Unwrapping Hope Read online

  Lord, please don’t ever place me in such a position with Maura. Not my baby.

  In recent years Phoebe had wondered if her prayers fell on the ears of a deaf God. As much as she wanted to believe He heard her, nothing changed in her life.

  Tired of dwelling on gloom, she said, “You should join us when we get together, Mama.”

  “I’m content with watching Maura and don’t want to interfere in Verbenia’s ministry.”

  “I’m sure she wouldn’t think of it as interference. We’re all friends.”

  Her mother set her Bible next to her on the sofa. “I could use some tea. How about you?”

  The signal to end their conversation. “No, thank you.”

  The arthritis in Mama’s hands had grown steadily worse. The pain and embarrassment over her gnarled fingers kept her from socializing and prevented steady employment. But Phoebe longed for her mother to find good friends in Riverport.

  At a loud rap on the front door, Phoebe poked the crochet hook into the ball of wool yarn, set it aside, and opened the door.

  What was he doing here?

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Crain.” Spencer Newland the Third’s smile broadened the slim face behind the hazelnut-colored mustache. At the same time, uncertainty flashed in his chestnut eyes. He shuffled his feet and rubbed his gloved hands together. “May I come in?”

  “Why?” The word burst from her, followed by regret over the rude response.

  His movements froze like the drips of icicles after sunset. “Because it’s cold?”

  By now almost anyone else would have been invited into the warmth of her home, but it wasn’t that cold. He probably worried about an illness.

  “I understand you have some unknown grievance against me, ma’am. This won’t take long, and I’ll be on my way.”

  With her mother here to act as a guardian, she tipped her head to gesture him inside.

  “I’m afraid you received something of mine by mistake, Mrs. Crain. A small box wrapped with a red ribbon.”

  It belonged to him? The sooner she got rid of it and sent him on his way, the better.

  “Just a moment.” Phoebe entered the sitting room and opened the drawer in her mother’s sewing cabinet, pulled out the white box, and carried it to him. “This?”

  His shoulders relaxed. “Yes.”

  “It’s stunning.” She might resent men like him, but she could acknowledge beauty when she saw it.

  His sparkling smile sent a shiver through her. “Thank you. It turned out to be one of my best pieces.”

  “You made this?”

  “I did.”

  She opened the outer box and ran a finger over the wooden one inside—smooth as velvet and pieced together with the precision of an artisan. This wealthy and spoiled man had a talent she hadn’t expected of him.

  An idea percolated in Phoebe’s mind and refused the inner warning that said it was wrong. It might be her only chance to give her little girl the Christmas she deserved.

  He reached for the box, but she whisked it from his grasp. “I have a request, Mr. Newland.”

  “A request?”

  Phoebe vacillated. She had no right to withhold the box and almost handed it over, until she remembered Maura’s awe as she’d gazed through the store’s window that afternoon.

  “What can I do for you, Mrs. Crain?”

  Still smiling, his voice was tinged with the calm of an experienced salesman, as though he would grant her every wish. She had seen that look before. This time she denied its persuasive power. “My daughter has her heart set on a dollhouse. I can’t afford the one in your store window but would like her to receive a similar one for Christmas.”

  With a slight tilt of his head, he watched her through wary pupils.

  Simply ask him in a polite and friendly manner to build Maura a dollhouse.

  How could she? She had no money to pay for it and refused to be indebted to him. One day he would decide to take advantage of that debt. Wasn’t that the way men like him operated?

  “I’m suggesting an exchange.”

  Both the calm and the smile disappeared from his face. “Let me be sure I understand. You would keep what you received in error and hold it for ransom in exchange for a shabbily made dollhouse?”

  “I said similar to the one in the window, Mr. Newland. I’m not asking for that one. Judging by what I’m holding, I’m convinced you can build something much nicer.”

  His lips parted as if he wasn’t sure how to respond to her compliment.

  “I’m merely proposing a trade. But if you prefer not to deal...” She placed the lid on the container.

  His laugh was hoarse and humorless. “I knew you were as frosty as a windowpane. I had no idea your flaws sank to the depths of extortion.”

  Her jaw tensed at the same time her fingers tightened on the box. And I knew you were no better than other young men in your social circle.

  With as much dignity as Phoebe could muster under the circumstances, she walked around him to the door and opened it. “Good day, Mr. Newland.”

  He hesitated. Despite the cold seeping into her house, beads of perspiration clung to her upper lip.

  His attention shifted to take in the entire front room. Perhaps she imagined the slight wrinkling of his nose but didn’t think so. Evidently, the poor rich man had never seen a house with such sparse furnishings and worn wallpaper. His attention focused on the piano at the far wall. “You are not sorry for keeping my box?”

  Phoebe wavered, then said, “No, sir.”

  He stomped outside without saying another word. Once he’d reached his fancy new safety bicycle at the edge of the street, she shut the door and pressed her back against the wood. He might not realize she’d just told a lie, but God knew.

  She closed her eyes. Mr. Newland was right. She had sunk to the level of an extortionist.

  “What have you done, Phoebe?”

  Her eyes popped open to see her mother standing at the other end of the hallway.

  “What were you thinking? His family is influential in this town, and you’re just—”

  “I know. I’m nothing. I’ve heard it before.”

  After a heavy sigh, her mother walked toward her. “You know I didn’t mean that.”

  Phoebe stepped away from the door and held out the box. “Look at this. I’ve never seen such handiwork. If he can create something this lovely and intricate, a dollhouse for Maura would be a simple project for him.”

  Mama stopped a foot away, her attention locked on Phoebe, not the box. “It doesn’t make what you’ve done right.”

  “No, but for the first time in her life, Maura would receive something special for Christmas, something I can’t give her.” When her mother continued to stare at her, Phoebe defended her decision. “It won’t cost him anything but time and a few materials that he can easily afford.”

  Mama wrapped her arms around her and drew her close, sharing the warmth of body and spirit. “Perhaps, my dear Phoebe. But what will it cost you?”

  If she continued to feel no cleaner than the dirt under Mr. Newland’s feet, it would cost her too much. How was her treatment of The Third any more noble than the way Douglas had treated her? The circumstances between Phoebe and Maura’s father were different, but the result was the same—manipulation and abuse.

  Phoebe pulled away. “You’re right, Mama. It was a momentary lapse.”

  Hoping to catch Mr. Newland before he got away, she carried the box outside and hurried down the walk. Anger probably propelled his bicycle at top speed, because she searched each end of the street to no avail.

  After returning to the house, she told her mother, “I’ll take it to him when I finish my lessons tomorrow.”

  At the same time, she would eat the crow she already smelled cooking.

  Chapter Three

  Spence glanced at the clock on his office wall. Fifteen hours since he had become a victim of Mrs. Crain’s attempt at extortion.

  Phoebe Crain’s at
titude toward him left him dazed, off kilter. They were close in age, but in her presence he often felt like a ten-year-old facing disapproval by an older and wiser adult without ever knowing what he’d done wrong. In some ways she reminded him of his grandfather.

  His hands tightened around the arms of his office chair. No matter how much he might want to help the child, he refused to be manipulated into building her a dollhouse even if her mother had flattered him with her remarks about the quality of the cigar box. On the other hand, making another box would take precious time. What else could he do to attract the man’s interest?

  Adding to his troubles this morning, their warehouse manager had notified him of more missing inventory. Newland’s dealt with its share of shoplifters, but these losses involved merchandise they had paid for and either hadn’t received or had come up missing before reaching the floor. How could it be?

  Spence faced his desk and shuffled invoices and correspondence around like they were cards in a euchre game. Outside his office, people carried on with their work while he stewed and achieved little progress.

  “Mr. Newland?”

  Spence’s hand jerked and left a trail of ink across the paper in front of him. He scowled at the involuntary mark. “Come in, Amos.”

  The man from the warehouse entered the room. “I’m afraid there’s a problem, Mr. Newland.”

  Another one? “What is it?”

  “The delivery at the train station is being held up. Eugene Henry wants his money before he’ll transport the load to the store.”

  Spence frowned. “Mr. Henry has been delivering for us since we opened five years ago. He knows that’s not how we operate. Did you remind him he’s to invoice us and wait until the accountant pays his bill?”

  “Yes, sir, but he says he wants payment now. Maybe you can talk some sense into him.”

  Talk sense into the man? He couldn’t even convince a woman to return something that wasn’t hers. Maybe his grandfather had been right about him. He wasn’t strong—physically or intellectually.

  No, he’d fought too hard to prove the man wrong. “I’ll handle it, Amos.”

  Spence considered riding his bicycle, but he hadn’t had time for his calisthenics this morning. He could use a brisk walk. It would give him time to clear his head of yesterday’s blunder and make room for ideas about how to convince Eugene Henry to do his job.

  The deliveryman stood in the railroad yard, his face angled down and partially hidden by a black cap. Behind him were stacked nearly a dozen large crates. He paced back and forth with his hands stuffed in the pockets of a plaid wool coat. His teen son sat on the bench of a freight wagon, ready to help his father load and unload Newland’s new merchandise—if they could come to an agreement.

  Spence approached the delivery man and held out his hand. “Mr. Henry, it’s good to see you again.”

  Eugene returned the handshake. “I’m guessing you’re not here to see to my health, Mr. Newland.”

  A tightness surrounded Eugene’s mouth, and worry lines creased his forehead. Dark circles underlined his eyes. Spence took an involuntary step backward and caught himself before going farther. “Are you ill?”

  Eugene backed against the crates, and his shoulders sagged. “Not me. My wife.”

  “I’m sorry.” Anyone who knew Spence would realize the truth in his statement. “I understand we have a problem. What can I do to solve it?”

  With a slight turn of his head, Eugene stared off down the tracks. “Sir, you can pay me today for this delivery.”

  “We pay our bills promptly. There’s no need to anticipate a delay.”

  “I need the money now.” He shrugged. “Truth is, I can’t afford to buy the medicine Doc says my wife needs in order to get better.”

  Even though Spence understood his plight, understanding didn’t get the crates delivered to the store. He could pay Eugene as requested, but if word got around, other hired creditors might demand payment in advance, which would create more problems for the store.

  Eugene was not the only man in town capable of making deliveries, and plenty of men were desperate for work. On the other hand, if word got out that the owners of Newland’s hired someone else and refused to help the Henry family, they would appear callous and without compassion.

  Even more crucial, Mrs. Henry’s health depended on receiving the medicine.

  After all Spence had undergone in his younger years, how could he withhold essential treatment from someone else?

  He peered round the rail yard. On the other side of the tracks, the Wabash River, so busy with traffic and trade in his grandfather’s day, flowed with minor interruption, its necessity for transporting goods replaced by the railroads. Times had changed, but people’s troubles had not.

  He lowered his voice. “How much do you need?”

  “A dollar would get me by.”

  It wasn’t like the man was demanding the moon—or a dollhouse—and he’d proved himself trustworthy in the past.

  Spence dug in his pocket and handed him the money. “Here. Let’s keep this between you and me.”

  Eugene paused, then took the coins. The lines between his eyes smoothed. “Thank you, sir. I won’t say a thing to nobody.”

  “See that your wife receives the medicine before making your delivery.”

  The Henrys left, and Spence strolled closer to the tracks. His cold nose couldn’t compete with the warmth he felt inside over seeing Eugene’s relief.

  “You’re a nice man, mister.”

  Spence twisted sideways and peeked around the stacks of merchandise. A girl of five or six sat on the track side of the crates. Her smile, missing a front tooth, brightened the dreary day. “I did the right thing?”

  “You made him happy.”

  “Well, let’s keep it our secret, shall we?”

  She placed a finger to her closed mouth, and he laughed.

  The girl looked familiar. “What’s your name?”

  “Maura, sir.”

  “Why are you sitting here alone, Miss Maura?”

  “I’m waiting.”

  “Waiting for what?”

  “That train.”

  She pointed down the track. An engine chugged toward the station, gray steam billowing from the chimney. A number of passenger and freight cars trailed behind.

  “Is there something special about that train?”

  “It might have my papa on it.”

  Spence noted a handful of people gathered for the train’s arrival. A young woman stood near the wall of the station building. She watched him with the eyes of a human hawk. He tilted his head in her direction and said to Maura, “You should join your mother.”

  “She’s not my mama.”

  The train screeched to a halt. It huffed and puffed as it disgorged porters and a few passengers. Maura’s gaze fixed on each person who arrived.

  The woman near the two-story building lost interest in Spence and Maura, strolled to the first car, and disappeared inside. Once everyone had boarded, the engine belched and pulled away from the Riverport station, leaving him alone with the little girl, whose mouth formed a petite pout. Why hadn’t her father arrived as she’d expected?

  “Where is your mother?” Spence asked.

  “Playing the piano.”

  What kind of mother put playing the piano ahead of her daughter’s safety and welcoming her husband home?

  “She sent you to meet your father?”

  Maura hung her head. “Her and Grandma don’t know I left.”

  Grandma? It was as though every electric light bulb in Newland’s chandeliers illuminated the answer, and he realized where he had seen Maura before. Yesterday, after he’d left Mrs. Lark’s gift with Wallace and walked out of the store, he’d noticed the girl with her mother. She’d stared longingly at the dollhouse he’d called shoddy and acted as if she had never seen anything so beautiful. By the look of the place he had visited last evening, perhaps she hadn’t.

  “You’re Mrs. Crain’s d
aughter.”

  Her little head bobbed.

  Spence had understood Mrs. Crain was a widow. However, according to Maura, her father wasn’t dead but soon to join his family. “You say your mother is playing the piano?”

  “Teddy’s there for his lesson.”

  Her crinkled nose reminded him of his reaction to the forlorn sitting room he’d seen. It was an ill-mannered reaction, but no ruder than her mother holding hostage his gift to Clifton Lark.

  “Teddy plays like a wailing cat with his tail stuck in the door.”

  Spence turned his laugh into a cough.

  Surely Mrs. Crain had noted her daughter’s disappearance by now and must be worried. He pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. A mound of paperwork remained on his desk to be completed before a meeting with The Second this afternoon. He’d wasted enough time but couldn’t shoo Maura home without an escort and not worry about her the rest of the day. And she was too young for him to leave here by herself.

  He glanced around. What if he hired someone to drive her?

  He’d still worry.

  Spence peered at the little girl, who gazed at him with bright brown eyes and a sunshine smile minus a tooth. He held out a hand. “Come along, Miss Maura. I’ll take you home.”

  She gave the tracks one last look up and down. With a high-pitched sigh, she reached for his hand. The fragility in her small grip sparked a fierce protectiveness in him.

  Her coat sleeve was rolled to her wrist. The other sleeve draped her hand. The worn coat hung on her, a stark contrast to the cut and quality of his clothes and a reminder of Mrs. Crain’s request. He enjoyed helping others when possible. Why hadn’t she just asked him to build the girl a dollhouse? Why had she employed a more devious means?

  Hadn’t Eugene Henry done much the same? He’d held Newland’s merchandise hostage for a dollar’s worth of medicine. So why give in to the delivery man and not Mrs. Crain when there wasn’t much difference in their actions?

  There was a difference—possibly, a life and death difference. Medicine meant much more than a toy, no matter how endearing the recipient.