interrupt.”
Everett and Miss Andrews both stood.
“Miss Johnson.” The dressmaker stepped forward. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Hazel Andrews, owner of the dress shop down the street.”
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am. I’ve walked by your place a few times. From what I can see through your shop window, you do beautiful work.”
“Why, thank you.” The seamstress studied Daisy with a critical eye. “If you’d like to come in for a fitting, I’d be glad to set up an appointment for you.”
“Thank you for the offer,” Daisy said with an apologetic smile. “As tempting as it sounds, I’m afraid purchasing new clothes is going to have to wait until I’ve taken care of other, more pressing matters.”
The dressmaker tightened the strings to her handbag and nodded. “I understand.” She gave Daisy a head-to-toe look. “Just keep in mind that appearances set the tone for a business relationship as well as a personal one.”
Everett stiffened. Her tone had been friendly enough, but the words carried a barb. Had Daisy felt it?
Then Miss Andrews turned back to him. “I assume I can look for the advertisement to run in the next issue of the Gazette.”
“Of course.” Everett still had his mind on how her words might have affected Daisy as he gave her a short bow of dismissal. “And thank you for delivering the letter.”
Once the door closed behind the dressmaker, Everett turned to Daisy. He still didn’t detect any hint of distress or affront in her expression. Perhaps he’d overreacted. “Was there something you needed?”
She blinked, as if just remembering her errand. “Yes, of course. I wanted to tell you your meal is ready to be served. But there’s no need to rush upstairs if you’re busy. I’ll just keep it warm until you’re ready for it.”
“Thank you. I’ll join you there in a moment.”
He waited until she had started up the stairs to open his letter, smiling in anticipation. Abigail’s letters reflected her personality—they were chatty, exuberant and overly dramatic. He unfolded the missive and leaned back in his chair, prepared to be entertained.
* * *
Daisy set the table for the two of them and then ladled the stew into a serving bowl.
Had Miss Andrews offered to make her an appointment just to drum up business? Or did she think Daisy’s clothing was really that awful? Daisy hadn’t wasted time worrying about her wardrobe since she’d left her grandmother’s. Function was what mattered, and the pieces she had—this skirt, two shirtwaists and her Sunday dress—had that going for them.
In fact, one of the things she’d disliked about living in her grandmother’s home was the emphasis everyone placed on appearances. Daisy had vowed to leave all that behind her when she left there. Nowadays, as long as her clothing was serviceable and modest, she didn’t give it much deeper consideration.
But Miss Andrews’s words had given her pause. She was planning to be a businesswoman now. Perhaps it was time she gave such things a little more consideration.
Her musings were interrupted by the sound of Everett on the stairs.
“It smells good,” he said as he entered the kitchen.
Her mood lightened at his praise. “Thanks.” Then she felt the need to give a disclaimer. “I’m afraid the bread is a bit scorched, though. It may take me a couple of tries to get a feel for your oven.”
“I daresay you’re right. But I’m sure the rest of the meal will be fine.”
Coming from him, she supposed that was praise of a sort. Daisy placed the stew and bread platter on the table. “I have apple pie for dessert. And I’m pleased to say it hardly got scorched at all.”
He took his seat without comment, and she sat across from him.
When he reached for the bread platter, however, she cleared her throat. “Would you like to say the blessing before we start?”
Everett slowly drew his hand back and gave her an unreadable look. “Why don’t you perform that service for us?”
Was he the sort who didn’t like to pray in public? She hadn’t thought of him as the reticent sort. But she nodded and bowed her head. “Heavenly Father, we thank You for this food and for all the other blessings of this day. Help us to remain mindful of where our bounty comes from and to whom our praises belong. And keep us ever aware of the needs of others. In Your name we pray. Amen.”
She smiled up at him as he echoed her Amen. “Eat up.”
The silence drew out for several long minutes as they concentrated on their food. Finally, she gave in to the urge to break the silence. “I read that newspaper of yours.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, and I want to thank you for the job you did on that interview. You took my uninteresting life and made it sound, well, plumb interesting.”
He seemed more amused than flattered by her comment. “That’s the job of a good reporter—to find the hidden gem in any story.”
“Hidden gem. I like that.” She pointed her spoon at him, then quickly lowered it. “I didn’t read just the interview, though—I read the entire thing. You did a fine job with all of it.”
“Thank you. I suppose it is fine, for what it is.”
“What it is?” His tone puzzled her.
“Yes—a small town, nothing-ever-happens, two-days-a-week newspaper.”
“So you’re not happy with it.”
“As I said, it’s fine for what it is.” He gave her a pointed look. “Do you mind if we change the subject?”
Why was this such a touchy subject for him? But she obediently reached for another subject and said the first thing that came to mind. “I heard you mention something about a letter. It wasn’t bad news, I hope.” Maybe that’s why he seemed so out of sorts.
He studied her as if searching for some ulterior motive behind her question. She thought for a moment that he would change the subject again.
But then he reached for his glass as he shook his head. “Not at all. It’s a letter from my sister, Abigail.”
Why wasn’t he happier about it? “How nice. The two of you must be close.”
He didn’t return her smile. “She wants to come here for a visit.”
His grim tone puzzled her. “Isn’t that a good thing? I mean, wouldn’t you like to see her?”
“Of course I would.” He took a drink from his glass, then set it back down. “But, as I’ve told her any number of times, it’s better if I go to Boston than if she comes here. Unfortunately, she doesn’t see it that way.”
“But if it’s that important to her, perhaps you could allow her to come here just one time. You know, to satisfy her curiosity.”
His exasperated look told her she’d overstepped her bounds. “For her to come here,” he said, “there are significant arrangements that would need to be made—things such as finding a traveling companion and making certain she doesn’t fall behind in any of her classes. Besides, Turnabout is no place for a girl like Abigail. And there aren’t an abundance of activities to entertain and enlighten her here.”
He broke off a piece of bread with more vigor than was absolutely necessary. “No, it’s much better if I visit her.”
A girl like Abigail? What did that mean? Was his sister one of those spoiled, pampered debutantes like the ones who’d graced her grandmother’s parlor? Girls who never got their hands dirty or even knew what a callus looked like? But that wasn’t a question