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Ma’s gentle smile faded. “But I need you here. You’re my only daughter. What would I do without you?” She brushed a strand of hair off Anna’s forehead as if she were still a child.
“It’s only Belvidere.” Ma meant well, but Anna hated being coddled. “I’ll take the train back and forth each day.”
“But you wouldn’t be home as much. I hear the cannery works its people long hours and then the train ride on top of that. I’d hardly ever see you. Please stay. For me?”
That was the problem. All of Anna’s friends had moved on to bigger and better things, but she was still stuck in Pearlman, living with her mother, with no future in sight. At the age of twenty, she hadn’t even had a real beau yet. Oh, she’d fallen for men, disastrously, but they either didn’t notice her or fell in love with someone else.
That man in the mercantile, the one opening the new bookstore, would turn out just like the rest. She couldn’t wait for someone to sweep her off her feet. She had to take care of her own future. That meant getting a good-paying job.
“The only jobs that pay well are at the cannery,” Anna pointed out. “If I get a job there, we won’t have to take money from Hendrick anymore.”
Ma heaved a sigh, which signaled she’d come around to Anna’s way of thinking. “I suppose we have no choice then, but I hate the idea of you riding all alone on the train every day. I wish your father were here. He’d know what to do.”
If Papa hadn’t died, Ma wouldn’t have had to struggle raising two children, and Hendrick wouldn’t have had to quit school in the eighth grade to take over the garage. Everything would have been different. Anna might have been able to go to college. She wouldn’t have worn homemade dresses sewn out of the scraps from Mrs. Fox’s dress shop. But Papa had died—horribly. She shuddered, and shoved the memory into a dark corner of her mind.
Ma must have been thinking about him too, because she sniffed and dabbed her eyes.
Anna hugged her. “Papa was the best of men. He would have taken care of us.”
“He always did.”
Anna was so caught up in the painful memories that the knock on the door didn’t register right away.
Ma noticed it first. “I wonder who that is.” Her eyes grew round. “I hope nothing happened at the plant.”
Fear ricocheted. All that machinery at her brother’s new aeroplane-motor factory. The open belts and whirling lathes. The infernal racket. What if a belt caught Hendrick’s arm? What if a heavy machine fell on him?
A blinding memory—one she desperately wanted to forget—shot through her head. The truck falling, her father’s body jerking from the impact, the cry... She pressed her hands to her ears and squeezed her eyes shut to make it go away.
“Are you all right, dear?” Ma asked gently.
Anna shook off the memory with a forced smile. “I’m fine.”
The knock sounded again, loud and firm.
Ma rose. “I’ll get it.”
Anna’s pulse accelerated. What if something had happened to Hendrick? She couldn’t let Ma hear the bad news first. She leaped to her feet and reached the door first.
The next knock rattled the hinges and made the knob jump in her hand.
“All right,” she snapped, yanking the door open. “There’s no need to pound down the—” But the last word stuck on her tongue, for before her stood the distinguished gentleman from the mercantile.
This wasn’t bad news at all. He’d come to talk to her. Perhaps he’d brought her the archaeology book.
“Oh. You.” The minute the words left her lips, Anna blushed. A scholar wanted intellectual conversation, not some moony girl who couldn’t string two words together.
Yet he looked as taken aback as she was stupefied. “You’re Miss Simmons? Or do I have the wrong address? This is 502 Main Street?”
“Yes, it is.” What on earth did the address have to do with dropping off a book? “I’m Anna Simmons.”
If anything, he looked even more distressed.
“And I’m Mrs. Simmons,” said Ma from behind her. “Do I know you? You look a little familiar, but I’m afraid my memory isn’t quite what it used to be.”
His discomfort eased a bit when he saw Ma. “You knew my father, Percival Landers. I’m his eldest son, Brandon.”
“Little Brandon?” Ma pushed past Anna. “The last time I saw you, your parents still summered here. You couldn’t have been more than twelve and barely reached my shoulder. You laughed all the time.”
Anna lifted her eyebrows. Clearly, he’d outgrown the laugh.
“Then your parents stopped visiting,” Ma continued. “Of course your father would come to town periodically to see how the garage was faring. He was such a kind man, always concerned for us, especially after my husband’s death.” She leaned closer, as if she wanted to tweak his cheeks. Thankfully, he was too tall. “My dear boy, I’m so sorry for your loss. Please accept my condolences. I couldn’t believe my ears when I heard your father had passed. So young. He couldn’t have been more than sixty. My dear Brandon. I’m so sorry.”
So this was Brandon Landers. Anna had never met him, though Ma had mentioned once or twice that Mr. Landers had two boys. She knew about his father, of course. The elder Landers was a silent business partner of her father’s, though Anna had only seen him a couple times after Papa’s death. He always brought papers for Hendrick to sign and left her brother agitated.
“How is your younger brother?” Ma bubbled on, oblivious to Brandon’s discomfort. “Reginald, is it?”
“He’s fine.”
“And your wife? You must be married by now.”
Anna shot her mother a glare, though she had to admit she wanted to hear the answer. Why hadn’t she considered that Brandon might be married? Because he’d done his own shopping. No married man shopped for groceries.
He shuffled uncomfortably. “No, I’m not married.”
Ma, whose greatest joy in life was matchmaking, didn’t let up. “A fiancée, then? A handsome man like you must be engaged.”
“Ma,” Anna hissed under her breath.
He cleared his throat. “No, I’m not. Please forgive me, but this is not a social call.” He pulled an envelope from his pocket. “Is the man of the house at home?”
“Hendrick?” Anna surveyed the envelope, but he held it so she couldn’t see the address. “Why would you want to talk to him?”
Ma stepped aside. “Do come in, Mr. Brandon, and sit a spell. My son no longer lives here. He married this September and is living at the orphanage, Constance House, with his lovely bride. They’re feeding the children at this hour, so I wouldn’t recommend interrupting, but you can wait here with us and have a cup of tea.”
Brandon Landers in their shabby living room? Anna choked. “I’m sure Mr. Landers has supper waiting for him.”
“My business can wait.” He avoided looking at her.
Oh, dear. The letter brought bad news. Hendrick had put everything into opening his new aeroplane-engine plant. He did not need trouble with the garage. It was their only source of income right now.
Brandon started to tuck the envelope into his coat.
No. Anna couldn’t let him spring bad news on Hendrick. She’d do it. She grabbed the envelope from his hand. “I’ll see my brother gets it.”
Startled, he snatched for the envelope, missed and settled for holding out his hand. “I’d rather deliver it myself.”
She pressed the envelope to her breast. What horrible news was he trying to keep from her? “I’m not a child. If there’s trouble, I can handle it.”
Ma fretted, “What is it? Did your father leave some instructions for Hendrick?”
Perspiration dotted Brandon’s upper lip despite the freezing temperatures. “I’m sorry. My father should have informed you. Someone should have informed you.” His gaze landed on Anna for a second before flitting away.
“Informed us of what?” asked Ma.
Brandon shifted uncomfortably. “I believe it would be best if I deliver the letter to your brother.”
He held out his hand again.
Why did he want this so badly? He must be trying to hide something from her. Anna hesitated long enough to notice that the envelope came from a law firm in Detroit and was addressed to the Simmons family at 502 Main Street in Pearlman, Michigan. Well, she was a member of the Simmons family. She had every right to see this letter too.
She ripped open the envelope. Ma gasped and fluttered her hands with a cry of protest, but Anna would not be deterred. Brandon paled when she pulled out the single sheet of paper. She was right. He was trying to hide something.
“Anna,” Ma reprimanded sharply. “That’s meant for Hendrick.”
“It’s addressed to all of us, the Simmons family, and that includes me.”
“Please don’t,” Brandon pleaded, his palm open.
Anna paid him no notice. She had to know what that letter said. She carried it into the kitchen where there was more light, but as soon as she read the first line, she wished she’d let Brandon Landers give the letter to her brother. She heard the front door open and close.
Ma joined her moments later. “Anna, that was rude. Mr. Landers meant that letter for your brother. I had to assure him I would deliver it to Hendrick tonight, but he wasn’t happy, not at all.”
“I don’t care how he feels. He certainly doesn’t care about us.” Anna dropped the letter on the table. She couldn’t hold it a moment longer. She’d thought Brandon Landers was a hero, but he’d turned out to be the worst sort of villain. “He’s evicting us.”
* * *
Brandon stared at the telephone dial while he waited for his father’s attorney to pick up the line on the other end. The letters and numbers in their brass circles blurred. He leaned his elbows on the desktop and rubbed the fog from his eyes. Should have got more sleep last night. Should have thought of a solution.
Instead, he’d paced all night trying to find a way to keep the Simmonses in the house they’d rented for almost three decades. Mrs. Simmons understood why they had to leave. She’d listened patiently as he explained the terms of the sale his father had negotiated, but her quiet resolve only made him feel worse. He had to help them.
First, he would try to persuade the new owner to extend the deadline.
“MacKenzie here.” The brusque voice of his father’s longtime attorney and executor came on the other end. “What can I do for you, Brandon?”
He hated the attorney’s familiar tone, as if he were part of the family. Perhaps he had wiggled his fingers into Father’s business. Maybe that’s where the money had disappeared. His purchase of the Simmons property was certainly suspicious. He’d said it was just a business venture, that he wanted to open an automobile dealership, that Brandon’s father had made the deal before he’d died, but the man was Father’s attorney and executor. The whole thing smelled rotten. Unfortunately, Brandon had no proof of wrongdoing.
“I need an extension on the Pearlman property on Main and First.” He took a deep breath.
A pause followed. “What sort of extension?”
After weeks of dealing with the attorney, Brandon knew he couldn’t push much. But any little bit would help. “The tenants need more time.”
“You know the contract terms.”
Brandon choked back his impatience. “It’s an elderly woman and her daughter. You can’t put them out at Christmas.”
MacKenzie barely paused. “Your father insisted on those terms.”
Brandon didn’t believe that for a minute. “Why? It doesn’t make any sense. Not only was he keeping the rent unbelievably low, but he sent frequent payments to the family, so why would he sell under such unreasonable terms?”
“Only your father knows.”
“Perfect. And he’s dead.” Once again Brandon choked back his impatience with the slick attorney. “Suppose you make an educated guess.”
“I’m not in the business of speculation, nor would it have been appropriate for him to confide in the buyer.”
Brandon dug the nib of his pen into the blotter. A trace of ink bled into the fibers, making an ugly black mark. “But I can’t force Anna—that is, the tenants—from their home.”
“Then refund the purchase price.”
Brandon growled, “From what you’ve told me, that money was spent. Or did my father have you hide it somewhere?”
“I object to your inference,” MacKenzie retorted. “The contract is ironclad. Fulfill the terms or don’t. The option is yours.”
“But I don’t have the money.”
A pregnant silence followed. “My offer stands. Sign over the deed to your house, and I’ll hand you the property on Main and First.”
Brandon suspected that’s what MacKenzie wanted all along. “This was never a business venture. You want my house. Well, you won’t get it. A Landers built this house, and a Landers will always own it.”
A click on the line signaled an end to the conversation. Brandon hung the receiver on the cradle and buried his head in his hands. He’d let temper get the better of him and solved nothing.
Lifting his head, he stared dully at the room, hoping for an answer. The library had always been his favorite place in the family’s summer home. The paneled walls and floor-to-ceiling bookcases had fueled his imagination. He’d spent hours dreaming of secret passages and hidden rooms and poking into every nook and corner without success.
It would be nice if those walls did hide a fortune in gold, but of course the house held no secrets and offered no money.
He slipped the sales contract back into its folder. MacKenzie had mentioned the only possible solution, but Brandon couldn’t give up this house. It and the bookstore were his future.
Brandon ran a hand through his hair. Somehow he had to help Anna and her mother. He pulled the ledger close and stared at the gloomy figures. He had the house, and his brother had been provided for in an untouchable trust, but the rest of the money was gone. With no income and insufficient savings, the best he could do was find Anna and her mother a decent house to rent.
Too bad they couldn’t live here. The house was certainly big enough for two more people. Originally built in the late 1840s, it had undergone so many additions and reconstructions that few people could find the original rooms. Years of neglect had left the heavy velvet drapes white with dust. The dark walnut furniture could use a good oiling to restore the wood’s sheen. At least the sage green wool carpet was in good condition. A relatively recent addition, it had seen no activity after the year he turned eighteen, when the family stopped coming here.
Even before that, the long summers of his youth had trickled to a week or two each year, but after the summer his mother died, no one came back. Now this musty old house was his. No money to keep it up, nothing but dust and cobwebs. He’d have to hire a housekeeper; one who wouldn’t charge too much, considering his cash had sunk to a pitiful low. Anna’s waves of light brown hair floated to mind, and with it came a thought. She cleaned houses. As quickly as he thought of it, he set the idea aside. It wouldn’t work. A young woman and a bachelor? Tongues would wag.
If not Anna, then perhaps her mother would take the position. That minister had said her hours had just been reduced. It was the perfect solution. They could live here.
The idea took root and flowered as he imagined Anna sitting by the fireplace, her blue eyes dancing with excitement as he told her about the latest discoveries in the Valley of the Kings. She’d turn toward him, smile and ask his opinion.
He shook his head. What nonsense! The girl couldn’t possibly find him attractive. What’s more, she’d never agree to live in this house. Even with her mother here, it was too scandalous.
He stared bleakly out the window. Trees lifted their bony limbs to the sky, anxious for the first coat of white. Brown leaves scurried across the brown lawn. The colorless, lifeless landscape sucked any fragments of hope from his soul.
Then a single ray of sunshine highlighted the answer.
The carriage house. Of course.
He shot to his feet. It just might work.
