If Pecan Springs was prospering in this second decade after the War Between the States, Austin—the capital of Texas—was booming. The station platform was crowded with bales of cotton and bushel baskets of chili peppers, peanuts, and yams, all destined for Dallas and Houston and points farther north and east. Some people still thought of Austin as a cow town, but the population had already reached nearly fifteen thousand people, some four times what it had been when the war ended. The city streets were crowded with horse-drawn wagons, trolleys, horse and buggies, and bicycles. The dust rose in clouds, and the sky shimmered with the usual Texas summer heat. But there was an energy in the air that gave Annie the sense that today, in this bustling city, anything was possible.
Holding up her gray skirt to keep it out of the dirt and avoiding piles of steaming horse manure as she crossed the streets, Annie walked up the wide gravel path along Congress Avenue. There was a spring in her step and a smile on her lips, for she was anticipating the pleasure of accepting the money from the sales of her laces, along with several special orders. Mrs. Turner might report: “Mrs. Hillary would like you to make the laces for her daughter’s trousseau negligee.” Or Madame LaMode might say, in her fake French accent, “Mademoiselle Campbell weeshes me to tell you zat she adores ze lace-covered parasol you made for her and wonders if you would consent to make another for her deerest friend.” Annie would smile and nod and make notes in the little book in which she kept her orders—neatly and with care, because she was a businesswoman now, earning her own living, and it was important to keep track of everything.
But instead of a cheerful smile and a special order, Mrs. Turner—a gray-haired woman in her sixties—wore a somber look as she handed Annie the envelope with her payment and some disquieting news.
“The doctor says I must have a rest, so I’ve decided to close the shop.” She sighed apologetically. “I’ve loved your laces, but I won’t be taking any more, I’m afraid.”
Annie was startled, then concerned. Mrs. Turner had been her very first Austin customer and she depended on the dress shop as a regular market. “Of course I wish you the very best,” she said, and then asked the question that worried her most. “Do you think another shop will open here?”
“Oh, most assuredly,” Mrs. Turner said. “Mr. Josephus Ward, from Dallas, has purchased the lease to this building and intends to open a haberdashery.” Another apologetic smile. “But Austin is growing fast and someone is sure to open another dress shop soon, I should think. I hope this won’t be a hardship for you, my dear.”
A haberdashery! But that was only men’s clothing! Still, Annie tried to cover up her apprehension. She lifted her chin, summoning a brave smile. “Oh, no. No hardship at all. I know how much work you’ve put into your shop, Mrs. Turner. I hope you enjoy your rest.”
Annie wasn’t feeling so brave when she stepped back out to the bright, bustling street. But she reminded herself that Mrs. Turner was right. Austin was flourishing—witness the “university of the first class” that was being built on forty empty acres north of the new state capitol. Oh, and the plan to build one of the largest dams and electrical generating plants in the world—yes, in the world!—just upstream of the city on the Colorado River. Soon, very soon, someone was sure to open another dress shop.
In the meantime, Annie was certain that Madame LaMode would take what Mrs. Turner couldn’t use. Picking up her pace, she turned the corner at Hickory and started down the block. But when she reached the millinery shop, she was stunned to see that the display window was dark and empty and there was a Closed sign on the door. A note tucked into the door frame directed her to the barbershop across the street, where the barber handed her a cigar box and an envelope with her name on it. There was money in the envelope and a few unsold laces in the box, smelling of cigars. There was also a note. It read simply, My daughter has fallen ill in New Orleans and I must go to her. I do not plan to return. Au revoir. Gertrude Winkle.
Annie gasped. Oh, no—not this one, too! She stared incredulously at the note, feeling as though someone had just punched her in the stomach. Somehow, she managed to thank the barber and went out onto Hickory, where she stood for a moment, trying to decide what to do. Usually, she treated herself to a nice lunch on her visits to Austin. But the two envelopes she had picked up contained a total of just seven dollars, more than half of which had to be shared with the ladies who had made the lace. Her chief source of income had just vanished, and there was no quick or easy way to replace it. The sensible thing to do would be to pick up a twenty-cent sandwich at the Pork Barrel on the corner of Congress and Hickory, go back to the station, and wait for the afternoon train.
But that would feel like a defeat, wouldn’t it?
