Blossom (The Blossom Trilogy Book 1) Page 12

  You can bet your Aunt Bertha’s bloomers that he’s breaking in a new filly—only she’s wearing a pink dress and he’s not in a saddle, thought Faye.

  Clarissa continued softly, “I’ll never understand the pleasure he gets from those smelly cows and horses, and that fly-infested barnyard out in the middle of nowhere. But there are worse things a man can do with his time. Horses are fine by me…just so I don’t have to spend any time with them or Brock up there.”

  “Are you two planning to have dinner tonight?”

  “Yes, after he cleans up, he’s coming here for his favorite meal: corned beef and cabbage. I detest it, but he’ll never know because I devour it as if it’s my favorite too!”

  “My, my, my…how devious and deceptive of you. This whole marriage thing is changing you into a person I don’t think I know anymore.”

  “I hope I’m not being devious—well at least not much. I’m sure that our mothers did the same thing as newlyweds. Like twirling around a dance floor, it’s best to follow the man’s lead. There will be plenty of time to guide things later,” said Clarissa in a crafty sort of way.

  “I’m sure you’re right. You usually are. I’m going to miss spending so much time with you. I’ll just have to rush off and get married myself so that we can experience wedded bliss together.”

  “Is Burt Lovell still interested in you? Or should I rephrase that question and ask if you’re at all interested in Burt?”

  “Burt’s nice enough, I guess. But there’s just no spark between us—not like the one you and Brock must share. Burt needs a woman to teach him how to kiss, and I’m not that woman. That’s not to say that I haven’t done my share of teaching boys about girls, but Burt just isn’t worth the effort.”

  Clarissa was well aware of Faye’s encounters with men, since she’d always told Clarissa about each one in great detail, whether she wanted to know or not. Much to Faye’s frustration, Clarissa was particularly guarded about the romantic aspects of her relationship with Brock.

  “I wouldn’t know much about other men, since I’ve only dated Brock,” confided Clarissa in a slightly self-righteous way. “He’s such a polite and sensitive man, not at all pushy or demanding like the men you’ve told me about, Faye.”

  “Heavens, you’re practically married! You mean to tell me that he hasn’t forced himself on you yet? Not even the slightest bit?”

  “No, absolutely not. Should I be worried?”

  “You bet your garters you should be worried, especially if you plan on keeping him your husband or having a passel of babies!”

  “Faye, you are too, too bad!”

  “Oh, it’s good to be bad! But honestly, I’m not bad. I’m just an experienced single woman.” Brock’s way too polite. I’m going to do my damndest to make her suspicious, especially after what I saw in Chinatown.

  Chapter 16

  Not A Good Idea

  Sunday, April 15, 1906, 4:58 p.m.

  Three days before the earthquake and firestorm

  “Clip-clop. Clip-clop. Clip-clop.” Brock’s carriage slowly pulled up to the front of Chinatown’s Tie Yick General Store. Blossom took a quick inventory of her surroundings. Whew! Ruby must have sold all of her flowers and gone home. No familiar faces in sight this time, she thought with relief.

  The pair of black steeds heeded Brock’s firm tug on the reins. Blossom watched his hands. Too bad I can’t pull the reins on time itself and make this afternoon last longer.

  “I’m not sure what to say…how to end this—”

  Blossom interrupted, “Then don’t.”

  “When can I see you again? I don’t dare come into the bakery or restaurant, do I?”

  “No, that’s definitely not a good idea. It’s the exact opposite of a good idea.” He said “dare” again. Should I tell him about the dare I took—”

  “How about we meet at Anna Mae’s?”

  “No.”

  “Can we meet here, right here?”

  “No,” Blossom replied again.

  “Can you say anything other than ‘no’ right now? If you want today to be the beginning of something, then you’ll have to say ‘yes’ at some point. If you don’t and you keep trying to push things off to tomorrow, you’ll just end up with a heap of hollow yesterdays. I sound like some poetic old man, don’t I? Sorry.”

  “It’s fine, really.”

  “Can we meet somewhere outside of Chinatown? Let’s go back to the stables.”

  “I’ll meet you right here tomorrow at three o’clock. Now I’m off to Monique’s to return this dress. Take one last look at it and me. The next time you see me I’ll look like the bakery girl you first met.”

  Brock scanned her body from toe to top and leaned in for a quick kiss. As their lips met, the horses lurched forward and yanked the carriage.

  “What is it with you? The ground keeps moving underneath me every time we kiss,” said Blossom.

  Brock got out of the rig and came around to Blossom’s side to help her down. She sighed with relief that she’d made it to the sidewalk without tripping.

  “Would you rather have me drop you off at your friend’s house, the one you borrowed the dress from? Monique, wasn’t it?”

  “No, this is good. I’ll tell you about Monique another time. It’s probably best that you don’t visit her house today, especially in the daylight!”

  Brock looked at her curiously as she grinned.

  “See you soon.”

  “Not soon enough.”

  ***

  Several doors down, Butch was speaking to a man outside his butcher shop. The girl in pink caught his eye. She stood there as the impressive carriage pulled away. He squinted to clearly see the girl’s face before she turned and began to walk away in a hurry.

  She was hardly recognizable, but he knew it was Blossom. He’d know her anywhere, anytime. He felt the cold stab of jealousy and through tight lips he forced out the word—and only one word—“Mine!”

  The man Butch was talking with looked confused and turned to see in the direction Butch was staring.

  “Mine!” Butch said it again and then once more, “MINE!”

  Chapter 17

  Something Blue

  Sunday, April 15, 1906, 5:39 p.m.

  Three days before the earthquake and firestorm

  Stepping out of the hot bathtub in a steamed-up bathroom, Brock reached for the pale blue towel that was mysteriously no longer on the counter where he thought he’d left it.

  “Looking for this?” taunted Austin, as he wildly waved the towel in the air from his hiding place just outside the doorway leading to the connected bedroom.

  “Does big brother need a towel?”

  “Austin, give it to me now!”

  In a girlish falsetto, Austin replied, “Oh, Brock, you big hunk of a man. If you want it, then you’ll have to sashay over here and get it yourself!”

  It was no secret that Austin rejoiced in teasing and taunting his older brother. It was a well-perfected game they’d played for years in about every situation imaginable. Austin did all he could to upset the golden apple cart.

  “Just a few more days and this will be over. You’re such a child. What are you, twelve or twenty-two? Honestly, give me the towel or—”

  “Or what? You’ll walk down the hall buck-naked to the linen room wagging your dragon around, or should I say your newt? You can’t call Wanda—or whatever the new maid’s name is—to bring you a towel? Come on, face it. You’re at my mercy.”

  With that, Brock opened the hallway door and immodestly strutted down to the second-floor linen room. Luckily, no one else was around or there would have been hell to pay, and Austin would have been the one to pay the bill. But in the early evening, the entire staff was likely enjoying their dinner in the kitchen. Brock was betting on it.

  The satisfaction of forcing his brother to walk the main hall of their house naked should have been enough, but not for Austin. He walked passed Brock and lunged forward in a feeble atte
mpt to pull off the towel and run. But Brock was wise to his brother’s antics and kept a firm grasp on the towel.

  “You better get moving, Austin, before I kick your ass so hard you’ll be wearing it like a hat!”

  “Dinner in Chinatown again tonight, Brock?” Austin yelled at the top of his lungs so that he could be heard throughout the house. Towel or no towel, Austin always exhausted every possible opportunity to embarrass his brother.

  Brock didn’t respond to Austin’s outburst with words. Rather, he made eye contact. He made a hand motion around his neck and pulled an imaginary rope up like a hangman’s noose. Austin got the message.

  “Brock,” called his mother from the base of the staircase. “Did I hear Austin correctly? I thought you were having dinner with Clarissa?”

  He walked over to the top of the house’s formal staircase in nothing more than a towel around his waist.

  “My stars! What are you doing parading around like a toddler escaping his bath? Oh, I should have known better. It was Austin up to his tricks again, right?”

  “Right,” replied Brock with indignation. Clementine emerged from the kitchen to see what the commotion was about. She stood next to Mrs. St. Clair with a dish towel in her hands.

  “I have to say, this place won’t be the same without you two boys and your constant bickerin’ and fightin’.” Clementine nodded and smiled up at Brock.

  “Right now, I can’t say that I’ll miss it, but someday I might!” Brock grinned at his mother and Clementine.

  Mrs. St. Clair turned to Clementine. “Pretty soon I won’t have to ask you to keep an eye on Austin and whatever mischief he’s up to.”

  “Yes ma’am. I’ll be able to do better. I’ll keep two eyes on him!”

  The women smiled at each other and Mrs. St. Clair tenderly put her hand on Clementine’s wrist.

  “Brock, if you are going to Clarissa’s, why did Austin mention Chinatown?”

  “Mother, Austin must be talking about that wild-goose chase Clarissa sent me on to get a special dessert for the dinner with her bridesmaids.”

  “Fine.” She added in a hushed voice, “While I’m comfortable with our Chinese servants, I’ve never been very comfortable even passing by Chinatown. It’s just so unsavory down there.”

  “You say down there as if Chinatown is in a sewer. I think it’s a pretty fascinating place. In fact, it’s a particularly fascinating place if you ask me.”

  Brock was thinking of Blossom and their afternoon conversations. How am I not going to think about this afternoon during dinner with Clarissa?

  “Well, I’m glad that you’re braver than I am at trying new things.”

  Oh, if she only knew just how brave I’m becoming at trying new things.

  Chapter 18

  Broomstick And Black Cat

  Sunday, April 15, 1906, 6:18 p.m.

  Three days before the earthquake and firestorm

  “Sweetheart, how was your afternoon at your precious barnyard?”

  Oh fine, the first full sentence out of her mouth tonight immediately plants Blossom’s face in my mind, thought Brock.

  He walked into the foyer of the Donohue mansion and kissed Clarissa on the right cheek.

  “Lots of flies and manure. You should spend more time with me up there. Let me rephrase that, you should spend some…a little…time up there with me.”

  “That’s your special place and I have no intention of interfering with it,” said Clarissa.

  “I can’t say I’m surprised by that,” Brock admitted. “But I did have a surprise today. Did you have one too? Did you feel the earthquake?”

  “No. And you’d think I would have since I was alone in my room most of the day, except for when Faye stopped by.”

  This evening was looking dicier by the minute.

  “Did she bring her broomstick and black cat with her?”

  “Be kind. You’re clearly spending too much time with your crass little brother. We’ll soon fix that, now won’t we?”

  Brock nodded.

  Following their meal of corned beef and cabbage, during which Brock had three heaping helpings and Clarissa—with a smile—managed to swallow one serving, the pair retired to the parlor.

  Mrs. Donohue walked by the half-opened pocket door and greeted Brock just as he raised his hand to cover his mouth. He sneezed violently. “Good thing you covered your mouth. That should keep your soul from escaping,” said Mrs. Donohue.

  “Oh, Mother, you can be so superstitious,” Clarissa playfully whined.

  “While I may not totally subscribe to the superstitious beliefs of others, I’m not going to tempt the Fates. You can pooh-pooh it all, but I’m still going to get out of bed and step on my right foot first to make sure I have good luck each day. As for people who cut their fingernails or change their bed sheets for fear of having bad dreams on a Friday, that does seem a bit extreme,” said Mrs. Donohue, shaking her head dismissively.

  Clarissa added, “Faye’s mother told me she believes that the tip of a peacock’s feather has an evil eye, but she has a whole bunch of them in a vase in her parlor. What do you think about when someone dies and the body is in the house, and the family stops every clock in that room at the time of death or they think they’ll have bad luck?”

  “Well, I don’t know. But I suspect you womenfolk are doing some things with our wedding that might be questionable in the minds of some respectable people.”

  “As for weddings, Mother, I’m sure you’ll agree that some superstitions are part of our plans. I remember learning in Miss Merriwether’s etiquette class that there supposedly are lucky and unlucky days and months. Sayings like ‘Monday for health, Tuesday for wealth’ and so on certainly dictate wedding dates for some.”

  Mrs. Donohue added, “Also, warnings like ‘Marry in May and rue the day’ and ‘Marry in Lent, you’ll live to repent’ are definitely heeded by brides and mothers everywhere, I suspect.”

  “Hmmm.” Brock rested his chin between his thumb and index finger in a mocking sort of way. It didn’t stop Clarissa from going on. He picked up what looked like a magazine that was on the settee. It was, in fact, a catalogue from Cawston Ostrich Farm. Brock flipped through the pages that featured beautiful women wearing magnificent plumes on their hats, fans and parasols.

  “I’ve heard that brides must never try on their entire wedding outfits before their wedding days. Oh, here’s one that I just learned. The final stitch in a bride’s gown is not to be completed until just before she leaves for the church.”

  Brock’s attention was completely stolen when he came across a photo in the catalogue of a man feeding oranges to ostriches. There were several oranges stacked up and bulging in the ostrich’s throat.

  “Where did this come from?” he asked.

  “That’s the ostrich farm that Faye and I went to last summer when we visited her relatives down in Pasadena. They send catalogues from time to time,” said Clarissa.

  “Let’s focus on something real. The corned beef was outstanding, as always. My compliments to the cook!” said Brock with satisfaction.

  “I’ll be sure to pass along your compliment, honey,” said Mrs. Donohue as she continued down the entry hallway toward the kitchen. She turned around and poked her head in the doorway.

  “Can Zelda get you two lovebirds some coffee or sweets? Perhaps some brandy or a cigar for you, Brock?”

  As Mrs. Donohue said “lovebirds,” Clarissa’s pair of caged birds in the conservatory began to chirp.

  “Romeo and Juliet, please be quiet,” Clarissa reprimanded the pair of winged pets. They disobeyed by chattering a bit more and then settling down.

  “No Mother, we’re fine. But thank you for the offer,” said Clarissa loudly, adding softly, “and the interruption.”

  “I heard that. I haven’t lost my hearing yet!”

  Clarissa grinned at Brock as he noticed over her shoulder that two Scandinavian-looking servants walked by. Brock noticed how their skin looked as white
as lace and their hair was the color of the dried grass in the late-summer sunshine up on Twin Peaks.

  “Are all of your servants white?” asked Brock.

  “Absolutely, that’s the way my mother wants it. She distrusts people if they aren’t white,” replied Clarissa matter-of-factly.

  “Truly,” was Brock’s initial response. “My parents, especially my father, hired people who weren’t white—on purpose—when he ran the mining business. He said his Chinese employees worked harder than two white men put together. That’s why he paid them more and it caused a big fight with other mine owners whose Chinese workers left to work for Dad.”

  Clarissa looked at Brock with mild disinterest. Talk of work did not usually hold her attention, but especially leading up to the couple’s wedding and all of its taxing details.

  “That’s nice, Sweetheart.”

  “It was Dad who found Clementine working in a restaurant and hired her to be our cook. He made sure that my mother hired Lily to be one of our maids. She’s the wife of a miner who lost a leg while working for Dad at the mine. I’ve grown up with a Southern Black cook and a Chinese maid, just to name two, and never thought it was different from other households, like yours. Our other servants are—”

  Brock noticed that Clarissa’s mind was wandering. She covered her inattention with, “I didn’t know that.”

  “Anyway, how are the wedding plans coming along? Has your checklist gotten shorter?”

  Clarissa beamed. “I think we’re set, thank goodness.”

  She paused.

  “I guess that little paper in the cookie I opened last night was right.”

  She reached for her heart-shaped locket, opened the hinged section and handed it to Brock.

  He unfolded the tiny strip of white paper that read, “Confucius say, ‘Wherever you go, go with all of your heart.’ What happened today that made you think this message held some truth for you?”

  So, two cookies can have the same fortune. What are the odds of that happening? Blossom would know.