Stay a Little Longer (7 page)

“I see,” Stack answered, clearly disappointed.

“But make no bones about it, Mr. Stack,” Zachary said with just the slightest touch of steel in his voice, “my father has
often expressed the utmost faith and confidence in my abilities. After all, he taught me everything he knows. If he were able
to join us, I’m certain that he would have made the very same choices I have.”

Stack stared at Zachary for a moment longer, looking as if there were things he wished to say, but instead began shuffling
papers into his briefcase. “I believe our business is concluded,” he said finally. “Good day, sir.”

“Good day, Mr. Stack.”

*   *   *   

“God damn it all!” Zachary swore angrily after he was certain Wilbur Stack was out of earshot. Snatching up his empty glass,
he generously refilled it with whiskey and sent the contents burning down his gullet. He poured even more, but he was so agitated
that instead of drinking it, he tossed his still smoldering cigar into the glass, ruining it all.

“What are we gonna do now, boss?” Travis Jefferson said as he stepped from the shadows toward Zachary’s desk. He had been
around enough of the man’s rages to know to stand back respectfully.

“What can we do but keep on, you simpleton?” Zachary snapped.

“How about movin’ the lumber company’s offices farther up the line? There ain’t no reason that they gotta be next to the depot,
is there?” Travis suggested. “Maybe we could find some other folks that’ll snap up the money that you’re offerin’.”

“It’s far too late for that,” the banker answered dismissively. “Gaitskill has already made plans that they won’t want to
change, no matter what sort of explanation I give them. The consequences of simply asking them to do so would be disastrous.

“I’ve made a promise to them that I believed I could keep,” he continued. “It’s just proving a bit harder to do than I had
expected. No, we will just have to make things work… even if we have to force them a bit.”

“How much force are you talkin’ about?” Travis asked, the hint of a smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

Zachary took a good long look at his lackey. Travis Jefferson was absolutely not one to shy away from violence. In the past,
he’d proven to be valuable beyond measure: a late-night visit here, a guttural threat delivered there, and, on one memorable
occasion, a bone-breaking. All it would take was one word and he would set upon Eliza Watkins and her drunkard brother as
if he were a starving wolf.

“We’re not at that juncture yet,” Zachary said. He walked over to the window and stared back down the street. The boardinghouse
was just visible from the rear, a reminder of the sizable obstacle that lay in his path. “I’m going to try to have a word
with Rachel. She always struck me as the reasonable one. If I can get her to understand the predicament she is in, offer some
extra money, maybe she can succeed in getting her mother to finally see reason.”

“And if she can’t get it done?”

“That, my friend,” Zachary said, smiling, “is where you come in.”

R
ACHEL TOSSED
a freshly laundered sheet over the wire clothesline and paused, the sun’s faint warmth pleasant on her upturned face. Overnight,
the weather had begun to change; there was a crispness to the air that spoke more of the coming winter than the last remnants
of fall. Wispy clouds spread across the autumn sky, as thin as gauze. A formation of ducks, heading south to warmer climes,
beat their wings furiously, quacking noisily at each other. Still, this day was beautiful.

And here I am working yet again!

The small courtyard behind the boardinghouse was framed on either side by the adjacent buildings, the rear by a narrow alleyway.
Three lines of wire were strung from wooden poles driven deeply into the ground. Facing toward the south, the courtyard spent
much of the day in sunlight and was ideal for drying wet laundry.

Rachel had risen early—dawn had just broken—and set about the first of her morning chores. After breakfast, she’d been to
visit the Wickers, declaring that newborn Walter was in tip-top shape. Though the baby was drowsing soundly on a newly knitted
blanket, it was clear from the bleary-eyed look on his parents’ faces that he had caused a sleepless night, with many more
surely to come. After accepting her payment, she’d headed back to the boardinghouse and resumed her work.

Hefting another sheet, Rachel pulled one of the clothespins free from her lips and fastened the laundry to the line. Laundry,
laundry, and more laundry! It was every bit as backbreaking as it was time-consuming. Late spring, summer, and early fall
it went out on the yard line. In late fall, winter, and early spring she labored in the stone-walled basement where the coal
furnace dried the wash, albeit a bit more slowly. She reckoned that it was only a matter of weeks before she would begin hanging
sheets downstairs.

This particular morning, she had tried her best to persuade Charlotte to help her, but the girl had laughed and run off to
play with Jasper. Watching her, Rachel had wondered how Charlotte had managed again to get away from Eliza’s watchful eye.

What am I ever going to do with that girl?

The previous day’s disastrous trip to her sister’s grave sprang back to Rachel’s mind. Nothing had gone as she had hoped.
She’d taken Charlotte there because the girl needed to acknowledge her mother, but Rachel had been left to speak to Alice
by herself.

The sudden slamming of a door at the rear of the boardinghouse roused Rachel from her unpleasant reverie. For a brief moment,
she thought that her uncle Otis had come to help her with the laundry, but between a break in the wet sheets she was dismayed
to see that it was Jonathan Moseley striding toward the line.

“Rachel,” he called. “Are you out here?”

Holding her breath and standing completely still, Rachel hoped that he’d fail to notice her and let her be, but a poorly timed
gust of wind raised a pair of sheets so high into the air that she was left in plain sight. When their eyes met, his face
brightened just as hers fell.

“Ah, there you are!”

When Rachel first laid eyes upon Jonathan Moseley, he’d reminded her of a scarecrow. Tall and thin, stoop-backed and awkward,
he appeared to be made up of nothing but knees and elbows. Mostly bald, he insisted upon combing what few wisps of straw-blond
hair he had over his barren pate. His thin nose was crooked; his eyes were large and buglike, and his small mouth was filled
with stained teeth. He had an unpleasant habit of darting his tongue out and running it over his dry, cracked lips. There
was simply nothing attractive about the man.

For the month that he had been a boarder, he had represented himself as a traveling salesman making his way across Minnesota.
His shabby and battered case contained every sort of item that could possibly be hawked: brushes of all sizes, shoelaces of
varying length, Bibles, and a hair cream that he claimed would cure baldness. For the life of her, Rachel couldn’t imagine
who would buy such a product from a man with so little hair.

Jonathan boasted that he was successful; he was always rambling on about a mansion he had his eye on in Chicago. But from
the shoddy state of his clothing, such declarations were hard to believe: his white shirt was shoddily made and splotched
with food stains, the dark pants he wore looked nearly an inch too short, and the bow tie wrapped around his neck was poorly
tied and ridiculously out of fashion.

“What a lovely day this is,” he declared, spreading his bony hands wide, “but it is all the more beautiful because you are
in it, my dear Rachel.”

“Thank you for such kind words, Mr. Moseley,” she replied as dismissively as she dared.

“How many times must I tell you?” He grinned. “Call me Jonathan.”

Rachel cringed inwardly. The last thing that she wanted was for this man to have some degree of familiarity with her. Whenever
he had previously tried cornering her, she’d taken great pains to escape, listening politely for a moment before excusing
herself to take care of other matters. But try as she might, she could not get him to understand that she was not interested;
at every opportunity, he came back for more.

“The work never ends around here, from the look of things,” he declared, his hands on his bony waist. “Every time I turn around,
there you are, busy with some task or other.”

“There is certainly much to be done.”

“Would you mind if I helped you?”

“No, no, no,” Rachel replied nervously. Her mind raced over every excuse she could think of, settling upon, “My mother insists
that things be done a particular way and if I were to come back with it done incorrectly, I’d have to wash it all over again.”

“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” Jonathan answered with feigned disappointment; it was clear to Rachel that such feelings
were contrived; he was obviously relieved that he wouldn’t have to do any actual work.

For a few minutes, they remained silent, Rachel continuing to put the laundry on the line and Jonathan watching her as if
she were a pupil doing mathematics at the chalkboard and he the teacher waiting for the first sign of a mistake. It took all
of her will not to just dump the basket and run. She was so intent on finishing her chore that when Jonathan finally did speak,
she nearly jumped in surprise.

“I suppose you might be wondering why I was looking for you?” he asked.

“I… I hadn’t… thought to ask,” Rachel muttered.

“I was wondering if you might like to accompany me on a picnic,” Jonathan explained pleasantly. “I found the perfect spot
on the north side of the lake, a clearing surrounded by tall elms and more wildflowers than you could count in a week! When
I first saw it, I couldn’t think of anyone I would rather share it with than you.”

Momentarily taken aback, Rachel was struck mute. Previously, Jonathan had only made subtle hints of his romantic feelings
for her, certainly nothing so forward as this!

Romance was something that Rachel had never found much time for; she’d had her fair share of men attracted by her looks, but
nothing serious. With all of her responsibilities, particularly with Charlotte, she did little to encourage them. Besides,
if she did ever decide to pursue a relationship, it wouldn’t have been with Jonathan Moseley. “I thank… I thank you for thinking
of me,” she stammered, “but I’m afraid I just can’t! I have all of this laundry to finish hanging and then I have to—”

“Surely it doesn’t all have to be done this instant, does it?”

“But my mother,” Rachel struggled. “She insists that—”

“If there’s any insisting to be done here, I do believe that I should be the one doing it.” He laughed. “It would certainly
be no trouble to gather a picnic basket. Two people like ourselves need some time to be away, to be alone, and to let… things…
take their natural course.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why it’s only the normal way of things that an unattached, successful man such as myself would wish to find companionship
with an equally single young woman as lovely as you,” Jonathan explained as he slowly stepped toward her, his tongue licking
across his lips. “That’s how all good romances begin, don’t you think?”

Rachel could feel the flush of embarrassment color her cheeks and she turned back to her laundry. Revulsion at Jonathan’s
suggestion roiled her stomach. Bending over, she grasped for another piece of laundry, anxious to do something, anything,
to lose his interest. But just as she gripped a sheet corner, she felt the hem of her skirt being lifted, followed by the
sensation of a finger running across the bare skin just above her boot. There could be no doubt what was happening.

What in the hell does he think he’s doing?

Spinning around and snatching her skirt back toward her, Rachel caught Jonathan straightening up, a patently false look of
innocence plastered across his ridiculous face, his hands clasped behind his back. The remnants of a smile still played across
his chapped lips.

“Have you lost your senses?” she shouted at him.

“You misunderstand my intentions, my dear,” Jonathan explained, his green eyes dancing with mock offense. “It was quite innocent.
I saw that your hemline was about to be snagged in one of the broken wickers of the laundry basket and I thought to save you
more work. If there had been a tear, who knows how many hours it would have cost!”

Rachel didn’t believe a single word of his explanation. All of the irritation she felt came boiling out in an instant. Angrily,
she stepped toward him, ready to give him a much-deserved piece of her mind. With his meek exterior, she expected him to retreat
as she advanced, but he surprised her by closing the gap between them. His thin fingers painfully grasped her wrists, pulling
her closer.

“This is the spirit I find so attractive in you,” he declared.

“Get your hands off me!”

“Why would I want to do that?”

As she tried to break his grip, Rachel could see that Jonathan had no intention of letting her go. From the mischievous gleam
in his eyes, she was horrified to realize that he intended to kiss her. As quickly as she could manage, she turned her face
away from his.

“You need to get away from a place such as this,” Jonathan said, his voice no more than a deep whisper in her ear. “Beauty
and talents like yours are wasted here. You need to be somewhere, with someone who appreciates you for what you truly are.
Run away with me… let us start a new life together far away from this godforsaken place.”

“Let go of me this instant!”

Just as Rachel was ready to scream out for help, the door to the rear of the boardinghouse again slammed shut. Her earlier
hopes were finally answered; her uncle Otis stumbled down the short steps and out into the yard. The dark whiskey bottle hanging
from his listless hand gave every indication of his condition; he was already three sheets to the wind, his cheeks burning
as red as his nose. Though he was drunk, Rachel had never been happier to see him in her life.