Unwrapping Hope Read online

  He had tried to shift the conversation, but Maura’s mind often ran like the trains—along one track. Phoebe wanted to rescue the man, but her shoes stuck to the floor, as if the soles had been nailed there.

  “You miss your father, don’t you?”

  “I never saw him. Mama said he died before I was born.”

  “I’m sorry you never met him. I’m sure he was fine man.”

  “Mama says he was a prince.”

  Phoebe’s lie to her daughter.

  “When I ask her for another papa, she says we have to wait for God to say it’s time. What does that mean?”

  Phoebe pressed her hands to the sides of her burning face. Surely the man had never faced such a circumstance.

  “It means your mother wants to be certain that the right man becomes your father. She wants to be confident that he’ll be good to you and love you as much as she does.”

  And not abandon her as her real father had done. Phoebe’s throat tightened.

  “But my friends have fathers. I want another prince for a papa, just like in a fairy tale.”

  “Sometimes, Miss Maura, we can’t have everything we want or the things others have.”

  Phoebe imagined Mr. Newland down on one knee in front of Maura, explaining things in a way she had failed to do.

  “Think of it this way. Your friends don’t have pretty green-and-orange-striped stockings like yours, do they?”

  “No, sir. Mama helped me make them when I told her what I wanted.”

  “She sounds like a wonderful mother.”

  Spence Newland said all the right words. If Phoebe weren’t careful, he would breach her defenses.

  “God has different plans for each of us. He places us in different circumstances. You don’t have a father like your friends, but He gave you a mother and a grandmother who love you and take care of you.”

  “They make me stockings.”

  “Yes, they make you pretty stockings.”

  What would Maura’s life be like if she had the type of father to speak to her as Spence Newland was doing at this moment?

  “Did you know the Bible says God is a father to the fatherless?”

  “That’s me.”

  Phoebe pressed her back to the hallway wall. She never thought to explain God as the perfect father to her daughter. Instead, she’d told her some absurd story about trains and princesses. Why was that?

  Maybe because, no matter how badly he’d hurt her, she still held a fond memory of the first moment she saw Douglas enter the passenger car of the train bound for Chicago. He’d asked to sit next to her. She couldn’t refuse such a handsome and dynamic man. A prince.

  Had she known the heartache to come, she would have rejected his request.

  Mr. Newland’s voice broke through her thoughts. “If it’s God’s will that you have a new father, He’ll help your mother find one for you.”

  “But how?”

  “If she’s listening, God will tell her.”

  “How?”

  Phoebe shook her head. Yes, how?

  “I’m not sure. He speaks to people in different ways. Sometimes it’s in a dream or nature or a verse in the Bible. Sometimes we have to listen hard, because He speaks through a still, small voice. The point is, we must make the effort to listen, or we might miss hearing from Him.”

  Had that been her problem? Had she not listened hard enough to hear God speak?

  “You can be my papa.”

  “You would be any man’s ideal as a daughter, Maura, but I can’t marry your mother because...”

  Silence. Because why?

  “We hardly know one another.”

  Two weeks ago, Phoebe would have said she knew all she needed to know about Spencer Newland the Third. Now, she wasn’t so sure.

  “What if God tells you to marry Mama?”

  He laughed. “We’ll cross that bridge if we ever come to it. Let’s go find your mother.”

  Phoebe slipped back into the employee salon. Even as she reinforced her intention to maintain an emotional distance from Spence Newland, she struggled to convince herself that she meant it.

  Chapter Eight

  “Mail for you, Mr. Newland.”

  Spence took the envelopes from the mailroom clerk. “Thank you.”

  The door to his office closed again as he shuffled through the correspondence. He dropped all on his desk but the letter from Chicago.

  Gripping the communication, he leaned back in his chair and stared at the envelope in his hand. He tapped it against his palm several times, listening to the soft crinkle. Each tap shouted for him to open the letter.

  The Newlands had done their best to build a store to mimic establishments like Marshall Field & Company in Chicago and R. H. Macy & Company in New York. Where most of those department stores operated in large cities with six or more floors of merchandise, his father had gambled and chosen to open their store in his hometown of twelve thousand people and settled for three floors of available merchandise.

  Most of the family money had been inherited or came from other ventures—a variety of them. The store was just the latest. However, the recent financial decline had taken a large bite out of the Newland family’s wealth as they propped up the store’s losses. A silent partner would allow them to branch out into other forms of business.

  Frank Woolworth had achieved success with his five-and-dime stores in the East. Surely the Newlands could do the same in the Midwest.

  Spence continued to stare at the envelope. In his eagerness to prove himself physically and mentally strong enough to man the Newland helm, he had assured his father he would convince Lark to invest in their future.

  What if he failed? What if Mr. Lark refused to take a chance on them?

  Grow a backbone, Third. No one ever said succeeding in business was easy. You wanted to prove yourself, so do it.

  A low growl rose in Spence’s throat. The words were his, but the voice in his head belonged to his grandfather.

  Spence had come a long way since the day he’d overheard The First claim that Spence’s poor health would prevent him from ever running the Newland enterprises.

  Over the years, he had grown that backbone and wouldn’t give in to doubt now. He ripped open the envelope and pulled out an expensive sheet of notepaper.

  Dear Mr. Newland,

  I received your lovely gift of the cigar box and want to express my appreciation for your thoughtfulness. I find it both commendable and remarkable that you would take the time from the busyness in your day to create something for me that was both artistic and functional.

  My wife also brought me your proposal for the five-and-ten-cent stores. Although I believe in your idea...

  Spence drew in a deep breath and braced himself to read what his mind already knew.

  ...it is with deep regret that I inform you that I am unable to agree to a silent partnership in your new enterprise. However, Juliet and I wish you and your family well in your endeavor to find the proper investor.

  Yours truly,

  Clifton Lark

  Spence dropped the letter on his desk. Well, that was that.

  He spun the chair and faced the window behind his desk. The gray sky and buildings across the street faded to a blur. This was just the latest problem to progress at a merry march through his mind.

  After speaking to the warehouse manager, who expressed ample faith in the trustworthiness of his employees, Spence had sought out Eugene and veiled his questions in routine conversation. He came away convinced the man was either an accomplished liar, or he knew nothing about their missing stock. Finally, he and Gil spent hours going over the account books and paperwork, looking for clues that the merchandise had been received but mishandled. Nothing came to light.

  Thinking of Eugene reminded Spence of Maura. On Saturday an employee had found her wandering around the fourth floor in search of her mother. Since then Spence had not forgotten their talk...or her wish for a father. Poor child.

  More
often, though, his thoughts ran to her mother. For months he hadn’t cared about her opinion of him. Sometime in the past few days, that had changed. Ridiculous when it was obvious Phoebe didn’t like him or, at the least, didn’t trust him.

  Did these thoughts stem from Maura’s question about him marrying Phoebe and becoming her father?

  He turned back to his desk and dropped his elbows on the paper-covered top, his hands clenched together. He couldn’t grant Maura her wish for a papa, but he easily could grant her another wish.

  PHOEBE ENTERED NEWLAND’S, closed the wet umbrella, and wiped away drops that splashed on the tip of her nose. She preferred walking in snow to the bone-seeping dampness of a cold rain. Plus, the gray skies forecast snow, so it seemed she would experience both today.

  Adding to her chill, the dollhouse Maura admired was no longer displayed in the front window. Had they sold it?

  Her tense muscles relaxed at seeing they had moved it to a counter ahead of her. She still hadn’t earned the money to purchase the dollhouse, but she still had a chance.

  God, please keep it available for me.

  She listened but heard no confirmation that the dollhouse would remain unsold. Why had she expected one?

  In a soggy flour sack, she carried three completed scarves for her Widow’s Might donation to the orphanage. She hoped the colors—bright blues, reds, and greens—would cheer the children who resided there.

  Too often in the past five years, she had focused on her problems. It was nice to help better someone else’s life.

  On the way to the elevator, she caught herself searching for The Third, a troublesome behavior that reared its head whenever she entered the store these days.

  The elevator operator opened the gate and asked her for a floor number. “Three, please.”

  After exiting the elevator, she stood in the midst of a department arranged to resemble a woman’s dressing room. Current fashions in dresses and shirtwaists draped mannequins and hung on hangers against walls papered in a neutral color to best flaunt the merchandise. Wardrobes with their doors thrown open exposed more choices. The latest styles of velvet and feathered hats tempted her to stop and pluck them from their stands to try on.

  Toward the back of the floor, women’s undergarments filled display shelves and dressed more mannequins. She avoided a section with extravagant colorful, lacy corsets—once a weakness.

  Someone tapped her shoulder, and she turned. Claire’s smile filled her surroundings with good cheer, and her pale hair shimmered like a yellow diamond. The woman brought sunshine to any room and had proven to be one of the store’s prized sales clerks. But Claire didn’t belong here.

  Claire’s late husband, Richard Kingsley, had acknowledged his wife’s interest in the field of architecture and permitted her to work in his architectural office. Shamefully, upon his death two years ago, Richard’s partner made it clear that Claire was no longer welcome in the company.

  For months the Widow’s Might women had prayed she would find employment with an architect who would give her the same respect her husband had given her.

  Claire pointed to the sack. “The rest of them?”

  Phoebe held out the scarves, but her friend waved them away. “It won’t do any good to give them to me. I’ve been asked to take part of Mary Dobson’s shift. She had an emergency and left the store. I’m afraid I’ll be here for hours yet.”

  “Then who will deliver them?”

  “I know the weather is awful, but Verbenia said she would pay for a hack if you would take them to the orphanage for us. The rest are in a crate in the employee salon, along with an envelope containing the fare.”

  Since she had no lesson this afternoon, Phoebe said, “I’m already wet, so I might as well.”

  “I’m due a short break. Would you like to go to the tea room?”

  A small tea room located in a private third-floor corner invited weary customers to congregate and visit, rest and rejuvenate, then begin their shopping again. At one time, Phoebe would not have given a second thought to stopping at a restaurant or coffeehouse for refreshment. Those days had disappeared along with her marriage. “Perhaps another time.”

  After saying goodbye to her friend, Phoebe returned to the employee salon. Quiet sobs greeted her at the door. A woman no older than Phoebe’s twenty-four years, and possibly younger, stood against the far wall, head down and shoulders quaking. She was dressed in the same dove-gray skirt and crisp white shirtwaist as Claire and all the other sales clerks working at Newland’s.

  Phoebe pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and offered it to the distraught woman.

  A frail smile tipped the clerk’s lips as she grasped the linen square and sniffled. “Thank you, ma’am. I-I couldn’t find m-mine.” The tears began in earnest again.

  “Would you like to talk about what’s troubling you?”

  The woman wiped the tears pooling under her eyes. “No. No, I couldn’t.”

  Phoebe considered picking up the box she’d come for and leaving the woman in peace, but she sensed she was needed.

  “I’m not normally weepy. I’m just so tired of how he treats me, you know?” The woman’s prominent chin quivered as she dabbed at bloodshot eyes in an effort to control herself.

  “Who is he?”

  “My husband.”

  “He’s physically abusive?”

  “No.” She rubbed a wrist covered by the sleeve of her blouse. “It’s the cruel things he says.”

  Phoebe’s heart went out to the woman.

  “Is there a problem, ladies?” Both women turned their attentions to the doorway, where Spence Newland stood.

  The clerk stepped away. “No, sir.”

  His gaze shifted to Phoebe. “I thought I heard your voice, Mrs. Crain. It isn’t Friday.”

  “I’m here for the crate.” She pointed to the small table against the back wall.

  His glance bounced between the two women, to the table, and back to Phoebe. Lines etched the area between his eyes. “Perhaps you’ll tell me what’s going on.”

  “It’s not my place to say.” Phoebe strode toward the table. “I’ll take what I came for and leave you two to speak in private.”

  “Roslyn?”

  When Phoebe turned around, he had blocked the doorway, spread his feet, and crossed his arms. Evidently, no one was leaving until he received an answer.

  Chapter Nine

  Phoebe studied the blonde she had seen behind the perfume counter. Her husband was the chief accountant for the store. She only knew that because he had stopped to listen to her play once and introduced himself. Although he was friendly, Phoebe had found his manner too smooth for her taste.

  Roslyn’s jaw tightened a moment before she responded to her employer. “Gil and I argued. That’s all.”

  Mr. Newland’s stance softened. “I don’t know what is going on with the two of you, but this can’t continue, not in the store.”

  A spark of defiance darkened the woman’s watery blue eyes. “Perhaps you should tell that to your friend.”

  “I’ll talk to him.” He stood aside, his eyes sympathetic. “In the meantime, I’m sure they’re waiting for you on the floor.”

  Roslyn wiped the tears away and held up the handkerchief. “I’ll return this later, Mrs. Crain.”

  “Take your time.”

  She flashed a quick smile of appreciation at Phoebe and walked past her employer.

  Mr. Newland ran a hand down his face, then inhaled and released a harsh breath. “What does one do about two people—friends—who seem unsuitable?”

  Assuming he asked a rhetorical question, Phoebe packed the crate with the scarves she’d made, then lowered the lid. She turned with the box and bumped into him.

  “What’s in there?”

  She stepped back. “Handmade scarves and mittens for the children at the orphanage.”

  “Do you mind if I see them?”

  Though she silently asked why, she said, “If you’d like.”


  He set the crate back on the table, opened it, and peered at the contents. He felt around and accomplished a thorough inspection with understated movement. It was strange behavior for a man who only wanted a look.

  He closed the box. “I’m sure each child will appreciate the gift. Let me carry this for you.”

  “It’s not heavy, and I don’t want to keep you from your work.”

  He lifted the container from the table and started for the door. She seized the envelope she’d set alongside the crate and followed.

  “I’ll have my carriage brought around and drive you.”

  Her chest might well have been encased in concrete for the difficulty she had in breathing. What made wealthy young men think she could be maneuvered into whatever deeds fit their whims? “Mr. Newland, I have money for a hack and am perfectly capable of making the trip alone.”

  “Phoebe, the weather is awful, and I have the time to see you there and back safely.”

  She hated hearing him use her given name, because it roused an impatience in her to hear it again.

  “That’s all you want?” The words rumbling through her mind snapped from her mouth, but it was too late to tone them down.

  “What else?” His eyebrows formed a deep V shape. They jumped the moment he understood. He shook his head. “I’ve conducted myself as a gentleman around you, treating you with the respect I would show any woman. Why must you strike out at me like a hissing cat slapping at the nose of a friendly dog?”

  His eyes flashed, and she expected him to drop the box into her hands and walk away. Instead he said, “I’m not sure what about me has gotten your goat, but whatever it is, I find your attitude uncalled for and unfair.”

  A ripple of doubt cracked the concrete in Phoebe’s chest. Dare she believe he wanted nothing but friendship from her? Had she become so cynical in the past five years that she couldn’t accept a man’s help without believing he had an ulterior motive?

  Relentless rain beat the roof like drumsticks on the surface of a kettledrum. To accept a ride from him was a terrible idea. Terrible.