“Wait! Wait a minute. I thought you had something you wanted to talk to me about?”
“Oh, did I?” Hefting the box under one arm, he struggled to open the door’s latch at the same time. “Huh. Can’t remember what it mighta been. Oh, well, if I remember, we can do this again some time. I really do enjoy your company.”
Chapter Nine
ONE NEEDED ONLY A VERY brief acquaintance with Dr. Gabriel Havers to discover that his word was his bond, and he always kept his word. Thus, Hannah was not surprised when he appeared again to disrupt her daily routine, barely a week later. This time he invaded her privacy in the soothing environs of Table of Contents, whence she had taken her weary body and bruised ego to recover under Abigail’s pleasant ministrations.
True to her mission statement, the entrepreneur had been selling odds and ends from the store at a brisk pace. While the contents varied, the quantity never did. A particular set of fine china teacups splashed with purple violets might be replaced by a tea set rimmed in gold oriental design; one small marble-topped table might see as its successor a hand-carved mahogany what-not. But all items remained similar. Either she had been ordering extra-special, unique supplies through Ben’s Mercantile, or she still held in reserve quite a stock from that New York mansion and the wagon train which had transported it into town.
An artful marketer, she had put on display all those gewgaws so dear to a feminine heart: bits of glittering jewelry scattered casually about, as if from some lady’s boudoir; powder boxes and hairbrushes; rows of beeswax candles; lacy shawls wearing the imprint of Spain; packages of fragrant sachet and cut-glass perfume bottles. Comestibles, too, were provided, in tins of loose tea, small attractive bags of coffee beans, boxes of delectable chocolates and imported sweets.
The Table might have been considered a worthy competitor to the Mercantile, were its products not so entirely opposite in design and desirability. Ben dispensed all the practical necessities of life; Abigail dispensed the luxuries. In that, the two establishments could have formed a viable working partnership.
For whatever reason (usually the paucity of her pocketbook), a customer might choose not to buy some sparkly, tempting bauble from the Table’s stores. But she could at least look. And admire.
It was an enterprise to be reckoned with. Already Abigail had hired several employees: a couple of women to work varying shifts, baking and serving, or just tending to the shop itself, if its owner needed to be elsewhere; several men for the heavier clean-up, moving and sorting furniture, loading purchased pieces for transfer to their new owner and unloading pieces to fill in for what was gone. She had also engaged the able assistance of the town’s lawyer and accountant to keep her business afloat.
Table had become quite a gathering place, of local fame. In contrast to the saloons and hotel bar where men could congregate and let down their hair (occasionally, to patrons’ detriment), this was a more genteel emporium. Males seeking something different would sometimes wander in, stay a while in the quiet library, read or converse or choose from a selection of imported cigars.
The ladies, meanwhile, found it a place of refuge.
Mere day-to-day existence for the women of those times, whether given a modicum of freedom as town residents or living in relative seclusion on ranches or farms, was a hard one. They lived, often enough, in loneliness and drudgery, growing thinner and more work-worn and sunk down in misery, with every passing year.
Thus, being able to sink back into the sumptuousness and splendor that surrounded their jaded eyes, came as a brief entrance into heaven. That glimpse gave them strength to return to the dreariness of what they had to endure.
They could leave behind the messiness of cottage and children to bask in a luxurious Victorian drawing room overflowing with sweet light and sweet scent. They could put aside all demands of ordinary life to ascend (however momentarily) to one richer, fuller, lusher. Out of their own faded dreams, new visions might be attained.
Abigail offered this hope to the women of Turnabout, and they accepted her offering with gladness and gratitude.
“But you don’t charge for anything that you serve,” Hannah had curiously pointed out. As if Abigail were not aware of that fact.
“No. This parlor I’ve designed is, in effect, an extension of my own home. If someone stops by, in the mood for some sociality, then it’s like providing refreshments to a guest. Besides,” Abigail’s bright blue eyes twinkled disarmingly, “if you have not already realized it, dear Hannah, I am a very wealthy woman. I can easily afford this sort of hospitality. Now, you’re looking a bit peaked. Try some of my lovely catnip tea.”
Meant to relax and soothe the consumer, Abigail’s magic potion had only begun to do its work when Gabriel thrust open the door and lumbered across the snug vestibule.
“Oh, good, you’re here.” His face lit up against the outside darkness when he spied his prey relaxing upon the plush purple divan.
“Indeed, Doctor. We’re both here,” said Abigail tartly.
“Abby. Sorry. Didn’t mean to be rude.”
“Supposedly you never mean to be.” Taking a long draught from her cup, Hannah stared at the visitor. “Why are you here? Haven’t you a single patient who needs medical care?”
“Well—uh—” His well-worn hat was in his hands, being turned slowly around and around. He presented the very image of discomfiture. Much more, and he’d be digging the toe of his boot into the carpet, in aimless circles, like an abashed small boy. “You got a few minutes?”
Hannah sighed. “I suppose Abigail and I can—”
“No, not both of you. Just you. Oh, hogwash, there I go again. I apologize, Abby, I didn’t intend to offend you.”
Smiling, she rose and swished back her elegant turquoise skirts. “You never do, Gabe. By now, I’ve learned to accept your little foibles. Why not go back into the farthest corner of my library? It’s quite private there, and not many people are out and about on this cold night.”
“Gol’ dang it,” expostulated Gabe, as they threaded their way through furnishings in the
pseudo-drawing room and entered the more discreet area of the library beyond. “I been all over town lookin’ for you. Where’djoo skitter off to?”
He escorted her to a cozy book-lined ell, somewhat cordoned off from anyone else accidentally meandering in by a velvet portière and occupied by two damask wing chairs—a section deliberately made more masculine than feminine. It wasn’t until Hannah had swept aside her skirt to take a seat that she answered.
She smirked. “I wasn’t aware that I needed to inform you of my whereabouts.”