41. Jacob
Jacob
George’s dinner jacket fit on my leaner frame without being overly loose. I was relieved when his assistant—or whatever he was called—arrived to help with my cravat. My usually nimble fingers struggled with simple buttons.
My stomach knotted as I stood in her home, in the midst of a world vastly different from my own. But I would make no commitments without her input.
In a few minutes, I’d meet the man whose marriage demands had driven Viola to run away. Shoulders back and head high, I went down to dinner, bracing myself for a stern man with sharp edges.
Victor VanMartin was not what I expected. He insisted on first names, welcomed me warmly, and quickly drew me into conversation. Deep crinkles fanned from the corners of his steel-blue eyes, suggesting a lifetime spent smiling rather than scowling.
“Jacob,” he said, waving me to the seat to his left. “I hope you’ll share the tale of Viola’s time with your family. Viola and George did their best, but George assures me that your telling easily beats theirs. And of course Viola has nothing but praise for you.”
She praised me to her father? And he was… personable. I opened my mouth, and soon we were all caught up in Viola’s tale.
After dinner, the three of us settled into a library filled with more books than I could read in a lifetime. I steeled myself to face their proposal.
Victor moved to the side table. “George and Viola praised your way with words, and I witnessed your talent myself this evening.” He poured each of us a finger of scotch and passed around the intricately cut crystal tumblers. We raised our glasses to each other.
“Viola suggested you might have an interest in train travel and adventure.”
“Viola knows me well.”
“Yes… she also said you’re as steady as they come.” Victor swirled the liquid in his glass. “You certainly hold your curiosity with admirable restraint.”
“I’d be jumping out of my skin were I you,” George said and tilted his glass toward me.
“I imagine myself to be patient, but my family would probably call me stubborn.”
Victor crossed to his desk. “No more waiting. We have a proposal to discuss.”
I nodded but said nothing, forcing my hands to stillness.
“We offer this to you because of how you helped Viola.” Victor met my gaze. “But you will succeed or fail based solely on your skill.”
“Skill? I’m not?—”
“Let me explain,” George said. “We’re adding a new weekly segment to our paper—a column titled Tales from the Rails.”
Victor leaned forward, arms propped on his desk. “There is demand for tales from out West. Travel adventures. Interviews with people on the train.”
“I…” What did this have to do with Viola? “I would enjoy reading such a column.”
“Excellent.” George rubbed his palms together. “But we’re hoping you would enjoy writing such a column.”
“Me… how?”
“You can write back in Harmony Lake and send the columns to me. Travel the rails during the farm’s slower seasons to gather material.”
A writer. A travel writer.
“Three trial columns,” George said. “Then we’ll decide if Tales will become a permanent feature. You’d be paid per submission, and your travel expenses would be covered by the paper, but not first class,” he said with a wink. “We don’t want to cause a riot among our writers.”
The idea was too large to grasp, like trying to hold the lake in two hands.
Victor said, “Tomorrow, George will show you around at the paper. Introduce you to some other writers. I hope you decide to give it a try. I have a good feeling about this.”
I opened my mouth, but only one word came out. “Viola?”
George said, “Viola doesn’t know. We wanted to present it to you first, as we thought she might put undue pressure on you to accept. She’s certainly capable of carrying us all along with her enthusiasm.”
A door I’d never even known existed swung wide, and I glimpsed my future… I grinned. Stood to shake hands with both men. “I appreciate your confidence… in me. This is more than I ever dared hope for. I’ll do my best. Thank you. Thank you for the opportunity.”
We sat in the library late into the night, chatting amiably about writing, newspapers, and life. Victor cast warm glances toward his wife’s portrait.
Would I ever find such love? Could it be with Viola?
The possibility whistled through me.
A farmer and an heiress were impossible.
But a travel writer…