CHAPTER TWO

John leaned out the trolley window as it coasted through the heart of Des Moines. Carriages whizzed past, leaving clouds of dirt in their wake. Sidewalks lined the road on both sides, with several pedestrians promenading in front of the various businesses and storefronts. The shiny brass bell dinged, and the warm wind lashed his face, carrying the scents of draft horses, smoke, and sweat.

“Hey, fella. You hear about this?”

John turned. The stocky man sitting beside him displayed the front page of The Iowa Dispatch. There, in bold print read the headline: Richmond, VA First City to Successfully Electrify a Streetcar.

John ogled the photograph. “Good God. That’s magnificent.”

“Imagine if they had something like that here.”

“Or New York for that matter. Shame the south came up with the idea first.”

The man snorted, eyeing John’s suitcase. “I had a feeling you were a yankee. Your accent certainly isn’t of the midwestern variety.”

John grinned.

“New York, you say?” the man continued, dragging a stained kerchief across his sweaty brow. “You must be out here on business then. Otherwise, what in the name of Sam Hill would bring you to a state like Iowa?”

John didn’t believe in fate, but when the man folded the newspaper across his lap, the article on the bottom half of the page made him do a double take. It read: Mayor Hubbard’s Weeklong Event of the Season to Commence Tomorrow. Caroline had said every bachelor in the state would be there. She wasn’t lying. Why not announce it to the entire Midwest?

The headline stirred up feelings of annoyance. “I suppose you could call it business.”

Suddenly, the fun of socializing left him. The trolley stopped, allowing an elderly couple and a family of four to board. John could see his hotel clearly from here, and he’d be one lazy son-of-a bitch if he didn’t walk the remaining block or two. He bid the kind man farewell, picked up his suitcase, and stepped onto the street.

Wooing the coveted Caroline Hubbard would be much easier said than done. He felt like a cad, letting a public headline intimidate him, but he could practically hear the sixty dollars left to his name screaming inside his pocket. Father had decided to pull the trigger last week. Once that last bill arrived from the carriage repair shop, he cut John off entirely. He hadn’t meant to steer off the road and into a lamppost. He also hadn’t planned on getting too drunk to drive at Michael Brady’s stag party. Damned drinking games.

A bead of sweat rolled down his nose. The weather felt several degrees hotter than home, even with today’s aggressive winds. Tugging his necktie and high collar a little looser, he strode quickly toward The Willister Hotel. A cool refreshment and a comfortable lodging sounded perfect. The sooner he could peel off his sweat-ridden travel clothes and wash off, the bett—

Whack!

Something smacked him in the face, blinding him. It hurt too, and no wonder, once John identified the offensive object. A woman’s hat made of straw and feathers, with a long pin digging deep into his cheek—centimeters from his eye. Christ!

“Oh, mercy! Oh, this wind! I’m so sorry, sir!” a shrill voice called from somewhere in front of him. The poor woman sounded mortified… and loud.

“It’s quite alright.” He ripped the rogue accessory from his face and handed it to her, ignoring the curious stares of passersby. “No harm done, ma’am, I assure you.”

Their gazes met, and she flattened a hand on her tightly cinched waist.

Shit. Of all the women in Des Moines to run into.

Any other time, John would have taken this opportunity to flirt, but Lord, not with her. Ten years later, and Eleanora Hubbard’s fair, heart-shaped face remained the same. Wind-tousled curls of auburn hair fell from her bun, a few of them tangling with her pearl earrings. Her full, raspberry lips grimaced with embarrassment, and the depth of her sea-green eyes... those seemed different. Exactly how they had changed, he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Still beautiful—more striking then he remembered. No doubt her prude and snobbish personality had remained unaltered.

If she recognized him, she didn't show it.

“This silly thing came loose in the wind.” She spoke with a nervous chuckle, splotches of crimson fresh upon her cheeks. “I’d barely secured another pin when it blew right off my head. Hats aren’t worth the trouble on days like these, I’m afraid.” Tucking the straw monstrosity beneath her arm, she brushed the unruly tendrils from her face. “Are you certain you’re all right? You’re… bleeding just a little.”

Was he? He wiped a hand across his cheek. It stung, but a polite smile kept her from knowing it. “I’ve been attacked by similar things in the wind. Newspapers, blinding soot, parasols—a stray pigeon here and there. Now I can cross hats off my list. I must admit yours put up a good fight.”

“You are being far too kind.” Returning his smile, she looked at the suitcase in his hand. “I am so sorry again to have startled you. I shall be out of your way before my hat decides to return for a re-match. Safe travels and have a lovely afternoon.”

He tipped his bowler. “Same to you, madam.”

They exchanged a cordial nod, and she continued down the street. She hadn’t a clue—thank God. He never should have worried. The woman was such a self-absorbed socialite that she probably wouldn’t recognize her own mother in passing.

He wiped his cheek again and had barely taken three steps in the opposite direction when he noticed a neglected parcel on the sidewalk.

Typical.

“Miss Hubbard, you forgot something!” he called, snatching it up by the twine string.

She spun around, pressing a palm to her forehead. “Oh, my goodness! Thank you! I swear my mind is all over the place this morning, and I just cannot seem to keep—” All at once, she froze. Pursing her lips, she studied him curiously. “I beg your pardon, but have we met?”

Shit, shit, shit. You used her name, you fool! He’d no choice but to acknowledge it now. Clenching the taught package string until it dug into his flesh, he strode toward her. “The years have certainly changed my appearance more than they have yours, and I mean that in the best way possible. You look wonderful as ever, Eleanora.”

She took a step back, a play of emotions highlighting every feature. Her cheeks colored yet again, and then her brow wrinkled. Finally, her eyes widened, and she took a step back. Her mouth went agape. “John Baldwin.”

He inclined his head. “It’s been a long time.”

“Yes, indeed. It has been a… very long time,” she stammered, her voice suddenly tight and high-pitched. Despite her shock, he could tell she thought him handsome.

“Here, let me help you with these,” he offered, holding up the parcel.

“No, no, that is quite all right,” she answered quickly. “My buggy is just around the corner. But my, what a surprise to see you. May I ask what you are visiting Richmond for?”

John faltered. She wasn’t behaving in the manner he was accustomed to. Women usually played the damsel in distress in his presence, or giggled uncontrollably while avoiding eye contact, but Nellie boldly met his gaze.

Eventually, he would have to tell her the truth. Ah well. It was better to catch flies with honey than vinegar. “What are your plans for the rest of the day?”

Her composure returned, reminding him of the imperious Eleanora he once knew. “I just have a few more errands to run, and I suppose that is all.”

“Well then, I’d love to buy you a soda and have a proper reunion.”

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

She smiled, but it looked forced. “A generous offer, sir, but I will have you do no such thing. I insist you drop by my home this afternoon for a nice cold glass of lemonade instead. How does four o’clock sound to you?”

He grinned. “Sounds dandy.”

She pulled a small card and pen from her reticule and began jotting down an address. As she wrote with her left hand, he noticed the sparkling sapphire ring upon her finger. That’s right, Eleanora was widowed. What was her wedded name again? He couldn’t for the life of him remember.

Not wanting to be caught staring, he took the paper and placed it in his jacket pocket. “Wonderful. Four o’ clock. I look forward to it.”

“As do I. Feel free to ask the locals for directions if you become lost,” she said, freeing his hand of the package. “You will find that the Midwest possesses unmatched hospitality. I’ll be seeing you soon, Mr. Baldwin.”

He didn’t expect the confident way she had spoken to him, but then again, she had no idea he would be attending Caroline’s party. When she did find out, the talons would emerge.

“Take care.” He tipped his hat once more and watched her disappear around the corner shop, hips swaying.

What a marvelous little backside she had. The Hubbard sisters were certainly blessed in terms of looks. But so many women were attractive. Personality held equal, if not greater importance in a wife. Caroline’s suitors probably knew as much. But those men didn’t stand a chance against her aloof nature, free spirit, and quick wit. No man but John.

He retrieved his abandoned suitcase, wiped his brow, and continued down the busy road. A large lunch and long nap would do him good before being thrust back into Eleanora’s company. She’d been kind to invite him to her home, knowing full well he was Teddy’s brother.

Just as he’d suspected, she was far past it by now.

***

Today must be cursed.

Nell sighed as Ruth vigorously dabbed at the massive stain on her blue bodice. First her hat blows off—into John Baldwin of all people—and now, her poor dress. Grace clutched her nanny Johanna’s skirt, sucking her thumb and crying like an abandoned kitten. Even Nell found it difficult to mind her daughter’s sensitive nature; she’d barely gasped when Grace spilled milk onto her silk dress, yet that had been enough to set the child off.

“Everything is fine, Button. See? Ruth is fixing it right now.” Nell smiled and patted her maid’s shoulder in a friendly manner.

Ruth nodded cheerfully. “I’ll make it good as new, wee miss. I promise.”

“But... I... got... Mama’s... pretty... dress... dirty,” Grace gasped between sobs.

“T’was an accident, my love.” Nell held out her hand. Grace approached and clutched it tightly. “You remember what I told you about accidents, don’t you?”

A pair of piercing azure eyes came back to haunt her. Her blood chilled, and she remembered Arthur demeaning her for every little mistake. Wearing too revealing or too modest a dress. Speaking too much or too little. Spilling a drop of salad dressing on the fine table linen. Holding another man’s arm too tightly. A proper woman never did anything wrong. A proper woman was perfect—his wife was perfect. Thankfully, Grace barely remembered him.

Grace sniffled and recited, “Don’t be ashamed when an accident is to blame.”

“Precisely.” Nell reached down and lifted her daughter’s chin. “So, dry those tears and hold your head high. Mama must prepare to visit with a guest now, while Johanna takes you upstairs for your bath.” She kissed Grace’s soft, wet cheek. “I will see you very soon, Button.”

Grace nodded taking her nanny’s hand.

“You know,” Johanna said as she guided Grace out of the parlor, “when I was a wee girl, I got mud all over me mam’s new dress.”

Grace gasped. “Oh, no! Was she angry?”

“Oh, aye. T’was a whole lotta mud, too and right before church…” When they turned down the hall, Johanna’s thick Irish accent and Grace’s resounding giggles trailed off into a muffle.

“So,” Ruth smirked, continuing to dab at the stain. “Tell me more about this Mr. Baldwin who caught your hat this morning.”

“I never should have invited him here,” Nell said with a sigh. She regretted how flustered she’d become in his presence. As if she’d never known a boy could grow into a man. “I haven’t seen him in close to ten years. What are we supposed to talk about?”

“You’ve known him for yonks, haven’t you? A long time?”

Nell nodded. “In New York, our families had lived just down the road from one another. His brother Theodore was a year older than me, and John was Margaret’s age. We were members of the same church, attended the same parties, and we had the same friends.”

“There you are. Just speak about the past.”

“That might not be the best idea.”

“Oh?”

“John never cared for me, Ruth. In fact, the feeling was mutual. I only invited him to be polite—”

“Pardon me, Madam.” Hugo appeared in the arched doorway. “Mr. John Baldwin is here to see you.”

Nell nodded to her butler. “Yes, thank you, Hugo. Please show him in.”

Ruth moved away, assessing the offensive milk stain. “That’s all I can take out at the moment. Sure you don’t want me to fetch you a different bodice? It’ll only take a minute.”

“No, dear, that won’t be necessary. I have no one to impress.” Nell tugged at her sleeves and smoothed her blue satin skirts. Two years ago, she would have had every curl in place, her dress completely wrinkle-less, and the finest French fragrances coating her neck. But there were far more important things than a pristine appearance.

“Aye, best of luck, mam.” Ruth took up her washcloth and soapy glass of water, slipping past Baldwin as he strolled into the room.

Away from the prying public, Nell could finally take a good look at him without feeling inappropriate. He stood just shy of six feet—perhaps five-foot-eleven or so. Dark chocolate eyes framed a handsome, square-set face, his thick crop of hair equally as dark. The rich outlines of his shoulders strained against the fabric of his three-piece-suit. Yes, quite different from the scrawny adolescent she’d remembered long ago. A decade of growth had unfortunately done him good.

She offered a vague, closed mouth smile. “John Baldwin, I’m so pleased you could make it.”

“Glad to be here, thank you,” he said, pulling the bowler from his head. Spinning the brim in his hands, he took in her soiled dress. “I only hope I’m not inconveniencing you.”

“Not at all. Have a seat, won’t you?” In a grand, awkward gesture, she motioned to the green settee across from her. “Spilled milk, I’m afraid,” she said, lowering herself into the nearest armchair. Pursing her lips, she braced herself for a patronizing reaction.

“Ah.” To her surprise, his mouth twitched with amusement. “Well, it is an honor to be in the presence of General George Washington.”

What in the world? “I ... beg your pardon?”

“Do you have a mirror?”

Nell’s cheeks grew hot, and she clasped her hands together to keep from slapping him. Judgment was one thing, but name-calling? Of all the terrible insults— No one had ever compared her to an old president before! She gaped as Baldwin strode toward the console table. He took the silver hand-held mirror that rested on top, claimed a seat on the settee, and angled the looking glass so it faced her.

“Look, see?” He showed her the stain’s reflection. “It’s unmistakable. President Washington’s ghost has decided to manifest in the form of a spot upon your dress.”

She peered into the mirror, focusing on the unsightly blotch. It took but a second to see it. Of all the ridiculous things. There, plain as day, she could clearly make out the chin, nose and powdered wig of Washington’s profile.

She smiled to shield her embarrassment. “How very clever. You’ve always had an eye for detail, haven’t you? You used to win all those memory games we played.”

“With the little pictures?” he said brightly. “I loved those games. I might have been a little too good at them. Nowadays, I tend to voice my observations as they pop into my head, without putting much thought into how they might be received.”

“Well, it was my fault for assuming the worst. Something I must work on.” What on earth had possessed her to say that? The blame didn’t belong with her! When he stood to return the mirror, she grimaced behind his back.

“I felt awful when I noticed the way your shoulders raised ever so slightly, and how the gentle glimmer in your eyes turned to flames when I mentioned Washington.”

He had the confident tone of a man used to getting his way. Where had that scrawny adolescent gone? She had no problem picking on that boy. Indeed, young Johnny had grown into quite the charmer. But fluff and praise would get him nowhere.

At least, it shouldn’t. Somehow, the rehearsed Washington line felt like the most authentic flattery she’d had in years. Goodness, why did this feel so trying?

Ruth entered the room with a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses filled with ice—a perfect distraction from the martyrdom contest. Dinner was just around the corner. In the meantime, she only had to withstand a half-an-hour of idle-prattle with a man she never had to see again. She could manage this. She was a professional at petty conversation.

The ice crackled and popped as Ruth poured them each a glass. “Ring if you need anything else, madam.” she said, just before hurrying out of the room.

“Thank you,” he said with a smile.

“Yes, thank you, Ruth.” Nell sipped her lemonade, listening to the floorboards creak as he traveled back toward his seat.

“So,” she said at last. “What brings you to Des Moines, Mr. Baldwin?”

“Mr. Baldwin?” He jerked his head back. “Whatever happened to John?”

“John,” she parroted, counting the ice in her glass to keep from looking at those troublesome dark eyes again. “Forgive me. I used to call you that, didn’t I?” That, and a variety of other, less desirable names.

“I think it would be grand if we could pretend no time has passed between us.” He settled deeper into his chair in a masculine fashion, with one bent leg resting on the other. “But that might be wishful thinking, considering the circumstances of our last interaction. I’d be more than willing to start anew, as grown adults living mature lives.” Raising his glass, he took a large gulp of lemonade. “Mm, that’s delicious. The perfect combination of sweet and sour.”

Nell sipped politely, lost as to why this man wanted to make amends. Was he dying? Did he need to clear his conscience with those he'd wronged? Surely, he didn’t plan on developing some sort of friendship with her. Or perhaps it was far simpler than that. Ten years was a very long time, after all, and he was right; they were adults now. She’d grown into a completely different person since then, so why couldn’t John?

For the first time since their reunion, she buried the remainder of her old grudge in a shallow grave. Perhaps someday, it might sink deeper. “A lemon soda phosphate will never be as refreshing as homemade lemonade,” she said, allowing herself a small, yet genuine grin.

“True, but there is that tingling sensation only a soda can give.” His tone was playful, inviting. “It bubbles across your tongue like a thousand tiny sparks. Makes me feel like a kid every time.”

“I never said all sodas didn’t compare. Egg phosphates could very well be my favorite beverage in the entire world.”

“Well then, I’ll have to treat you to one sometime this week.” His eyes lit, and he smiled that confident smile again. “I’m so glad we’re on good terms, Nellie.”

She glanced away while taking a dainty sip. “Is that how long you’re staying? A week?”

“Give or take.”

“And you never mentioned why you’ve come to Des Moines of all places.”

When he raised his glass to his lips, she could see the hesitation written all over his face, like a bold advertisement on the side of a building. “Actually… I’ve come to attend a party. Your sister’s party.”