Chapter Five
Lottie woke up alone.
Not truly alone. The Ridge Hotel was full of brides, travelers clumping down the hallway, and at least one rooster outside who had taken up a personal grievance against sunrise.
Someone in the next room sneezed three times in a row.
Downstairs, dishes clattered, Mrs. Hanford’s voice carried through two walls, and the scent of coffee climbed the staircase with more confidence than the coffee likely deserved.
Still, Lottie woke up alone.
For five years, Delly had been the first sound she heard every morning.
Delly stirring a pot on the stove. Folding yesterday’s shawl before putting on today’s.
Muttering at a dull pencil or a mislaid receipt.
Reminding Lottie toast burned while one was reading just as surely as it burned while one was idle.
This morning there was only the other half of the bed, cold and undisturbed.
Lottie stared at it for longer than she meant to.
Her sister was married.
It shouldn’t have startled her, since Lottie had stood in the church and watched it happen.
She had heard the vows and cried into Val Sutton’s handkerchief.
She had threatened Jebediah Simms with a botany volume if he hurt Delly, which, in retrospect, may not have been the most delicate beginning to a brotherly relationship.
The church had held flowers, cake, sunlight, and people.
The hotel room held Delly’s absence.
Lottie rolled onto her back and looked at the ceiling.
The plaster had a crack which began near the corner and wandered toward the window without apparent purpose.
Delly would want to know whether the crack indicated settling, dampness, or future collapse.
Lottie decided it looked like a river on a map and let it be.
A folded paper lay on the small table beside her Bible.
Mr. Peterson’s shelving list.
Lottie reached for it before she reached for anything else.
The paper had been handled more than once before he gave it to her.
He had folded it neatly, then folded it again, as if a man could make a list less personal by adding creases.
The handwriting was cramped in places, but careful.
He had measured properly. Thought ahead.
Accounted for heavy books, damp walls, and children leaning on shelves because children always leaned on shelves.
Lottie smiled at that note each time she read it.
Children will lean. Build for it.
She could hear him saying it, low and dry, as though children leaning on shelves were a known hazard to civilization.
A tap sounded at the door.
Lottie tucked the paper under her Bible so quickly she knocked Tennyson to the floor.
“Come in,” she called, then scrambled down to retrieve the book.
Felicity Hogspeth opened the door and looked in. She was already dressed, her hair smooth, her expression more awake than any person’s had a right to be before breakfast.
“Mrs. Schulte is organizing the dining room,” Felicity said.
“That sounds ominous.”
“It is. She has columns.”
Lottie sat back on her heels. “Columns?”
“Brides. Grooms. Lodging. Wedding readiness. She tried to make one for temperament, but Mrs. Hanford objected to being assessed without a proper scale.” Felicity’s mouth curved. “Your sister would be delighted.”
The pang came fast enough to embarrass Lottie.
“Yes,” she said. “She would.”
Felicity’s expression softened. “I suppose it is strange, waking without her.”
Lottie looked down at Tennyson in her hands. “A little.”
“A great deal, I imagine.”
“Yes,” Lottie admitted. “A great deal.”
Felicity leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. “For what it is worth, I think Mr. Simms looked at her yesterday as if he knew exactly what he had been given.”
Lottie’s throat tightened. “He did, didn’t he?”
“He did.”
“Delly did not notice.”
“Perhaps not yet.”
It did not fill the empty side of the bed, but it helped.
Felicity tapped the doorframe lightly. “Come down when you’re ready. If you are delayed too long, Mrs. Schulte will assign you a breakfast companion, and none of us deserve that before coffee.”
Lottie laughed and promised to come.
After Felicity left, Lottie dressed quickly in her blue calico, pinned her hair with mixed success, and tucked Mr. Peterson’s list into the botany volume. It had survived a wedding and one night of examination. It deserved a safer home than being stuffed inside her reticule.
Downstairs, the dining room had indeed been conquered by Mrs. Schulte.
The long tables were crowded with brides, and townspeople. Several men had evidently been invited to breakfast for matchmaking purposes, but now looked as though they regretted not fleeing to the lumber camp at dawn.
Mrs. Beck poured coffee with cheerful authority. Mrs. Hanford corrected a young man’s posture from across the room. Val Sutton moved between tables with a smile that made the chaos seem almost intentional. Lottie paused near the doorway and instinctively looked for Delly.
Of course, she wouldn’t be there.
Delly would be up at the Simms’ cabin by now, probably rearranging the poor man’s shelves, interrogating him about household expectations, and making a list of every possible way a cabin could betray its inhabitants before noon.
Lottie hoped Jeb was prepared. She wiped her leaking eyes with her fingertips and inhaled deeply.
“Charlotte!” Mrs. Schulte called. “Here you are. Sit by Cornelia, dear. We must discuss the books.”
That was one command Lottie did not mind obeying.
Cornelia Montgomery sat near the window with a cup of coffee, a slice of bread, and an expression of amused endurance. She made room at once.
“I am told we are to become allies,” Cornelia said.
“I hope so.”
“Excellent. I have been wanting a library since last winter, and I have been told several times a schoolhouse with shelves is not the same as a library. I disagree in principle, but I would still like proper shelves.”
Lottie took the chair beside her. “Mr. Peterson made me a list.”
The words came out before she could make them casual. Cornelia’s eyebrows lifted. Lottie opened the botany book and drew out the paper with what she hoped was composure. Judging by Cornelia’s mouth, she failed.
“A practical list,” Lottie added.
“Of course.”
“For shelves.”
“Naturally.”
“There is nothing romantic about brackets.”
“No,” Cornelia said gravely. “History has never known a romantic bracket.”
Lottie lowered her gaze to the paper, but a smile escaped anyway. Cornelia leaned closer and studied the list. Her face changed from teasing to genuine interest.
“This is good advice. Very good. He thought about weight and damp. See here?” She pointed to the paper. “He knows the meeting hall wall by the north window swells in wet weather.”
“He wrote children will lean.”
“They will. He is right.”
Lottie smoothed one crease with her thumb. “Do you know him well?”
“Peterson?”
“Yes.”
Cornelia did not answer quickly. That was enough to make Lottie look up.
“I know him as much as he allows most people to know him,” Cornelia said. “He has worked here a good while. Longer than many. He is dependable, keeps mostly to himself, and does not like being discussed.”
“Then I feel rather wicked asking.”
“You are not asking from idleness.”
“No.” Lottie looked at the list. “I am asking because I am supposed to marry him.”
Cornelia’s eyes warmed, but there was caution there too. “Supposed to is a complicated phrase in this town.”
“Is it?”
“This place has seen more than one match arrive in one shape and become another before God was through with it.”
Lottie glanced toward the dining room, where Mrs. Schulte had begun explaining something to a bewildered logger with the aid of a butter knife and two saltcellars. “Do the Busy Bees know that?”
“They believe they assist Providence.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“It keeps them busy, which may be mercy for the rest of us.”
Lottie laughed. Then the laughter thinned when she looked toward the hotel door and saw Mr. Peterson through the front window.
He stood on the boardwalk outside, not coming in. Her breath caught before she could stop it.
He wore work clothes today, not his Sunday coat. Suspenders crossed over a clean shirt, and sleeves buttoned at the wrist despite the mild morning. His hat sat low enough to shade his face. In his left hand, he carried a narrow bundle wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.
He looked once through the window.
Their eyes met. Then he looked away.
Lottie rose so abruptly her chair scraped.
“Charlotte?” Cornelia glanced from her to the window. “Ah.”
“That might be nothing.”
“It might.”
“It is probably something for Mrs. Schulte.”
“Then Mrs. Schulte will survive waiting.”
Lottie gathered her botany book and went before courage could negotiate terms.
By the time she reached the front door, Mr. Peterson had stepped to the side of the boardwalk, half hidden behind one of the porch posts. He looked as if he had considered leaving and had been trapped by his own manners.
“Good morning, Mr. Peterson.”
He tipped his hat. “Miss Bellamy.”
Still not Lottie.
She was noticing how carefully he used the name he had chosen for her. Not rude. Not cold. Only distant, as if every Miss Bellamy set one more plank between them.
“You came to breakfast?”
“No.”
That answer was discouraging in its efficiency.
“Oh.”
His gaze moved to the dining room window, then away. “I brought these.”
He held out the brown-paper bundle.
Lottie accepted it because he had offered it and because refusing would have required more wisdom than she currently possessed. The parcel was not heavy, but it had weight enough to be practical.
“What is it?”
“Brackets.”
She looked up.
“For shelves,” he added, as though there were many sorts of breakfast parcels a man might bring a woman.
“I understood.”
“Stafford had extra. Not enough for the whole wall, but enough to start.”
Lottie held the bundle carefully. “You went to the carpenter this morning?”
“He was awake.”