The old woman seemed to consider, gazing at a clutch of feathers scattered over the worktable before shaking her head. “No. I have imparted my news. My duty here is complete. I shall go.”
“But you’ve traveled all the way here. Surely we might have a longer talk and spend more time together.” Aunt Elaine gazed at her with the hard stare Hattie knew so well.
“Whatever for? Now that I’ve checked on you, my obligation to my sister is complete. You have done well for yourself under the circumstances, I suppose.” She glanced around as if finding the store lacking.
In that moment, it was quite easy to recall why she had left home without once looking back. Nevertheless, Hattie maintained a polite demeanor. “Thank you for the compliment, and for coming all this way to give me news of the family.”
“A Gladwell always discharges her duties.”
“Yes.” Hattie swallowed her disappointment. One could not fault a rock for being the solid, unmoving thing it was. “Again, I am sorry for your loss of Uncle Martin and dear Cousin Emily, and for the dismay my past behavior caused you.”
“Indeed.” Emotion flickered across the old woman’s face. Perhaps it was sorrow. Perhaps it was regret. Immediately she schooled her features into neutrality, and rose stiffly to her feet, “I will return to my inn now.”
Hattie did not further cajole her to stay but escorted Aunt Elaine to the door.
When they reached it, her aunt offered no final remark or any expression of caring. “Good day, Niece.”
“Good day, Aunt Elaine. If you should ever need me or simply wish me to visit, please send a letter or telegram. You know where I live now and that I would be happy to come to you at any time.” They were difficult words to say, but Hattie managed them.
She took her aunt’s gloved hand, small and seemingly fragile in her grasp. Yet beneath the glove, hard bones were unyielding. Hattie let her go and watched the old woman walk slowly down the pavement, taking with her any dream of a loving reunion Hattie may have harbored.
A Gladwell is unyielding.
But, thank God, I am not a Gladwell. I am Harriet Glover and I have a heart.
Life was too short for such a grim and limited attitude. The thought blazed bright in her mind like an electric lightbulb coming on. Mistakes could be forgiven and fences, however broken, might be mended if one was willing to open one’s self and allow change to occur.
Hattie whirled around and spoke to Margaret who was attending a customer. “I must leave for a while. Will you be all right watching the store by yourself?”
“I—um…” Margaret glanced at two other customers awaiting attention. “Certainly, Mrs. Glover. I can do it.”
Hattie barely felt a qualm over leaving poor Margaret with a busy shop, as she hurried to change into her riding skirt and blouse. Then she snatched up the bicycle from the wall where it leaned and guided it out the door to the alley.
Her pulse pounded as she mounted the seat and rolled forward. The cycle wavered from side-to-side, nearly scraping her against the brick wall. But as she burst from the alley to join the street traffic, Hattie took a breath and found her center. She could do this: maintain balance without crashing into other vehicles, and ride until she reached Guy’s house, braving the possibility that he no longer had feelings for her. Her aunt had taught her well that behaving like a hard-shelled crustacean was a dry and joyless way to exist. For a chance at love and happiness, Hattie would take a risk.
By the time Hattie reached Guy’s quiet, tree-lined street, her entire body was drenched in sweat, her hair had fallen from its bun, and her chest and legs ached from exertion. Leaning her machine against the iron fence, Hattie let herself through the gate and walked to the front door. She made a feeble attempt to straighten her hair, impossible without a mirror or comb and with most of her hairpins lost somewhere along the way. She exhaled a nervous breath and rang the bell.
Moments later, Simmons opened the door to regard her with his usual blank expression. “Mr. Hardy is out.”
Why had she imagined he would be there awaiting her arrival? She had created a fantasy in which they fell into each other’s arms and all was forgiven. She steeled her resolve. “Do you know how long he might be?”
“I couldn’t say, Mrs. Glover.”
She felt a fool as she asked, “Might I wait for him?”
“Mr. Hardy said not to expect him for supper.”
Disappointment crushed her soaring hopes. “Oh. I see. Perhaps I might leave a note?”
The butler did not offer to find her a pen and paper. After a pause, he offered more information. “Mr. Hardy is currently at his new investment property on Providence Street. You might find him there.”
“Thank you! That is very helpful. Good day, Simmons.”
Unsmiling, he inclined his head, but before closing the door, he said, “Good day, Mrs. Glover. And best of luck.”
*
Rring. Rrring-rring.
“Do you hear that? I believe someone is trying to get your attention.” Wrist-deep in potting soil, Rose transplanted flowers from flats into decorative pots.
Guy stood trying to figure out where his measurements had gone wrong, for the risers he’d built would not fit into the alcove where they belonged. Off by only one quarter inch, blast it! He hadn’t noticed the insistent ringing drifting in through the propped open door until Rose mentioned it.
Now he listened to the rring-rring followed by a distant voice singing, “Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do. I’m half-crazy all for the love of you.”
Guy dropped the hammer he’d intended to wield to force the unit into place. He hurried to the display window to behold Hattie riding her bicycle. The street was empty of traffic this late in the afternoon, so she looped lazy figure eights in front of the store. She rang the bell again. Sweet music
