left the office.
Sitting alone, Portia knew her sister’s gentle chastisement about the long hours she put in at her desk came from her heart, but there were those who thought the Fontaines mad for placing their niece in charge of their hotel—thoughts that never would have risen had Portia been a nephew. She wanted to prove she was as capable of the job as any man and so kept her nose to the grindstone. They were now living in the Arizona Territory in a beautiful, temperate area at the base of the Catalina Mountains a few miles north and east of the town of Tucson. Rhine and Eddy built the hotel from the ground up in ’73 upon a large open swath of land originally owned by a mine president. When the mine went dry, his funds did, too, and her uncle Rhine and aunt Eddy were able to buy it and the hundreds of acres of open range surrounding it from the bank for a pittance. Over the years, the Fontaine Hotel became famous for its fine food and luxurious accommodations. Lately it also served as magnet for well-to-do Europeans and Easterners wanting a taste of the Wild West; a new phenomenon Uncle Rhine called Dude Ranch Fever. Ranchers from the Rockies to the Mexican border were opening their doors to wealthy guests who wanted to hunt, fish, and ride the open ranges to take in the meadows, lakes, and canyon waterfalls. Some came strictly to view the myriad species of birds while others wanted to tour old silver mines or pretend to pan for gold. The Fontaine Hotel, in partnership with Mr.Blanchard’s ranch, also offered guests the opportunity to watch cattle being branded, take roping lessons, and in the evening gather around a roaring campfire to eat and listen to Buck and Farley tell exaggerated stories of ghost towns, deadly outlaws, and dangerous Indians. The guests could then ride back to the hotel for the night or remain at the Blanchard place to sleep in tents or on bedrolls under the stars. It was a lucrative trade for both establishments, so much so that it was necessary for guests to make reservations a year in advance if they wanted to be accommodated. Coordinating all the details took a clear head and a steady hand, and with so much to do, there was no time for Portia to take leisurely trips to view waterfalls.
A soft knock on the open door broke her reverie and she looked up to see her aunt Eddy standing on the threshold. Like her nieces, Eddy Carmichael Fontaine was a dark-skinned, dark-eyed beauty and she wore her forty-plus years well.
Portia asked, “So are you ready for your grand affair?”
“I suppose. You know how much I dislike all this fuss. I would’ve been content to celebrate with a nice quiet supper, maybe a few musicians and a cake, but your uncle loves fanfare.”
“So you tolerate it.”
“Barely, but only because I love him so much.”
“Regan was spying on you two in the gazebo. Says she wants the kind of love you and Uncle Rhine share.”
“That’s not a bad goal. Although it took me a while to see it.”
Portia knew that when Aunt Eddy and Uncle Rhine first met, he’d still been passing as a White man. Eddy hadn’t wanted to fall in love with him because of the societal dangers tied to such unions. “But you did.”
“Yes, and sometimes, like with this anniversary business, I have to remind myself of that because only for him would I endure the torture of being fitted for a new gown.”
Portia never failed to be amused by her aunt’s aversion to dressmakers. “You have armoires stuffed with gowns yet you always say that.”
“Because it’s the truth. All the pin sticks, measurements, and having to stand still.” She waved a hand dismissively. “A woman should be able to go into a dress shop, find something to her liking and leave with it.”
“You can.” Ready-to-wear gowns were becoming quite popular.
