Unwrapping Hope Page 13
His arm swept the air with a flourish. “Do what makes you happy, Mama.” As soon as he said that dangerous phrase, he regretted it.
She set to work sweeping the floor and dusting windowsills, then smiled when he grabbed a rag and started on the other end of the room.
“How do you like the house, Mrs. Grzegorczyk?” Addison asked.
“It is too big, Mr. O’Keefe.”
“It’s not much bigger than your old house.” Mark rented the new one for its three bedrooms as well as the separate dining room and large kitchen with a nice pantry. His mother could cook Polish dishes to her heart’s content.
“Still, I have been thinking.”
Mark caught himself before his inner cringe shivered into a visible one.
“I will look for a boarder for that extra room upstairs.”
He paused in the middle of wiping down a wall, and his temple throbbed. “We don’t need a boarder.”
“We don’t need an extra bedroom, either. Until you are a rich and famous architect, you could use the money. Perhaps you have a recommendation for someone, Mr. O’Keefe?”
Behind him, Addison snickered. Mark shot him a look. O’Keefe backed toward the room’s entrance. “It was nice to see you, Mrs. Grzegorczyk, but I’m afraid I’ll leave this subject for you and your son to discuss.” He slipped out the door and into the hall. His laughter trailed behind him like a comet’s tail.
“We don’t need money from a boarder, Mama.” Not once his business became known. “Also, I’m certain it’s against the conditions of my lease.”
She waved her hand, and her rag flew like a flag in a stiff wind. “All these new expenses to make you look like an important businessman. What do we need with three bedrooms?”
“What if Ciotka Gizela visits?”
“Then my sister can stay with me in my room, as she always does.”
Mark fought to wipe exasperation from his voice and said, “No boarder, Mama. That’s my final word on the subject.”
“Marek, mój słodki chłopcze, we will discuss it later. For now, work.”
Calling him her sweet boy meant trouble and an intention to finagle a way to get what she wanted. She also called him that whenever she bemoaned his offenses against his Polish heritage—among them, moving her out of their neighborhood, Americanizing his name, and refusing to marry Paulina, the woman she believed best suited him.
After his father died when he was twelve, Mark had assumed the responsibility of caring for his mother, a responsibility he’d gladly accepted as an only child. Those years taught him to be vigilant and as stubborn as the woman who bore him.
No, sir. He loved his mother, but in the matter of a boarder, he would dig in his heels. And when he married, it would be to a woman of his choosing, no one else’s.
Mark’s shoulders slumped. What a pretty speech. The truth was, when Anastazja Grzegorczyk chose to do something, only God could stop her, and Mark learned long ago that the Almighty rarely wished to intercede on his behalf.
Why should he ask God to intervene in his minor problems when God had refused to intervene in the matter of saving his father’s life?
CLAIRE KINGSLEY’S JAW ached after nine hours of smiling. In the privacy of the employee salon, she stretched her arms, then released a groan.
After a full day of selling indecisive and sometimes peevish women everything from undergarments to evening gowns, she couldn’t wait to leave behind the bustle and noise of S. F. Newland’s Department Store. She couldn’t wait to reach the quiet of her bedroom and...
And what? Retreat into the past, into a time when her imagination soared—into a world she once embraced but no longer called her own?
Claire took the elevator from the fourth floor down to the first and left the store through a rear door. She walked around the corner and down Commerce Street on her way to her parents’ house, to the place she had called home for almost two years. She loved her family, but how she missed having her own house, her own things around her, her own right of possession.
Perhaps it was time to look for a room to rent. She had intended to live with her family for months, not years, only until she’d come to grips with her new circumstances and assuaged some of the grief.
She had intended to do many things with her life. That included spending the rest of it with Richard, designing buildings in an age when elevators carried people up ten or fifteen stories to the tops of skyscrapers. She’d intended a life with her husband that included children who might someday follow in their parents’ professional footsteps.
If Claire had learned one thing in life, it was that intentions lasted only as long as the will and the courage to achieve them.
At the corner of Commerce and Henning, she paused to survey the building being constructed across the street. Whoever designed it had succeeded in creating the ugliest structure she had ever laid eyes on.
An older gentleman, short and stout, stopped on the sidewalk beside her. One hand gripped a black walking stick with a carved ivory top while the other stroked a full gray beard. His attention never wavered from the monstrosity on the other side of the street. “That’s quite something, isn’t it?”
“Yes. It is something.”
He turned to her. “You aren’t impressed?”
For all Claire knew, the man could be the architect or owner. While she hesitated to insult him, she wouldn’t lie. Instead, she implemented the diplomacy she had perfected while dealing with customers at the store. “It is an interesting choice of style.”
The man pursed his lips as he studied the building again. “It does look as if the designer couldn’t make up his mind and preferred, therefore, to use everything in his creative arsenal in a single building.”
She laughed at the disgust in his tone, which freed her to give her true opinion. “I see a hint of Georgian in the pattern and form of the windows, a little Romanesque in that corner tower, and...heaven only knows what that flat roof line with the extended eaves is supposed to represent. Architecture should welcome the onlooker, not repel him. What I see instills nothing more than confusion.”
“You’re well-informed about architecture.”
“For a woman?” Claire flashed her practiced smile, hoping to take the sting from the words that sprang from her mouth, even if she couldn’t hide the bitterness.
“I cannot deny my surprise. Although I assure you, no offense was intended.”
Defending her work in the profession of architecture was a battle she had fought too often, with her parents, and especially with her husband’s partner, George Brant. That man hadn’t waited until Richard was cold in the ground before informing her that her services were no longer needed at Kingsley and Brant Architects.
True, she’d had no formal education, but she’d had something better. She’d had her husband’s expertise to guide and teach her...superior to any classroom study.
She sighed. “I owe you an apology, sir. Sometimes, I’m too passionate in my own defense. But my being female doesn’t mean I have no imagination or skills.”
“I agree with your viewpoint, ma’am.” The gentleman beside her arched an eyebrow. “Then you are an architect?”
As it had so often, the truth stabbed her like the point of a drawing compass to the heart. According to the firm’s contract, the business went to George as the surviving partner. Claire, the surviving partner in life, was stripped of any official role in the company and the ability to carry on the profession she’d shared with Richard. “Not anymore. Before my husband passed away, we often worked together.”
The man shifted the walking stick he carried to his other hand. “I’m sorry to learn of your loss. However, if God has given you a pursuit, never apologize for being passionate about it or for a commitment to it.”
Surely, God did not instill dreams in one person to destroy the life of another. That had been her doing.
“May I ask why you work in a department store these days, ma’am, rather than in an architect
ural office?” Her curiosity in learning how he knew where she worked must have shown on her face, because he pointed to her gray suit. “The other women in Newland’s dress in similar clothing.”
“You are perceptive, Mr....”
“Dover, ma’am. Charles Dover.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Dover. I’m Claire Kingsley.”
He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “You were about to tell me why you’re no longer an architect.”
This man would not be sidetracked. Never would she tell him that, because of that passion they discussed, her precious Richard perished, or that, because she feared another miscarriage, he died without an heir.
“We have no architectural office in Riverport, though if we did, I doubt they would hire me. Not all men are as open-minded as you, Mr. Dover.”
Though she had never admitted it to others, the truth was that resuming work in the profession terrified her, even as it called to her with a thunderous voice.
“A pity.” Once more, he arched an eyebrow, the other one this time. “It has always taken pioneers to blaze the way through new territory, you know.”
At one time, she had believed she possessed the pluck to be a pioneer. She had been young and naïve. Society had its role for women, one that didn’t include working in a man’s world. Even her parents had pleaded for her to remain where a woman belonged and not venture into uncharted territory. She had ignored them and the other naysayers...until she let the fantasy exact too high a price.
“Are you an architect, sir?”
“No. I’m simply someone who recognizes what he likes when he sees it.” He raised the stick and pointed it at the building. “That is not it.”
“We agree.” Curiosity gained a foothold. “May I ask why you support the idea of professional women?”
His brow crinkled. “My niece fought long and hard to become a respected physician, to gain patients who trusted her ability and advice. Many of her loudest detractors were colleagues.”
“Did she succeed?”
“Eventually.” He tapped the brim of his hat. “I have enjoyed speaking with you, Mrs. Kingsley. Perhaps, one day, we’ll meet in front of another new building and stop to compare opinions.”
“I would like that, sir.”
Claire stared after him as he walked away. What an understanding, modern thinker.
She studied the building once more. Such a waste of an expensive piece of property. Richard could have created something inspiring on that lot. They could have created it together.
Because of her, he would never create anything again. Because of her, the Kingsley name would never grace another blueprint of a well-received design.
Author Note
Some books almost write themselves. The story and the characters come to mind with little difficulty. Words seem to pour onto the page in the right order. There’s a kinship a writer feels with every part of the creation. You were meant to be together!
Unwrapping Hope was not one of those books.
It started with no trouble. I set out to write a Christmas novella, and the idea for the Widow’s Might series was born. A book title came to me and, when I saw a certain photo online, so did little Maura and her desire. I envisioned Phoebe receiving a gift by mistake, and her backstory popped out. All that was easy.
Things proved more difficult with Spence. Oh, that man gave me a merry chase. I couldn’t pin down his story. I wanted him to go one way, and he wanted to go another. Finally, after a lot of prayer, we met in the middle where all good compromises lie.
I think Unwrapping Hope came together well in the end. Look for Enduring Dreams in 2020, the first novel in the Widow’s Might series. Will Claire Kingsley finally realize her dream?
To keep more of my historical romances coming, I could use your help with any of the following simple, but critical, activities:
Leave an online review with a retailer who sells the book and/or on Goodreads. Your recommendation is important to potential readers. A sentence or two of your honest opinion on the book’s retailer page is all it takes.
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Thanks for your support and for reading my books.
Sandra Ardoin
Acknowledgments
I learn quite a bit with each book I write. Believe me, God uses the spiritual themes of my stories to teach me something. I always pray that they give you, the reader, the same experience. So my first thank you goes to God, who listens to my prayers and yours and guides my steps...and yours.
Next come the people He scatters along the path to publication.
Friend and author Heidi Chiavaroli helped me see that Phoebe’s actions in the beginning of the book needed a little tweaking for her to be someone you would like to cheer on. Many thanks for having my back.
My beta buddies gave me feedback on the story as a whole to help me bring you the best possible entertainment. I’m so thankful for the insights from Edwina Cowgill, Gail Johnson, Judy Welbaum, and Glenda Wilhelm. You came through for me, ladies.
I also appreciate my fellow Brainstormers ~ Angie Arndt, Marie Coutu, and Jerusha Agen. They helped me develop various aspects of the story and description. I enjoy working with you all.
The shout-outs by the members of my Corner Room launch team got this book off to a great start. Thank you for your support.
In editing the novella, Dori Harrell of Breakout Editing corrected my atrocious grammar so Unwrapping Hope could be a book I’m proud to present to you.
And to all the Facebook voters who chose their favorite title when I scrambled to change it at the last minute: Thank you for Unwrapping Hope.
Historical Romances by Sandra Ardoin
Widow’s Might Series
Rekindling Trust
Book Two
Enduring Dreams
Book One
Unwrapping Hope
Prequel Novella
Additional Novels, Novellas & Short Stories
A Love Most Worthy
A Reluctant Melody
The Yuletide Angel
Daphne’s Day Out
A 1920s Romantic Short Story
About the Author
As an author of heartwarming and award-winning historical romance, Sandra Ardoin engages readers with page-turning stories of love and faith. Rarely out of reach of a book, she's also an armchair sports enthusiast, country music listener, and seldom says no to eating out.
Visit her at www.sandraardoin.com. Connect with her on Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads, Pinterest, and BookBub.
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