Love Finds You in Poetry, Texas (9 page)

“I’m not altogether sure I do.”

Georg stopped dead in his tracks and turned to discover his father standing in the open doorway of the shop.
Oh no.

“So, we’re arguing with the Almighty about the need for a wife? Or would it be...the lack thereof?” His father entered the room with a crooked grin on his face.

“No, I...”

“Listen, son. This is something I should have told you years ago. When the time is right for you to marry, you won’t have to go looking for a wife. Trust me when I tell you this. The Lord will drop her in your lap. You’ll turn around...and there she’ll be.”

Georg sighed and dropped into a chair. “I suppose. But until then, I think I’ll just keep my eyes focused on the business. Can’t go wrong there, can I?”

“Keeping your eyes on the business is a good thing,” his father said, reaching for an apron. “But I’ll tell you the truth. It’s a lonely life for the man who is married to his work.”

Georg never had a chance to carry through with the conversation. The moment he opened his mouth, a rush of customers streamed through the door. In that moment, he made up his mind to do exactly what he’d said he would do: focus on his work. Nothing more, nothing less.

The morning after Corabelle married James, the men came from all corners of the county to inquire about Belinda’s services. First it was Myles Lott, the schoolmaster. Belinda couldn’t help but smile at his enthusiasm as he approached her desk. Who knew the forty-something bachelor had always longed to wed? As his student, she’d never contemplated the possibility. Still, he looked particularly intrigued by the idea. Excited, even. Belinda promised to search for the perfect woman, one suited to the life of a schoolteacher’s wife. And Myles agreed to locate a poem from among the many books in his classroom to use as enticement. She knew he would come up with the perfect verse to win a woman’s heart.

Next came Charlie Grundy, the blacksmith. The poor fellow had lived a lonely life, with few bridal prospects. Of course, his rough exterior could be to blame. Belinda would have to find someone special to accomplish this goal. She knew better than to ask Charlie to compose a poem. Perhaps Peter could help with that one. Or maybe she could come up with something herself. It would really have to be something, to counterbalance the man’s physical appearance.

Bucky Williams, who ran the local gristmill, showed up next. With his hat in his hands, he explained that life would be much sweeter with a wife in the picture. Bucky was a handsome enough fellow, though exceptionally tall and thin. Still, he was quite amiable and always treated others with respect. Surely Belinda could find his perfect match. She promised to speak with Peter about something poetic to include with any letter she might write.

Ironically, Reverend Billingsley showed up next, looking more than a little nervous. He pulled off his hat then peered at her with embarrassment in his expression. “Belinda, I, um—well, I know you must find this rather shocking...a man of the cloth looking for a bride in such a way.”

“Heavens, no, Reverend!” She smiled, hoping to offer him a bit of reassurance. “The Lord moves in mysterious ways, after all.”

“Indeed.” The pastor sighed. “And to be quite honest, ever since Evelyn passed on, I’ve been quite lonely. I love preaching to my congregation, but I miss the joy of having a wife to come home to. And I need someone to aid me in my endeavors to win the lost. So if you’re able to put that into the letter, I would be grateful to pay for your services.”

“Indeed.” Belinda leaned forward and whispered, “How are you at writing poetry, Reverend?”

“P–poetry?” He paled. “Not good. Why?”

“I am a firm believer in wooing women with beautiful words. Perhaps you could write a little verse to include with my letter.”

He paused and appeared to be in thought about it. Finally, he snapped his finger. “Indeed! I know just what to do. I will include a verse from the Song of Solomon. It’s quite poetic.” After a moment’s reflection, his cheeks turned a ruddy color. “Of course, I will have to choose my passage carefully. The Song of Solomon is quite, well, romantic.”

“Yes.” Belinda stifled a laugh. “Please err on the side of caution.”

After the reverend left, several other men showed up, each anxious for a wife. She refused to take money from any of them, even as a retainer. No, until she located the women, she could not.

Once left her to her own devices, Belinda fetched copies of two newspapers—one from Kansas City, the other from Philadelphia. The one from Philadelphia was outdated, but she located the bridal letters inside just the same. One of the letters caught her eye at once. The woman, Marta Schuller, appeared to be highly educated.

Belinda settled into the chair at her desk to read:

F
ORTY-FIVE-YEAR-OLD
P
HILADELPHIA NATIVE
.

E
DUCATED AT THE
U
NIVERSITY OF
P
ENNSYLVANIA, ONE

OF ONLY FOUR WOMEN IN MY CLASS.
W
ORK AS A PRIVATE

TUTOR
. S
EEK NEW LIFE IN
S
OUTHERN TOWN WHERE
I

CAN USE MY COLLEGE EDUCATION AS WELL AS MY SKILLS

WITH CHILDREN
.

Belinda could hardly believe her good fortune! Why, Marta Schuller was perfect for Mr. Lott, the schoolmaster. His scientific equal. No doubt about it. They could combine their efforts and teach the children while enjoying a life of marital bliss. Belinda wrote to her right away. Surely Myles would find the perfect poem from one of his books to sweeten the pot.

Next, she set her sights on finding someone for Bucky Williams. Someone who might make a good gristmill-owner’s wife. She had to smile as she stumbled across the perfect advertisement:

S
OUTHERN GAL SEARCHING FOR A TRUE-BLUE

S
OUTHERN GENTLEMAN
. R
EADY TO SETTLE DOWN AND

RAISE A FAMILY
. S
MALL-TOWN LIFE WOULD BE IDEAL
.

As she read the rest of the piece, Belinda had to admit, this woman—Katie Sue Caldwell—sounded just right for Bucky. Belinda reached for another piece of stationery and filled it with an apt description of Bucky’s attributes. Once done, she tried to come up with something poetic to add, but nothing came to her.

Ironically, just as she gave up on the idea of composing a poem, Belinda heard a familiar voice. She looked up to see Peter Conrad, the town’s most famous poet. The timing could not have been more perfect. She ushered up a silent, “Thank You, Lord!” and then turned her attention to her guest.

“Making matches, Belinda?” the elderly man asked with a twinkle in his eye.

“Indeed.” She smiled as she took in his rugged appearance. Not many men could wear a beard that long, and his mustache hadn’t been trimmed in ages. She often wondered what he looked like, underneath all that hair. “Are you looking for a match, Peter?”

“Certainly not.” His eyes twinkled as he shook his head. “I can assure you, I will never require your services. Life is complicated enough, I daresay. And you know me. I’m a confirmed bachelor. Fifty-nine years without a woman, and I’ve done just fine. I’m of the firm opinion that you shouldn’t try to fix something unless it’s broken.”

“No arguments, then!” She laughed. “Well, if you’re not looking for my help, could I ask for yours?”

“My help?” As his brow wrinkled, the bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows came closer together. “With what?”

“I am in need of love poems. Perhaps I could pay a set fee for love poems to include with the letters I send out to potential brides.”

Peter stared at her, clearly troubled by this suggestion. “You know what the great Leo Tolstoy once wrote, do you not?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t, sorry.”

Peter sighed, as if finding her to be completely devoid of sense. “He said, and I quote, ‘One ought only to write when one leaves a piece of one’s own flesh in the inkpot, each time one dips one’s pen?’ ”

“Beg your pardon?”

“People do not have any business composing poems unless they’ve dipped their lives into the inkwell. That’s what he was trying to say, and I agree completely.”

“O–oh. I see.” Suddenly Belinda felt ashamed for asking.

“No, I’m afraid you don’t understand.” Peter shook his head. “For if you did, you would know that asking a true poet to write love poems for others is virtually impossible. Only when a man or woman’s own heart is involved is the deed possible. I can only write a poem from the depths of my soul if I have actually visited the depths of my soul. And if you are asking me to compose such a piece for another human being, it is simply not possible.”

Belinda nodded, finally understanding. “So you’re saying you cannot help me?”

“No, I’m saying that the poems won’t be as genuine as they should be, for my heart won’t be involved.”

“Ah.” So there was hope. “Peter, you know poetic form. Structure. And surely you can piece together the right words to sound good.”

Peter slapped himself in the head. “This is why writers write and others do not. There is a vast ocean between the two that none can cross, lest they pour out their blood like ink in the attempt.”

“Hmm. Well, that sounds messy,” Greta said, passing by. “And I think you’re making too much of this. Just a couple of simple poems, Peter. Nothing more.”

He rubbed his chin, his brow now wrinkled. “How soon would you need them?”

Belinda gave him a sheepish look. “Well, to be quite honest, I would like to get these letters out today. The pastor is coming up with a verse from Song of Solomon, so we won’t need one for his letter.”

“Song of Solomon, eh?” Peter waggled his brows. “We can only pray he will choose carefully.”

“He will.” She giggled. “And Mr. Lott has agreed to find something from among his books. But that still leaves two letters.”

“Who are the gentlemen?” Peter asked. “Knowing will help me personalize anything I write.”

“Charlie Grundy and Bucky Williams.”

“Ah. I see.” He began to pace. “I have my work cut out for me, then.”

“Yes.” She sighed. “But I know you can do it, Peter. You’re a born poet.”

“Mm-hmm.” He paced a bit longer, finally turning her way. “Tell you what. Let me go ahead and make my purchases and then I’ll head back to my shop to think on this. I’ll have something to you within the hour. Would that work?”

“Beautifully!”

He nodded. “Fine. In the meantime, I’ve come into the store to buy flour and sugar. Could you help me? Greta has gone missing.”

Belinda looked around, finding the store completely empty. Her cousin must be in the back room organizing goods. She flew into action, helping Peter with his purchases, then headed off to find her.

“There you are!” Belinda gasped as she spotted Greta perched atop a chair, trying to reach something from a top shelf in the storeroom. “Let me hold that chair. You could fall.”

“Thanks.” Greta filled her arms with empty canning jars then scrambled down, her skirts all askew. “I didn’t mean to leave you with the customers. But I’m woefully behind on things.”

“Now that I’m so distracted with my work, you mean?” Belinda sighed.

“Oh, I think what you’re doing is a noble thing, so I don’t mind. Not really.” Greta gave her a reassuring smile. “I’ll manage fine.” She chuckled. “Besides, I’m anxious to see how everything turns out. Matchmaking is a lot of fun!”

“You really think so?”

“Really.” Greta nodded. “But what was all that silliness Peter was spouting? Sometimes the man perplexes me.”

“He is of the opinion that the poems won’t sound genuine unless they’re written out of real emotion. And perhaps he’s right, but I don’t know what to do about that.”

“What can you do?” Greta echoed. “The other fellows aren’t poets.”

“Right. Neither do they possess Peter’s wit.” Belinda sighed. “I really need him right now. So, concerned or not, I hope he can come up with a couple of poems for me. Otherwise, I will never find matches for these gentlemen!”

“I daresay you will, if you will look in those newspapers” Greta pointed at a stack of them sitting nearby. “There’s one from Philadelphia, one from New York, one from Kansas City, and another from Biloxi. All filled with advertisements. So get to work, Belinda! Make some matches.”

Belinda grinned then snatched the papers and headed back to her desk at the front of the store. Finding someone to suit the reverend’s needs would definitely be a good place to start. Belinda reached for the newspaper on top—the one from Kansas City—distracted by an ad from a young woman who seemed better suited to Georg. Suddenly, a familiar voice rang out. She looked up to discover none other than Georg himself, coming through the front door. Pressing the newspaper under her chair, she stilled the shaking in her hands and rose to greet him.