Unwrapping Hope Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Read an Excerpt From Enduring Dreams

  Author Note

  Acknowledgments

  Historical Romances by Sandra Ardoin

  About the Author

  ©2019 Unwrapping Hope by Sandra Ardoin

  Corner Room Books, Salisbury, North Carolina, USA

  For more information on this book and the author visit: http://sandraardoin.com.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. For further permissions, please contact the author through her website: www.sandraardoin.com/contact.

  Unwrapping Hope is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used for fictional purposes. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Any mentioned brand names, places, and trademarks remain the property of their respective owners, bear no association with the author or the publisher, and are used for fictional purposes only.

  Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  ISBN: 978-1-7334630-0-3 (Print); 978-1-7334630-1-0 (Ebook)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019912825

  Cover design by Evelyne Labelle, Carpe Librum Book Design.

  Edited by Dori Harrell of Breakout Editing.

  Don’t miss out on future releases, special promotions, book recommendations, and more. Receive the Love and Faith in Fiction newsletter.

  I sought the Lord, and he heard me, and delivered me from all my fears.

  Psalm 34:4

  Chapter One

  Phoebe Crain tightened her hold on her daughter’s hand in case she got the notion to bolt down the street toward the Riverport train station.

  “Mama, you said we’d go see the trains.” Maura tugged on Phoebe, her stiff little body angled sideways, fully expecting her mother to comply. “Maybe he’s there. Maybe he wants to be with us for Christmas.”

  The chug of an approaching engine and shrillness of the steam whistle mocked Phoebe with singsong lyrics: Liar, liar. Liar, liar. Woo-woo!

  From Phoebe’s other side, her mother whispered, “You should never have told her that story.”

  Meant only to appease, to avoid answering her five-year-old’s questions, Phoebe had regretted her careless reply as soon as the words left her mouth.

  Maura tugged again. “Come on, or we’ll miss him.”

  Phoebe dreaded seeing disappointment again on Maura’s face when they arrived at the station and the one she expected to meet was not there...whoever he was.

  Liar, liar.

  Lies destroyed relationships. Phoebe knew it too well, yet that hadn’t prevented her from lying to her daughter. One day soon she must tell her little girl the truth. She would never find a papa waiting to meet her at the railroad station.

  “Grandma has business at Newland’s first.”

  Maybe by the time they had finished perusing the new five-and-ten-cent department—the only department where they could afford to shop—Maura would have forgotten about the train.

  Doubtful.

  A brisk walk led them to S. F. Newland’s and Company, a commanding cousin of the general mercantile. Mud craters filled with rainwater huddled in the faint shadow cast across the street by the imposing four-story red brick building.

  The door opened, and the young Mr. Newland stepped onto the sidewalk. Generally referred to as Spence, some people called him The Third and his father, The Second, nicknames neither Newland seemed to consider offensive.

  Today he’d dressed in a gray wool overcoat with an expensive silk scarf wrapped around his neck. Judging by the trousers, he wore a fine wool suit under the coat.

  He acknowledged them with an expedient nod. “Mrs. White. Mrs. Crain.”

  Phoebe pulled her coat collar closer to her neck to alleviate a sudden chill.

  Mr. Newland grabbed the shiny black bicycle propped against the wall, mounted, then peddled down the muddy street without giving them a second glance. Not that Phoebe would have welcomed anything more from him. She had learned the hard way of the danger in even smiling at a young man with the means and superiority to entice what he wanted from a starry-eyed woman.

  He peddled like his life depended on it. Perhaps he thought it did. Phoebe had heard he was obsessed with good health, maintaining his constitution with a proper diet and exercise.

  “Look, Mama. It’s a dollhouse.” Maura yanked free and ran to the nearest front window. She pressed her mitten-covered hands against the glass and her forehead to the pane. “It’s like Sarah’s. Isn’t it pretty?”

  Awe mingled with longing in Maura’s voice—a longing that made Phoebe want to weep because she could do nothing about it. Over and over her daughter talked of her friend’s new toy and begged for one of her own.

  The dollhouse in the window was as far beyond Phoebe’s reach as the grand piano she had begged for in vain at fourteen. That, too, had been well beyond her mother’s reach.

  She crouched next to her little girl. Although the paint had been carelessly applied in spots and the wallpaper in the dining room was crooked, the dollhouse’s homey appearance surpassed that of their own rented house. “It is lovely.”

  “See the tiny table and chairs?”

  “Don’t you think you would find it hard to sit in those chairs?”

  Maura giggled. “They’re not for me.”

  “They’re not?” Phoebe grinned, then stood. “Grandma has gone inside. We’d better go in too.”

  After a long last stare through the window, Maura followed Phoebe into the store where the spices of the season greeted them—cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves. The entrance to the large brick building smelled like a giant apple pie. Surely the scents alone had prompted a boon in the sale of kitchen products during the fall months.

  Phoebe ignored most of the merchandise on well-placed counters, in glass cases, and on white-painted shelves. She tried to, anyway. Polite in her replies, she didn’t stop when enticed by starched and smiling clerks who wanted to show her perfumes and hair combs or ribbons and dress collars trimmed with French lace. Why torment herself by lusting after frivolous things?

  As she drew near a circular counter in the center of the store, a familiar voice called out, “Excuse me, Mrs. Crain.”

  She turned and smiled at the young man standing in the center. “Hello, Wallace.”

  Maura tugged on her hand. “I see Grandma. Can I go to her?”

  Phoebe glanced down. “You can and you may.” Once Maura had hold of her grandmother’s coat, Phoebe stepped to the counter and asked Wallace, “Is your sister working today?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Claire’s at her station upstairs.”

  “Good. I’ll go up in a bit to say hello.”

  Phoebe had met many wonderful women through her Widow’s Might group, and Claire Kingsley had become one of Phoebe’s closest friends in Riverport.

  He motioned her closer. The ever-present smile on the young man’s face held th
e power to light all four floors of the building. “I have something for you.”

  “Don’t waste your time trying to sell me anything, Wallace.”

  “No, ma’am. I’ve been instructed to give you something.” He reached under the counter, then handed her a square white box with a S. F. Newland’s and Company label. The top was wrapped by a broad red velvet ribbon.

  “A gift?” Why would someone leave her a gift, especially here? Why not deliver it to her personally? “Who is it from?”

  His brow crinkled. “You don’t know?”

  “No.”

  “Then I can’t say.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not my place, though I’m sure the gentleman who left it will make himself known to you soon.”

  A gentleman? She scanned the area around her. Was he watching, seeking her reaction? Of the few men present, none showed an interest in her.

  Phoebe slipped off the ribbon, opened the lid of the outer box, and laid aside the thin paper on top. Her lips parted and her heartbeat accelerated. “I’m sure this is a mistake.” She gently lifted the gift surrounded by a protective nest of tissue paper and marveled at the item crafted of burled maple and an intricate cherrywood inlay. When she raised the lid, the smell of tobacco hit her from the inclusion of a dozen cigars. Maura’s father had owned a cigar box, but this one was much finer...and an outlandish gift for a woman.

  Wallace released a soft whistle and grinned as he teased, “You smoke cigars, Mrs. Crain?”

  A hint of a smile laced her quip. “Only every other Friday.”

  He peered inside the box. “Looks expensive.”

  “Yes.” Too expensive to come without a price. This was a mistake by Wallace, and if it wasn’t his mistake, keeping it would be hers. She slid it across the counter. “Here. Take it back.”

  “But it’s a gift, and the gentleman will be disappointed.”

  “Better he’s disappointed now than embarrassed later.”

  Wallace winked. “Might be from old St. Nick himself.”

  “It’s far too early for St. Nick. Besides, he should know I grew up years ago. Even if I wanted to use this to store things other than cigars, I have nothing worthy of being housed in such a lovely case.” Not anymore. “It’s a mistake, so give it back to the person who left it here.”

  Wallace repacked it inside the outer box and slid it toward her. “I was told to give it to you. Please, Mrs. Crain, would you have me risk my job?”

  Phoebe stared at the box. She wasn’t eager to be the source of trouble for Claire’s brother, so she picked it up from the counter. As she walked away to find her mother and Maura, Phoebe’s gaze drifted toward the front window and the dollhouse.

  Come Christmas Day, would she have anything pleasing to give her daughter? Would she ever?

  Chapter Two

  The first item on Spence’s itinerary this afternoon was to confirm the delivery of his gift.

  Standing inside S. F. Newland’s and Company, he eyed the groups of women gathered around tantalizing displays. Though the store’s inventory didn’t ignore men, almost every department was designed to attract the attention of female shoppers.

  His gaze skimmed the expansive first floor, highlighted by a wide staircase with wrought iron handrails. It led to two upper floors of merchandise with each floor fenced in by additional wrought iron. The elevator next to the stairs had been installed for the convenience of their less robust customers and those who worked on the fourth floor.

  Every square foot of Newland’s provided almost anything a customer could want, tempted her with much more than she needed, and did it all within a modern atmosphere of glass, marble, and electric lighting.

  His father, Spencer Newland the Second, was an ingenious entrepreneur like Grandfather, Spencer the First. Nevertheless, the toll the ’93 Panic had taken on their business and personal assets had almost closed this magnificent building.

  After three hard years God had blessed their efforts and their numbers were growing again. Even so, Spence foresaw his idea of diversifying into five-and ten-cent stores as being critical to their future.

  He glanced at the dollhouse in the window and shook his head. Most of the time his father was ingenious. The machine-made work was shoddy and the materials cheap. However, according to Father, what mattered was bringing in parents who wanted to please their children. With Christmas a month away, they hoped to ensure that those customers entered and remained inside the store until they had completed buying their gifts.

  His gaze narrowed on a couple near the perfumes. Gilbert Malone, their chief accountant and a college friend, gripped the arm of his wife, Roslyn—also a Newland’s employee—in a firm hold and leaned in while he spoke to her. The anxiety on her face pointed to an unpleasant conversation. Normally they didn’t employ married women, but he had done an old friend a favor. Now he hoped he hadn’t made a mistake.

  Before Spence could react, Gil let Roslyn go and stalked toward the elevator. She returned to her place behind the counter, hostility written in the glower she aimed at her husband’s back.

  The couple’s behavior was unacceptable in the store, and he would have a word with the Malones later.

  He crossed to the counter in the center of the first floor, where Wallace Pittman, one of the few male employees working outside the stockroom and offices, had finished providing a gentleman with the location of men’s hats.

  Spence glanced from side to side to be sure they weren’t overheard by customers, then he asked Wallace, “Well?”

  “She came in like you said, Mr. Newland.”

  “Good.” When he discovered that potential investor Clifton Lark had a penchant for cigars, Spence had prepared a special gift for the businessman. However, Mr. Lark had sent his wife to Riverport for their meeting, a disappointing move but not bewildering given the rumors of his elusiveness during the past year.

  “And you gave her the box?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Nice work, Wallace.”

  Spence had expected Juliet Lark to come in for one last tour of their new five-and ten-cent section. Unable to see her off on her return to Chicago, he had instructed Wallace to give the box to the pretty brunette when she came in today.

  “Funny thing, sir. She didn’t want it and kept muttering, ‘Must be a mistake.’”

  Spence’s grin died. He had asked Mrs. Lark to take the gift to her husband. Why would she think it a mistake?

  With Juliet Lark’s help, Spence had hoped to prove the Newlands’s earnestness to do business with her husband. Securing the man’s financial backing would assure his family that Spence’s potential to lead their business interests was as great as that of his predecessors.

  Maybe she hadn’t liked the box. Maybe she considered it inferior work. What if her husband felt the same? What if Spence had tarnished the company’s name?

  “She was disappointed?”

  “No, sir. Despite the surprise, I’d say she was tickled with it. In fact, I’ve never seen Mrs. Crain look so impressed.”

  Spence fought to breathe, his chest as tight as a debutante’s corset. “D-Did you say Mrs. Crain?”

  Wallace leaned over the counter and whispered, “Don’t worry, Mr. Newland. I’ll keep your lady friend’s identity a secret.”

  Spence recoiled. “Mrs. Crain is not my lady friend.”

  She wasn’t a friend at all. What he’d ever done to the woman was a mystery. She treated others with respect and friendliness, but from their first meeting, she had expressed her dislike of him through a constant cold shoulder.

  “Why would you give my gift to Phoebe Crain?”

  The clerk’s eyes rounded. “Y-You told me to.”

  Spence gritted his teeth, then said, “The name I gave you was Mrs. Lark, not Mrs. Crain.”

  Wallace’s eyebrows shot skyward. “I’m sorry, sir. I was looking at that new wallpaper right after you told me and guess I got confused. I mean, both women have bird names, and the
wallpaper does have cranes on it.”

  Bird names? Cranes? Spence had seen that wallpaper. They were egrets. But that was beside the point.

  “I should add that Mrs. Crain is a pretty brunette.”

  Spence pressed his balled fists against his thighs. Why hadn’t he delegated the emergency with the lamp supplier to someone else and escorted Mrs. Lark onto the train? He could have given her the gift then.

  He relaxed his hands. Although he’d had a brief introduction to Mrs. Lark the other day, Wallace wouldn’t have connected the woman’s importance to their future. This wasn’t his fault. Much.

  In addition, Mrs. Crain was a pretty brunette with a bird name.

  Spence would get that box back and ship it to Chicago. Pronto. “It’s fine, Wallace. It will be fine.”

  It must be fine. His reputation in the Newland family depended on it.

  “IS THAT ANOTHER SCARF for a child at the orphanage?”

  Phoebe glanced up from crocheting to answer her mother. “Yes, ma’am. I want to finish it before the next Widow’s Might meeting.”

  She had suggested the group make scarves and mittens for the boys and girls as their charitable undertaking for the season. A few of their members had plentiful resources and provided most of the supplies. The rest, like Phoebe, were able to donate little more than their time and talents.

  “You and your friends do good work for the children, Phoebe.”

  It was the least she could do to ease another’s life. Like the apostle Paul, she had known what it was like to have much and what it was like to be in need.

  Not all who resided at the Bethel Children’s Home had lost a mother and father to death. For some, one parent lived. For others, one or both parents lived but couldn’t afford to raise their children. They abandoned them to orphanages.