Michigan, 1926
Elias Andrew Lawson III whistled as he walked down Main Street to the bookstore and newsstand where he always picked up his morning papers. Sure, he could’ve had the local news delivered right to his doorstep, but this was better. It meant that almost every morning of the week, he got to start the day with Annette Price’s smile.
He ducked in the door and tipped his hatÑa dashing new tan fedora he’d bought in Chicago last week. ‘Beautiful day, Nettie.'
‘Good morning, Mr. Lawson.' The pretty young clerk looked up at him with eyes as blue as Lake Michigan on a summer afternoon. There was no smile today, though, and the eyes were quickly shuttered by her long dark lashes. ‘Which papers will it be today, sir?'
‘The Chronicle, of course.' Eli always picked up the Carstairs, Michigan paper. As one of the town’s three attorneys, it didn’t pay to be behind on local knowledge. ‘And the Chicago Tribune, I think. I had the New York Times yesterday.'
‘And the Boston Herald the day before that.' She plucked the papers from their racks behind the sales counter. ‘Can I get you anything else?'
‘You could call me Eli, like I’ve asked you to a hundred times.' She blushed and he relented, as usual. ‘Any other news I should know about?' He knew she scanned the headlines as she set out the papers in the morning so she could make recommendations.
She shrugged. ‘President Coolidge is sending troops to control the looting in Miami after the hurricane. They’re saying there could be thousands of people dead by the time the numbers are all in. I’m sure glad we don’t get those here on Lake Michigan.'
‘No, just tornados, blizzards, and ice storms.' He laughed lightly, noting that today she didn’t chuckle with him. He watched her hands, noting a small bruise that circled her left wrist. Damn it, her father had been knocking her around again. Why didn’t she move away? He knew she was of age. She’d gone to grade school with his younger sister Diana.
‘And fires.' She gave him a polite, professional smile and tugged down the sleeve of her prim white blouse. ‘We should have the new Conan Doyle novel, The Mists of Time in sometime next week. I’ll be sure to save you a copy.'
‘You do that.' After paying, he gave her a wave and left the shop, having come up with no more reasons to linger.
What did it say about him that picking up his newspapers was the highlight of his day? As he walked down the street, quiet now that it was September and most of the lake tourists had gone home, he waved at Stan Glenn, who was washing the town’s brand new, state of the art pump and ladder engine in front of the fire hall.
Eli smiled. About the only thing that made his blood pump like Nettie Price was fighting fires. Someday, Carstairs would have a professional, paid fire department. For now, they were all volunteers, except for Stan, the mechanic who looked after the equipment and manned the station house night and day. Eli supposed it was a good thing that he was able to volunteer, but still earn his living as a lawyer. If his banker father thought Eli had shamed the family by going into law, the elder Lawson would have had a heart attack to see his son as a professional fireman instead.
Nettie watched Eli as he walked away from the bookstore, down Main Street toward his law office. Did he know he’d burned off most of one tawny eyebrow? He probably didn’t care. Unlike most rich men who made a big show of donating money to charity and giving nothing of themselves, Eli was the heart and soul of Carstairs’ growing fire department. He’d donated the pump and ladder truck, which was so newfangled, it had to be shipped from the east coast. He’d also volunteered to be the driver, traveling to Chicago for a week-long training course. Based on the frequent burn marks he seemed to ignore, he didn’t stay in the truck while the others worked, either. Brave, foolish man. The town was lucky to have him.
‘Everything all right, Nettie?' James Webster, the owner of the bookstore and Nettie’s godfather, emerged from the back room, his spectacles perched low on his nose.
Nettie straightened an already perfect stack of Chronicles. ‘It’s a beautiful morning, sir.' She unintentionally parroted Eli’s words. Her mind was still on his face, ruggedly handsome and framed by short golden brown hair that had a tendency to wave. Even his eyes were a bright amber-brown, and she couldn’t help but imagine him as a lion, brave, strong, and intent on protecting his prideÑwhich in this case was the entire town.
‘Nettie? You’re sure you’ll be all right handling the store on your own? I can get Walt to come in and help after school and on Saturdays.' Walter Pratt was the teenager who did deliveries for the shop. Her godfather glanced at Nettie’s wrist and frowned. ‘I really wish you’d stay here for the week. You’d be doing us a favor, watering Muriel’s flowers and such.'
Nettie tugged down her sleeve. ‘I’ll run upstairs and check on the flowers every day when I bring in the mail. If he doesn’t mind, you can have Walt stop by for an hour each afternoon to help with shipments, but other than that, there’s no need to worry. You and Aunt Muriel enjoy your vacation.' They’d offered before to have her move in with them, but they understood. Nettie had responsibilities at home.
‘Well, if things get bad, you have a key.' James lifted her hat and hand bag from the shelf behind her and held them out. ‘Now go on home. We’ll send you a postcard from Pittsburgh.'
‘You do that. And give your new grandson a kiss from me.' Nettie kissed Uncle James on the cheek and left. It was a beautiful early autumn day, so she dawdled a bit, enjoying the warmth of the sunshine and the friendly smiles from other pedestrians on the quiet streets. Carstairs was like most other places on the Lake Michigan shoreÑa three-ring-circus in the summer, but now that the tourists had gone home, it was just another small townÑmuch more homey and inviting.
Homey. Not a word that could be applied to the tiny bungalow on the outskirts of town where Nettie lived with her father. She paused in the driveway and inhaled one last breath of fresh air, wincing as she stretched the bruise on her ribcage from the night before. Putting on her best fake smile, she walked in the side door and hung her gray felt cloche on a peg.
‘You’re late.' The surly voice called from the living room and Nettie breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t slurred. He wasn’t drunkÑnot yet.
‘Sorry, Pa. I had to stop at the post office for Mr. Webster.' She didn’t call her boss Uncle James when she was at home. Alfred Price, her father, didn’t like to be reminded that the well-off Websters were Nettie’s godparents. Aunt Muriel and Mama had been the best of friends as girls, and Pa didn’t much like anything that reminded him of Mama. Mostly that meant he didn’t like anything about Nettie.
‘That penny-pinching bastard better have paid you overtime, then.'
‘He did.' Nettie rolled up her sleeves and took the pot of stew she’d made the night before from the icebox. She’d have to give Pa an extra quarter from the housekeeping budget this week, but the leisurely walk had been worth it.
‘Did you stop at the drug store?' Pa appeared in the doorway, wearing nothing more than a filthy undershirt and a pair of patched-up trousers. Why she bothered doing his laundry was beyond her.
‘I stopped,' she lied, mixing a batch of biscuits to go with the stew. ‘Mr. Murphy said he’ll have your medicine in tomorrow, Friday at the latest.' Everyone in town knew Murphy’s connections in Chicago sent him another batch of whiskey every Monday and Thursday nights, but somehow Pa could never seem to remember that and used up his ‘prescription' before another shipment was due.
‘Bastard.' Pa wasn’t particularly creative with his profanity. He frowned, scratching his forehead with his damaged right hand and she watched him carefully. Although he’d lost three fingers in a mill accident five years earlier, he could still make a terrifying fist.
Nettie sighed as he turned to leave. For once he hadn’t decided to take out his frustration on her. She finished cooking in silence, desperately hoping he didn’t mind beef stew for the second night in a row. He’d been getting less and less careful about where he left the bruises.
At least she wouldn’t be home much for the next month. With the Websters off to see their new grandchild, Nettie would be busier than usual at the shop. She enjoyed any part of the day when she was away from home, but her job was special. She loved books. When she was younger, she’d dreamed of being a writer, someone like Jane Austen or Louisa May Alcott. Later, she’d decided she’d rather read books than write them so she was doubly lucky that her godparents had hired her. She could support her father, and still got to spend her days surrounded by words. She crossed her fingers that he wouldn’t do something criminally stupid and somehow get her fired.