Rainy Day Dreams: 2 Page 8

  The older man answered with a slow nod. “Yeah, me too. Sawing by hand’s one thing, but then you get your first taste of power, and there’s nothing else like it.”

  They exchanged a smile, an expression of connection that transcended age or geography and delved the depths of shared experience. Jason relaxed. He and Will were going to get along just fine.

  “C’mon. There’s Big Dog and Pelfrey. They’re the off-bearers on this shift, and they’ve been here longest. I’ll introduce you.”

  He took off down the length of the mill shed, heading toward the place where the giant Jason had met at the restaurant stood talking to another man.

  As they walked, he eyed Will sideways. “Pardon my asking, but you seemed to be in a hurry to get out of there last night.”

  The man kept his gaze focused ahead, but did his jaw tighten? “I remembered something urgent I had to attend to at home.”

  Jason didn’t believe him. If that were the truth, he would at least meet his gaze now. Will had left in a hurry the moment he’d been introduced to Kathryn. If he wasn’t mistaken, and he didn’t think he was, a look of recognition had flashed across the man’s face in the instant before his hasty departure.

  “The lady who arrived on the ship with me. Have you met her before? Her name’s Kathryn Bergert.”

  Had he not been watching closely for a reaction he might have missed the sudden bulge in Will’s jaw, indicating clenched teeth.

  “No.” The word clipped short. “Never met a woman by that name.”

  He was lying. Jason was sure of it. But why?

  It was none of his business, of course. As he himself had thought not half an hour past, a man’s privacy should be considered his most prized possession. If Will wanted to conceal the reason for his abrupt departure, that was his right. And if he chose to avoid the presence of an annoying, cloying woman, Jason completely understood and even applauded the desire.

  But the secrecy was curious, nonetheless.

  “I think I should tell you that I don’t intend to stay in Seattle.”

  Kathryn didn’t meet Madame’s eye as she delivered the news. Instead, she focused on pouring tea into two matched cups, their finish crazed with fine, spidery cracks that crisscrossed over the entire surface. She set the pot down and covered it with a quilted cozy before sliding one filled teacup across the small table in Madame’s sitting room. There were no saucers in evidence.

  Madame had invited her to breakfast here, where it was her custom to cook a morning porridge over her small stove. Though she directed her guests to Evangeline’s Café for their meals, she told Kathryn since she was to be the assistant manager—she spoke the title with a scorn that set Kathryn’s teeth together—she could at least share her employer’s breakfast.

  “Running home to Daddy’s house, are you?” The woman spoke in something akin to a jeer as she spooned a liberal amount of sugar from a crock, dumped it into her cup, and repeated the process twice. “I figured as much the moment I laid eyes on you. Flibbertigibbety gal like you doesn’t have what it takes to last more than a week here.”

  Kathryn eyed her with distaste, both at the idea of drinking tea-flavored syrup and at the implication that she was somehow lacking the ability to succeed in an environment where Madame thrived.

  She picked up her tea and aimed a cold eye over the rim. “What do you mean, flibbertigibbety? I am quite levelheaded, thank you.”

  Madame made a rude noise and added a glug of cream directly from the jug. “You’re spoiled. Not your fault. Your parents encouraged it. When Philip saw you were too plain to attract a husband, he should have put you to work in his business instead of letting you spend your days playing with a paintbrush.”

  The teacup clattered to the table, and Kathryn stiffened her spine. What an ill-mannered thing to say, and directly to her face!

  “I do not spend my days ‘playing with a paintbrush.’ Monsieur Rousseau at the San Francisco School of Fine Art says I have a fledgling talent unlike any he has seen before. Papa is discerning enough to want to encourage me in that pursuit.”

  At least, he had been at first. Their last unpleasant conversation threatened to replay itself in her mind—the one where Papa insisted that she spent too much of her time in artistic pursuits and not enough in social activities that might one day lead to finding a suitable husband. He expressed the opinion that Monsieur Rousseau seemed far more interested in collecting his fees than in furthering his students’ artistic ambitions. Kathryn had objected to his assessment, and had become rather more heated than she intended. The conversation had ended with his pronouncement that she was being sent to Seattle.

  No reason to detail that conversation with Madame. She only hoped Papa had not shared his reasoning too freely in his letter to his cousin.

  “And I am not plain,” she added for good measure.

  Madame cocked her head, eyes narrowed. “You may be right about that. You’re no beauty, for sure, but you’re not homely either. Good, high cheekbones. No pockmarks. Nose not too long, though it does turn up a mite. And at least you don’t have a squint.”

  Uncomfortable at being the object of such scrutiny, Kathryn opened her mouth to object.

  Madame continued before she could. “If you were to make a little effort, you might even be pretty. You’ve got good hair, but pulling it back that way makes you look like a schoolmarm. And that blouse hangs on you like a sack. Why don’t you put on a little rouge and a nice dress, pretty yourself up a bit?” She leaned over the table and fixed a gleaming eye on Kathryn. “Be friendly to the men, if you know what I mean.”

  The outrageous suggestion was accompanied by a waggling eyebrow that Kathryn found nearly as distasteful as Madame herself. Without a doubt, Papa had shared his intentions that his daughter would find a husband among the hundreds of unattached men living in Seattle. And apparently Madame was ready to accept the challenge.

  Oh, Papa, of all the places in the world you could have sent me, why did it have to be here? And especially to this woman?

  Her appetite was completely ruined. The mere idea of attempting to choke down porridge while seated at the same table with this odious woman threatened to send her stomach into revolt. Moving with extreme grace and composure, she rose and scooted her chair neatly beneath the table.

  “I believe I’ll begin work now. Thank you for the tea.”

  An amused grin twisted Madame’s mouth sideways. “As you wish. Before you start on the rooms, though, go next door and fetch a tray for Miss Everett. She’s paid extra to have her meals delivered.”

  “Very well.”

  Kathryn kept her chin high and her eyes averted as she left the room. Perhaps her dwindling resources would allow for a decent breakfast at Evangeline’s Café every now and then. Beginning her day in the company of the cheery Evie was certainly preferable to suffering Madame’s advice on how to attract men.

  A little later Kathryn climbed the stairs carrying a covered tray. Her mood was considerably improved after half an hour in Evie’s company. The restaurant owner’s chatter was pure delight after Madame’s sarcastic barbs, and Kathryn had accepted her offer of tea while the tray was arranged. For the duration of her short stay, she would endeavor to spend as much time in the restaurant as she could, thereby escaping the Faulkner House.

  Miss Everett had been installed in a second floor room at the opposite end of the hallway from Jason’s. Since her hands were full, Kathryn used the toe of her boot to tap on the door.

  A muffled answer came from within. “Yes?”

  “It’s me, Kathryn.” Fresh from the cheerful atmosphere at Evangeline’s, she adopted a lighthearted tone. “I’ve brought your breakfast tray.”

  There was a scuffling sound and then the door cracked open. A brown eye peered cautiously at her for a moment, and then the door swung open.

  “It’s flapjacks with butter and jam. And there are fresh eggs and bacon—fried crisp.” She smiled into the solemn face. “It looks better th
an anything the ship’s cook served us, I can tell you that.”

  A brief smile appeared on the woman’s thin lips and then evaporated. During the voyage on the Fair Lady, Miss Everett had barely spoken five sentences. Kathryn’s initial attempts to strike up a conversation met with no success, and she’d finally given up. The aura of sadness she’d sensed then was still apparent in the woman’s rounded shoulders, her downcast expression, and the way her rare smiles affected only her lips but failed to dispel the heaviness in her eyes.

  She reached for the tray, but Kathryn pulled it backward out of her reach. Last night she’d delivered supper into Miss Everett’s hands and left her at the door. This morning she was determined to prove Madame wrong. She could succeed in Seattle, if she wanted, and that included succeeding at her job. The decision to leave wasn’t a matter of being incapable. It was a matter of desire.

  “I’ll bring it in for you and keep you company for a minute if you like. While you eat I can tidy up your room.”

  Another shadowy smile acknowledged the offer. “Thank you, but as you can see I’ve already straightened up.”

  She stepped back to allow Kathryn an unobstructed view inside. Curious, Kathryn peered around her slight figure. The room would be considered small by most standards, but compared to the closet in which she slept, it was palatial. Though crowded. Two beds dominated the cramped space, the coverings of both neat and straight. An old, scratched trunk rested between them, and she spied the edge of Miss Everett’s satchel peeking out from beneath the bed in the far corner. A book lay on the mattress, splayed open and facedown.

  “I’ll take that,” the lady said softly, reaching again for her breakfast.

  Since there would hardly be room for both of them to maneuver within the confines of the small space, Kathryn released the tray into her hands. She set it on the surface of the trunk, which she apparently intended to use as a makeshift table, and then turned to face Kathryn, her hands clasped tightly together in front of her.

  “Madame Garritson promised to have someone remove the extra bed this morning, though she seemed unhappy about having two private rooms at one time.” She cleared her throat, her eyes fixed on a place on the wall somewhere off to Kathryn’s right. “I hated to mention it to her, but would it be possible to request a chair in its place?”

  Yes, a chair would be a good addition. Situated there in the corner, she would have plenty of light to read by. That is, if the sun ever decided to put in an appearance in the dull, dreary, cloud-covered sky. She glanced around. A picture on the wall would work wonders in here, and some nicer curtains. Those dreary ones looked like they’d been made from worn-out burlap sacks.

  “I’ll pass along the request.” She turned to go and then paused. “Tomorrow, leave the bed for me to make. I’m happy to do that for you.” To her amazement, she meant it. She felt an urge to do something to bring a smile to this sad woman’s face.

  Miss Everett’s solemn expression did not change as she shook her head slowly. “I’m accustomed to looking after myself. It”—she bit down on her lower lip—“gives me something to do.”

  “Perhaps tonight you could join me for supper.” She displayed an encouraging smile. “The proprietress of the café next door is a lovely woman, and she would enjoy meeting you.”

  Best not to mention the deluge of eager men who would also enjoy making her acquaintance. That would scare this shy violet off for sure.

  A look of interest flashed across Miss Everett’s features, and Kathryn thought she might accept. But in the next moment, the sad mask returned. She shook her head. “Thank you, but I think I’d prefer a tray here. At least for now.”

  Should she insist? Pull the woman out of her self-imposed isolation and into the only society Seattle had to offer, whether she liked it or not?

  With a sigh, she nodded and turned to go. Miss Everett was a grown woman, older by several decades. Certainly old enough to make her own decisions. Whatever events had turned her into this sad, reclusive person were none of Kathryn’s business.

  Promising to return for the tray after she finished her duties, she left.

  Straightening the guest rooms proved not to be as onerous a task as she feared. True, the bed linens did not look as crisply immaculate as hers at home after Mrs. Porter was done with them, but they were at least neat. And though Madame spoke with grim satisfaction of chamber pots to be emptied, she did not find a single one. Apparently guests preferred the solitude of the privy out back. The occasional discarded article of clothing she merely folded with two careful fingers and laid neatly across the foot of whatever bunk was closest. Other than Miss Everett, the hotel was empty of guests, so the work went quickly without distractions. She finished all the rooms on the left-hand side of the hallway in less time than expected and started on the others with a much improved outlook. Running a hotel was not difficult in the least. She directed a smirk toward Madame’s sitting room below.

  She approached the room in the far corner, the one where Madame had installed Jason. After a perfunctory rap on the door with her knuckle, she pushed it open. Whereas most of the guests had left their bed linens in various states of disarray, Jason had taken care to smooth the coverings flat on the bunk in the corner. The second bunk had been stripped in preparation for removal. The linens lay neatly folded at the foot of the bare mattress. Well, he may be rude, but at least he was neat. In a rush of magnanimous charity, she decided to ask if Madame could spare a chair for this room as well.

  Arranged on the smooth covering of the bed in the corner was an assortment of items—a tidy stack of clothing with a hat resting on top, a shaving kit, a—

  She drew a sudden intake of breath. That was an artist’s palette! The surface was a satisfying mishmash of hues and pigments, blended together in a rainbow-colored jumble. There were paintbrushes in varying sizes too, and made of expensive red sable. And those things there, what were they? She widened her eyes. Were they…

  Her lungs emptied of air. She tiptoed into the room, gaze fixed on a half dozen narrow objects as long as her hand, some of them shriveled and malformed, the others rounded. Why, those were paints in tin tubes with screw-on lids. Monsieur Rousseau used these new paints in his own work, and touted them to all his students. The sealable tubes were so much more effective than pigskin bladders. And more expensive too. Though she had been trying to convince Papa that the higher cost was worth the extra money because paint waste would be virtually eliminated, he refused to see reason.

  So focused was she on admiring the tubes of paint that at first she did not see the canvas. When she did, a chill spread from the back of her neck down her spine and over her entire body, and for a moment she was paralyzed. It had been centered on the wall beside the door so that the person lying in bed could gaze on it with an unhindered view. And no wonder. It was stunning.

  Tall birch trees lined a glassy stream and stretched limbs heavy with golden-green leaves across the water like slender, elegant ladies reaching for their lovers on the far shore. Sunlight streamed through the foliage, tinged with green as it poured onto the stream’s shiny surface in bright, verdant pools. Leaves floated lazily on an invisible current in a carefree journey toward an aimless end. Tall grasses in hues ranging from bright gold to vibrant green to rich maroon clustered along the bank, soaking up stray rays of the sun that peeked between misty white clouds and flowed through the living canopy above.

  Kathryn inched closer. With an effort, she pulled herself from the grips of the painting to examine the details with an artist’s eye. An exquisitely light touch had created the feather-soft look of the golden leaves, and an expert hand had blended gold to green. Bolder strokes gave the slender tree trunks the impression of strength, of permanence, though the details of peeling bark and a peek of living white wood beneath had been wrought with intricate care. And the light on the water! How had the painter managed to capture the exact hue, the feeling of movement, without physical evidence of a rippled surface? It was astounding
. The work of a true artist. Why, even Monsieur’s landscapes, while perhaps technically superior in the aspect of scope, did not portray the depth of feeling of this piece.

  Something on the floor caught her eye. A piece of wood. With the toe of her boot she lifted the draped bed covering for a better look. It was the corner of a crate. A narrow, rectangular crate. She recognized it instantly as the one with which Jason had taken such care during the short journey from the ship. And no wonder, if it housed this masterpiece.

  She stepped closer to the painting and searched for the artist’s signature. There, in the bottom left corner. Peering closely at green letters that blended to near invisibility with the watery reflection of the leaves, she made out a set of initials. JEG.

  Jason E. Gates.

  Why, that rude man she had determined to avoid for the duration of her stay in Seattle was an accomplished artist!

  Jason trudged up the hill in the company of a handful of millworkers. The muscles along the backs of his thighs, unaccustomed to such a steep grade, protested with burning twinges. His shoulders, too, were stiff and sore after a day of lifting heavy logs and stacking cut timber. It had been close to six weeks since he left the mill in Michigan, and his body would take a while to re-accustom itself to the work. He’d like nothing better than a hot supper and to stretch out in bed for a good night’s sleep.

  The second, at least, wouldn’t happen for a while yet. He and the others planned to grab a bite to eat at Evangeline’s and then head over to the blockhouse to work until the sun set.

  Will, the daytime foreman, caught up to him. “Now that you’ve had a chance to see our outfit in action, what do you think?”

  “You run a smooth mill operation. Everybody knows their job, and they work hard at it.”

  He’d done as much observing as working, and kept a careful eye out for areas where the process could benefit from improvement. To his surprise, he hadn’t found any. In fact, he’d been impressed by the number of logs they managed to mill in the span of a single day. The crew worked together like they’d been doing it for years, and by talking to some of them throughout the day, he knew they had been.