Magnolia. Diana Palmer

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      IN THE SPACE OF TWO HOURS, CLAIRE’S LIFE changed forever. Her uncle never regained consciousness. Her frantic telephone call from a neighbor’s house to the doctor brought the family physician within minutes.

      “I’m very sorry, Claire,” Dr. Houston said softly, with a paternal arm around her shoulder. “But at least it was quick. He never knew a thing.”

      Claire stared at him with dull eyes.

      “Gertie, bring a sheet, please, and cover him,” he asked the housekeeper, who was quiet and solemn.

      She nodded and went away, returning quickly with a spotless white sheet. Fighting tears, she put it lovingly over Will.

      That made it all final somehow, and Claire felt her eyes welling with tears. She brushed at them as she began to sob. “But he was so healthy,” she whispered. “There was never anything wrong with him. He never even had a cold.”

      “Sometimes it happens like this,” the doctor said. “Child, do you have family? Is there anyone we can get to come and help you sort out the estate?”

      She looked at him blankly. “We only had each—each other,” she said, faltering. “He never married, and he was my father’s only living sibling. My mother’s people are all dead, as well.”

      He glanced at Gertie. “You and Harry will be here, won’t you?”

      “Of course,” Gertie said, coming forward to put her arms around Claire. “We’ll look after her.”

      “I know you will.”

      He filled out the death certificate, and, by the time he finished, the coroner came and a horse-drawn ambulance took the body to the mortuary. It was only then that Claire realized her position. The doctor and the funeral home would have to be paid. The sale of the buggy and horse would barely cover it. The house was mortgaged; the bank would surely foreclose.

      She sat down heavily on the love seat and clenched a handkerchief in her hand. Her beloved only relative was gone; she was soon to be penniless—and homeless. What could she do? She tried to calm herself; after all, she had two skills—sewing clothes and repairing motorcars. She designed and made gowns for rich society matrons in Atlanta. That she could do, but there wasn’t a motorcar in nearby Atlanta, so working on them was no solution.

      A renewed wave of panic left her momentarily in tears. But they soon were dried by Gertie, who reminded her that she had few equals with a needle and thread and the fine Singer treadle sewing machine in the bedroom. Claire made all her own clothes, designs of her own creation that most people thought were store-bought because they were so richly and lavishly embroidered and laced.

      “Miss Claire, you could work as a seamstress anytime,” Gertie assured her. “Why, Mrs. Banning down on Peachtree Street can’t make clothes fast enough to meet the demand. I bet she’d hire you in a second to work for her. Said she thought your pretty blue suit was a Paris fashion, she did! And she knows you sew for Mrs. Evelyn Paine.”

      That made Claire feel a little bit better. But, still, the prospect of a job and an income was only that—a prospect. She was afraid of the future, and trying hard not to let it show.

      Barely an hour later, people who knew and loved Uncle Will began filling the house. Claire’s pride and self-control were sorely tested with condolence after condolence. Women brought platters of food and desserts, and jugs of iced tea, and urns of coffee. Everything was taken care of in the kitchen, with Gertie’s supervision. Kenny Blake came early and would have stayed, but Claire knew his business depended on the personal service he gave his customers. He needed to keep his shop open for long hours, too. She promised she would be all right and sent him back to work. They came all day and into the evening, until at last a familiar but unwelcome face showed itself at the door.

      Claire’s eyes were red with tears as she let the bank president, Mr. Eli Calverson, and his beautifully dressed and coiffed blonde wife into the house.

      “We’re so sorry, my dear,” Diane Calverson said in her cultured voice, extending a graceful hand in a spotless white glove. “What a terrible tragedy for you, and how unexpected. We came the moment we heard.”

      “Don’t worry about a thing, young lady,” Mr. Calverson added, pressing her hands in his. “We’ll make sure the house is sold for the highest possible price, so that there will be a little something left over for you.”

      Claire wasn’t even thinking properly as she stared at the old man, who had the coldest eyes she’d ever seen.

      “And he did have that infernal motorcar, as well,” the banker continued. “Maybe we could find some buyer for it…”

      “I won’t sell it,” she said at once. “The buggy and the horse are at the livery stable and they can be sold, but I won’t part with Uncle’s horseless carriage.”

      “It’s early days yet, my dear,” Mr. Calverson said smugly. “You’ll change your mind. Diane, have a chat with Miss Lang while I speak to Sanders over there. I believe he’s had his eye on this property for quite some time.”

      “Now just one moment—” Claire began, but the banker had already walked away.

      “Don’t worry your head about it, dear,” Diane said languidly. “Leave business to the men. We women were never meant for such complicated things as that.” She looked around. “You poor thing. What a dreary place. And you haven’t even a decent dress to wear, have you?” she asked gently.

      Claire had been too upset to change the old dress she’d worn to work with Uncle in the garage. Still, she bristled at the woman’s remark. She had dresses upstairs that would have made Mrs. Calverson’s Paris import look tacky by comparison. “My uncle had just died, Mrs. Calverson. Clothes were not much on my mind,” Claire said.

      Diane shook her head. “Nothing is more important to me than to be correctly dressed, whatever the occasion. Really, Claire. You should go and change before other people come.”

      Claire gaped at her. “My uncle died only hours ago,” she repeated, loud enough for her voice to carry. “I hardly think my clothes matter just now.”

      Diane actually blushed as heads turned toward her. She made an awkward little gesture and laughed nervously. “Why, Claire. You misunderstood me. I never meant to demean your ensemble. And certainly not on such a sad occasion.”

      “Of course you didn’t,” John said quietly, joining Diane at Claire’s side. Claire hadn’t even noticed his arrival and her heart jolted at the sight of him, even through her grief.

      He took Diane’s arm, staring down with concern at Claire. “I’m very sorry about your uncle, Claire,” he said gently. “I’m sure that Diane is, too. She was only concerned for you.”

      Claire searched his lean, hard face and wished desperately that he would defend her so valiantly. If only she could lay her head on his shoulder and cry out her pain. But his comfort seemed reserved for Diane. One more thing to add to her burdened spirit.

      “I haven’t misunderstood one single word, Mr. Hawthorn,” she said. Her eyes went to his hand on Diane’s arm. “Nor one single action.”

      They both looked uncomfortable. СКАЧАТЬ