Hidden in a Whisper (10 page)

Lettie giggled as though she were a young girl instead of a woman quickly approaching her fifties. “We're having a sewing circle tomorrow morning, and you would certainly be welcome to attend.”

“I hardly think so,” Esmeralda replied, looking down her nose at the woman. She had worked hard to establish a position of aloofness and reserve. Sometimes it served her well, and other times the loneliness it caused consumed her. However, sewing circles were hardly the type of socializing Esmeralda would bend to attend. Instead, she looked forward to the class of clientele that would be drawn to Casa Grande. The resort was expensive, and that in and of itself would help to keep the riffraff out. And given the diversity of Morita, Esmeralda was a firm believer in keeping society properly divided.

“Well, you'd be welcome just the same,” Lettie continued. “We all think it's just wonderful the way Morita is coming to life. I walked down Main Street yesterday and thought I'd bust a button when I saw the new apothecary. You know how I suffer with my headaches and that strange little pain I get in my back. It'll be nice to have remedies so close at hand.”

Esmeralda harumphed this breech of etiquette. Lettie would have discussed her physical ailments with total strangers if given a chance.

But instead of rebuking, Esmeralda picked up a bell to ring for tea.

“I'm certain the town will continue to grow and meet the additional needs of its citizens,” she finally replied. “Ah, here is Eliza with our tea.”

Esmeralda hired only a few workers for her home. She cherished her privacy, and a large house staff would hardly fit with this need. Servants tended to put their noses where they oughtn't. With only a few trusted people—a cook, a butler, and a housemaid—Esmeralda was more certain of keeping them under control.

The young, dark-headed woman poured their tea and offered a selection of cakes before replacing the tray on the cart and bobbing a curtsy. Esmeralda waved her off before sipping the lightly creamed tea.

“I presume Mr. Johnson is busy at work on the church budget,” Esmeralda said as she placed her cup and saucer on a nearby table.

Lettie took a bite of her rich dessert, spilling powdered sugar on the front of her brown dress. She laughed and nodded, working to brush off the crumbs. “That he is,” she managed to say in between chewing. She didn't appear to notice that her manners were atrocious.

“He's real excited about the improvements you want to make. Just imagine, real pews in the church! Those benches have been so uncomfortable that it's hard to concentrate.”

Esmeralda rolled her eyes, grateful that Lettie's attention was focused on the dessert tray. “Would you care for another?”

Lettie grinned. “Well, I shouldn't, but you know you have the best cook in town. Perhaps you should have her start up a bakery. I'll bet folks would come from miles around.”

Esmeralda nodded. “I'll keep that in mind. Please help yourself.”

Lettie did so, as Esmeralda knew she would. She could hardly abide the woman's manners, but there was something about these Tuesday afternoon visits that Esmeralda refused to let go of. Perhaps it was because Lettie was one of the few to come calling. Esmeralda ranked herself clearly above the other women in the community, and she could hardly expect them to worship at the heels of their matriarch and include her in daily activities.

“So what else do you have planned for Morita?” Lettie asked.

Knowing the woman to be unable to keep a secret, Esmeralda smiled stiffly. She had long since learned that this was the easiest way to get information out and about the town. “We are to have a new dentist and another dry goods store,” she told the woman. “We have a new saloon, which of course I was not a bit happy about, but it is on property that did not belong to me. I suppose they shall make a rowdy time for themselves,” Esmeralda relayed, “but with them positioned near the river, it is my hope that they will not be a problem to proper society.”

Lettie laughed. “Saloons and soiled doves seem to be a natural fact of life for towns out here. Why, the mining town we left in Colorado had twenty saloons in a four-block setting. We didn't even have a school or proper church building, but those saloons were never empty.”

Esmeralda nodded, knowing that the woman spoke the truth. Until the Santa Fe had agreed to purchase her land for Casa Grande resort, she could easily say that the saloon was probably the most productive business in her town.

“Speaking of saloons,” Lettie said, leaning forward, “did you hear that Mrs. Mills'husband was locked up again?” She didn't wait for Esmeralda to respond. “He shot a hole in the floor of the Mad House Saloon and threatened the bartender when he refused to pour Mr. Mills another drink. The poor woman was beside herself when she learned the news. It practically broke her heart. You know they have five children and barely make ends meet with his profits from the mercantile. Not only that, she's going to have another baby, and I figure it was this that sent Mr. Mills to the saloon.”

“Another child is far from what they need,” Esmeralda admitted.

“Well, they aren't the only ones making additions to the town,” Lettie replied. “We have at least three women in the congregation who will give birth next year. Of course, I can't mention them by name, but one of them just married two weeks ago. I'd imagine we'll see that baby arriving just a little sooner than the date on their marriage license would indicate proper.”

Esmeralda nodded and listened as the woman continued to chatter about the matters of the townsfolk. One child had a broken arm, another had nearly drowned in the river but was saved by a kindly passerby. The town marshal believed he would seek out a deputy, and the butcher was to have fresh lamb available on the day after tomorrow.

Eventually the conversation lagged, and as it did, Esmeralda followed routine and glanced up at the ornate mantel clock. “My, but the afternoon is getting away from us.”

“Oh, indeed,” Lettie replied, wiping her mouth with her linen napkin. “I still have several calls to make so I mustn't tarry here. I do wish you would reconsider the sewing circle. We would be pleased to have you join us.” She brushed off her crumbs, mindless of where they fell, and placed her teacup on the serving cart. “It's always so nice to chat with you.”

Esmeralda walked her to the door, ignoring the way Lettie gaped at the furnishings of the house.

“You simply must take me on a tour of the house when I have more time,” Lettie said.

This, too, was a part of the routine. Lettie always pushed for an invitation to see beyond the front parlor, and Esmeralda always managed to put her off with a simple, “We shall see.” Lettie never seemed to understand that she had once again overstepped the bounds of propriety. Nor did she worry overmuch about what Esmeralda thought.

She seemed quite happy just to make her rounds and visit—sharing tidbits of information Esmeralda might otherwise never hear. Lettie Johnson was better than any town newspaper.

“Give my regards to the pastor,” Esmeralda told the woman as she pulled on her bonnet.

“I will do that. See you Sunday,” Lettie replied, taking herself down the stone steps. “Oh, and don't forget there's to be a potluck dinner after church. I sure hope you'll come.”

“I seriously doubt that I will,” Esmeralda replied. She offered neither explanation nor excuse, and Lettie didn't press for one.

Esmeralda sighed in relief after the woman had gone, but even as she closed the door, she realized the sensation of emptiness that flooded the house. It was bad enough that Ivy had chosen to stay on at the resort. She had thought to bring the girl home and still allow her to maintain her ludicrous idea of waiting tables for the Harvey House, but that failed to work out.

She remembered their fierce argument when Ivy had learned of Esmeralda's decision to remain in Morita. It hadn't been a pretty sight because Ivy had felt certain they would return to her own native St. Louis or maybe even Chicago. But when Esmeralda had announced the coming of the resort and her decision to help Morita flourish, Ivy had been livid.

The girl had even refused to speak to her for days, but because she was underage, there was little she could do. Esmeralda was in charge, and without her approval, Ivy had little or no funds with which to make a move. She had hoped to guide the child into understanding how one could easily invest money and, if done properly, see a nice return for their efforts. But Ivy couldn't care less. She wanted nothing more than a wealthy husband and a home of her own.

Esmeralda looked up the long staircase to the second floor. Ivy's empty room stood just to the left of the top of the landing. The door was closed, reserved for that time when Ivy should choose to come home. Esmeralda didn't waste time worrying about when that might be. The child was stubborn and headstrong. Her willful nature had destroyed much of her life, and though Esmeralda had tried to mold her into a responsible adult, Ivy missed the mark in many ways.

Walking back to the parlor, Esmeralda stared at an oil painting of her now departed brother, Carl. “I fear I've failed you. Ivy is hardly the child you would have taken pride in.” She drew a heavy breath and realized the futility of talking to the image. She was totally on her own in the matter of trying to rear Ivy in a responsible manner. That the child had no moral values and no interest in godly matters was alarming enough. But that she put her own aspirations and desires ahead of everyone else's, even to the point of hurting those around her, was too much for Esmeralda to comprehend. Perhaps it was better to give her over to Rachel Taylor and the Harvey system. At least that redheaded manager seemed not to be intimidated by Ivy's cunning and conniving ways.

“Perhaps this will help the child to change,” Esmeralda muttered to herself, having little faith in the thought.

  
SEVEN
  

AFTER IMMERSING HIMSELF in his new duties for over a week, Braeden realized the job of managing Casa Grande was going to entail a great deal more than he'd originally understood. He was not only in charge of keeping the hotel books and records, arranging for the supplies and staff, and seeing to the reservations for special events, but he was also responsible for bringing in entertainers, scheduling resort appearances, and continuing to improve the grounds. Dealing with entertainment, he quickly learned, was guaranteed to be enough to drive him positively insane.

Making his way back from the telegraph office at the depot, he felt only a moderate amount of relief from the two telegrams in his pocket. Both confirmed acceptance of performances for future dates, one by a well-known acting troupe and another by a renowned European opera singer who would divert from Denver to join them in Casa Grande on the twenty-first of October. He supposed he should feel happy about the news, but he found he couldn't take pleasure in the matter when his thoughts were consumed with Rachel.

A mountain breeze blew across the valley, causing Braeden to raise his head. The dry warmth of the air felt good against his skin. The past few days had been unseasonably warm, and in spite of the modern convenience of electric lights and fans, Braeden knew Casa Grande would be rather stifling by midday. He speculated that once they were actually up and running with guests, most folks would take afternoon naps or spend quiet moments in the shaded gardens. For himself, he knew there would be more than enough work to occupy him through the heat of the day and didn't relish the idea at all. Chicago could have its own blistering summers, but generally they were mild and easily tolerated. He had no idea what to expect from New Mexico. Nor did he know what to expect from Rachel.

The walk from the depot to the resort wasn't all that far, but Braeden slowed his approach to the two-story hotel when his thoughts rested on Rachel. She'd been avoiding him as if he were the Grim Reaper. Many times he'd seen her in the dining room and had thought to approach her, only to have her duck out through the kitchen and into the private parlor for the Harvey Girls. Men were simply not allowed in that portion of the hotel, and infringing upon this rule would mean instantaneous dismissal. Braeden had little desire to be fired, but he had an overwhelming need to set the record clear with the only woman he'd ever really cared for.