A Bride in Store (21 page)

“But if that’s not why she’s come—”

“I won’t charge you for your next doctor’s visit—as long as you don’t tell her I put you up to it.”

“All I have to do is weasel out her store ideas and not mention you?” He chewed on the end of his pen. “And if her business plans don’t impress me?”

“Then they don’t.”

He smiled around his pen. “Seems an easy way to get a free house call. If she comes by, I’ll entertain myself.”

So easily enticed by a free visit. The wealthy man’s avarice was amusing. “Thank you, sir.” He leaned across the desk to shake the man’s hand. “She’ll impress you.”

Even if she didn’t, he had tried to help her be the woman she wanted to be, the woman he might just be falling for.

Steeling herself for another no, Eliza straightened her back and shoved into the bank, putting on her brightest smile for the teller without a customer. “Good morning.”

The man glanced up from counting coins and held up a finger for her to wait. He finished forming a stack and slid the coins to the side. “What can I do for you? Need to open an account?”

Wouldn’t having enough money for that be nice? “Perhaps later. I’d like to see whoever is responsible for hiring.”

The man behind the counter frowned. “I don’t know of any job positions for . . .”

A lady. Of course not. “That’s all right. Where can I wait to talk to someone in charge?”

“I’m fairly certain we’re not hiring.”

No, nobody was, but she’d wait until the person who actually made decisions denied her. Yesterday, she’d tried to convince the six households Irena and Will had suggested that she was a luxury worth having.

She’d received no job offers, not even for once-a-month cleaning.

However, she had garnered three marriage proposals from businessmen this morning. Wouldn’t Lynville Tate be jealous? Would Will? She sighed. “I’d still prefer to talk to someone in charge, if you would announce me.”

She walked to the wooden bench beside an impressive grandfather clock, dust free and polished. She tried not to hang her head. No cobwebs, no grime, no smudges anywhere in the foyer. This interview would be a waste of time, but she kept her feet firmly planted on the floor. She’d decided this morning to start at one end of Main Street and not go home until she’d offered her services to every owner on the north side of the road, which numbered about twenty. Tomorrow she’d inquire along the south.

She’d follow her plan to its bitter end.

Pulling aside the blind, she could just see the left side of the Men’s Emporium across the street a few blocks down. Maybe she should clean for Will without compensation. That way, she could determine whether or not her gut was right about Will’s innocence. Surely Irena was right about Will having nothing to do with Axel’s deception.

And
if
she decided to let her emotions have free rein again, no moral misgivings would bar her from spending time with him.

“Miss Cantrell?” A man, probably in his early fifties, with golden spectacles atop his nose and gray streaking his temples, stood in a doorway.

“Yes?” How did he know her name?

“Do come in.” He waved his hand for her to precede him. Each bookshelf in his office gleamed, as did his immaculate desk. Even his papers lay in meticulous piles.

Her quest seemed hopeless here.

“I’m Mr. Raymond, the president of Salt Flatts Savings and Loans.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir, and thank you for seeing me.”

He waited for her to be seated before sitting behind his desk. For some reason, he leaned forward, grinning—as if he anticipated something amusing.

What had the teller told him? She quickly scanned her clothing. Nothing amiss, plain as usual.

“What can I do for you?”

“I’m here to see if I might be of assistance.” She forced herself not to take another look at his pristine bookshelves. “I’m looking for cleaning work. No position is too small. I can clean after business hours, a certain number of days a week, or once a month.”

“How long have you had this cleaning business?” His amused grin was disconcerting.

She wouldn’t slump. “The business is new. Little start-up cost, meeting a need that never goes away.”

“I see.” His smile only got bigger. “And what have you done prior to this?”

Why did he want to know that? Her past work had nothing to do with cleaning. “I . . . um . . . co-ran a store for the last five years.”

“What kind of store?”

His incredulous face irked her. “A general store—a family business. In a city ten times larger than Salt Flatts.” He didn’t need to know her father hadn’t left the mercantile to her. She closed her eyes and inhaled to keep out the negative thoughts. She had to believe her father had loved her, despite his decision that had caused her to end up alone, throwing herself at the mercy of strangers to provide for herself. Otherwise, she’d have to admit that no one had ever loved her. . . .

“So why do you want to clean my bank?”

She closed her eyes briefly. Was he mocking her? Surely a bank
president would consider cleaning an appropriate venture for a female. Would he regale his dinner companions tonight with stories about a silly woman in town begging for a cleaning job yet thinking herself capable of running a mercantile? “Because I need money to start my own store someday.” There, she’d admitted it. She couldn’t truly give up the thought of having a store.

“You think housekeeping will provide enough capital?”

“Years from now.” He knew as well as she did she was fooling herself. But how else could a woman with no money and no connections start over?

“You’re certain that’s a worthy goal?” He smoothed his mustache and cocked his head. “Why not marry, like most young ladies? I have a feeling at least one man in town is already smitten.”

If he’d seen Lynville Tate near her, he’d have been blind not to have noticed his regard. “I would be happy to marry, but unless that man’s dreams line up with my own, why should I settle?” She crossed her arms, tempted to leave. “I’m not here to be interrogated; I’m here to inquire about a cleaning arrangement. What will convince you that you need my help?”

He smiled and leaned back. “Tell me, what kind of store would you set up? We already have three in town.”

She crossed her arms and huffed.

“Humor me, Miss Cantrell, and I’ll allow you to speak of your cleaning abilities for as long as you wish.”

Fine, anything to get him back on topic. “Have you heard of Woolworth’s?”

He shook his head, but lifted his hand, inviting her to continue.

“In Scranton, Pennsylvania—where I’m from—F. W. Woolworth and his brother set up what he calls a five-and-dime store not even a year ago. He’s owned a few others elsewhere. It’s a novel concept, with low-cost goods and clearly marked prices, promising not to empty a customer’s pockets.”

She smiled, recalling walking into his store for the first time,
feeling like a spy. “Knowing prices without having to ask is comforting for customers. I am not sure if you are aware, but I worked for a time at the Men’s Emporium. I tried to get Will Stanton to understand the need to label merchandise, but he wouldn’t listen. A customer might assume an item is beyond their budget and not even pick it up if they don’t know the price. But once they hold it, set their heart upon it—”

“But with such inexpensive pricing—”

“Oh, but when the thing in your hand only costs a small stack of pennies, customers aren’t as reluctant to spend a few more . . . and a few more after that. And just because the majority are five or ten cents doesn’t mean you can’t include higher priced items as well.”

“What else did you learn from the practices of this Woolworth fellow?”

“He also worked the floor, as I’d wanted my father to do, but sixty-year-old men are often set in their ways.”

“What do you mean by ‘worked the floor’?”

“An owner should be accessible. Out on the floor, talking to customers and employees. Keeping the place clean and tidy. Paying attention to where people look and putting whatever’s interesting or colorful there. No need to use that space for pencil lead or soap—they’ll ask for those things when they need them. Woolworth also partnered with stores in other towns to buy big lots of inventory for better price margins. His ideas are very promising. I’m betting lots of people will adopt his business model once they hear of it.”

“You think you’d make enough profit to compete with the other stores in town?”

“The first few years would be tight, but I wouldn’t directly compete with anyone. The Hampdens have a general store, and Lowerys’ is mostly a feed store.” She licked her lips in hesitation. To be honest or diplomatic? What did it matter?

“And Will and Axel chose poorly. They targeted a particular consumer, narrowing themselves mostly to items the other stores stocked
as well. They relied on their connections and return customers for sales, but most men won’t go to the Men’s Emporium when they have other stores where they can get all their shopping done at the same time. To be worth visiting, they should have focused on making it a place for gentlemen to gather—perhaps a checker-and-chess board always ready, a wall of business news and wheat prices, etc.”

At least Mr. Raymond’s face no longer looked so amused—his smile had flipped into a frown. “Aren’t you doing the same thing with this five-and-dime? The other two stores have items that fall within that price range.”

“Ah, but mixed in with everything else, unpriced, and not in huge batches. I’ll have more variety and whimsy. You’d be surprised what people buy if the item only costs five cents—even knowing the quality might be lacking. Of course, I wouldn’t purposely stock my store with poorly manufactured wares, but I would favor mass-produced items.”

She picked at the lint on her skirt. “I can’t copy everything Woolworth did in Scranton, but I can run a good store. Even before I recognized Woolworth’s innovations, in five years I doubled the equity of my father’s store, after he’d owned the property for thirty years prior to my stepping into management.”

“If you were so successful, why, pray tell, did you come here to marry a stranger?”

Yes, that question. “Engaging yourself to a longtime friend can be as idiotic as engaging yourself to a stranger.” She pressed a hand to her throat to help her swallow the lump caught there. “I was engaged to marry back in Pennsylvania. My first fiancé had more interest in taking advantage of my store’s sudden profit than in marrying me—though he made certain to woo me enough to keep my head in the clouds.”

She closed her eyes, feeling the color rise in her face. “He sabotaged me, convincing many of my suppliers to supply his father’s businesses exclusively.
My
father was obviously disappointed and
changed his will, making my brother the sole owner. I was to work for him, but he’s always been jealous and never listened to anything I’ve said. So I decided to find a place a woman business owner might find respect.”

That place probably didn’t exist in Salt Flatts—probably didn’t exist anywhere but in her dreams.

“You seem like a smart woman.” Mr. Raymond stared out the window, tapping his pen on the side of his shoe, where his foot lay anchored on his knee.

If she let it, the compliment might puff her chest, but what good would it do?

“But without capital, you’ve got nothing to lose if someone backed you.” He frowned at the ceiling.

“Yes. Well, that’s what happens when your
second
fiancé robs you of said capital on the train into town. I
had
money when I left Pennsylvania.” Not a lot, but enough to invest in a start-up of something . . .

Why was Mr. Raymond lecturing her on things she already knew? She’d held up her end of the bargain, prattling off about a dream she’d likely never achieve. “So . . . I’m here for a cleaning job. How about once a month? I see someone does a great job of keeping things tidy, but I’ll do the deep cleaning, the corners and under furniture.” She looked him in the eyes. “Let’s agree to the first Monday of the month for the entire day. Five dollars seems reasonable for the heavy lifting I’ll be doing, and—”

His laughter stopped her, though it wasn’t exactly derisive. “I do believe you’ll get what you want come hell or high water.” He leaned forward. “But how are you going to survive on a handful of cleaning jobs? And they aren’t about to earn you five dollars a day, by the way.”

She frowned. “Mrs. Lightfoot has been exceedingly kind and is letting me clean for room and board, so my essential needs will be sufficiently met. What I’m here for is—”

“Mrs. Lightfoot, eh?” The man leaned back, tapping his chin as if recalling something pleasant. Could a man like him be interested in a bearded lady?

No, he was married. She narrowed her eyes at him. What kind of man was he?

“I’m interested in your business strategies, Miss Cantrell.” He leaned forward, his teeth pulling at his lower lip, his eyes bright. “I bet you didn’t hand over your money without a fight.”

She turned her head so he could see the pink skin she’d unconsciously turned away from him upon entering his office and shrugged. “I didn’t get a face-disfiguring scar for no reason.” But what did that matter? Unless . . . “Are you interested in partnering with me, Mr. Raymond? If you’re interested—”