An Inconvenient Match. Janet Dean
began. Oscar accepted a bid made by the blushing box owner’s beaming suitor who opened his wallet and withdrew bills. “The best money I ever spent,” he said, handing the cash to Oscar.
At his side, his young love giggled. “I’m a terrible cook.”
“When I can feast my eyes on you, Lora Lee, I don’t care what I eat,” he vowed, taking the box and offering his arm.
“You’ll change your mind about that, sonny, when your belly meets your backbone,” someone quipped.
Those within hearing distance chuckled. The suitor merely gave a goofy grin. Abigail couldn’t remember seeing such adoration in anyone’s eyes. Not that she wanted what they appeared to have. Her teaching contract forbade her to marry. Fine with her—especially now. She desperately needed that job.
As Oscar held up another offering, this one wrapped in toile and covered with tiny silk flowers, Abigail’s gaze traveled down the block to where six empty lots left a cavernous gap on the tree-lined street, as unsightly as missing incisors in a mouth full of teeth.
Her sister Lois’s family had crowded into the apartment over the bank with Abigail and her mother. Cozy hardly described four adults, four active boys and a newborn baby crammed into four tiny rooms.
Laid up with a broken leg and arm, injuries Joe sustained falling down the stairs while escaping the fire, her brother-in-law could barely get around, much less work.
Oscar raised a beribboned package to his nose. “A whiff of this lunch suggests roast beef with horseradish. Who’ll give five dollars?” A hand shot up. “Yip! I’ve got five. Who’ll give six?”
A nod.
“Yip!” Oscar turned back to the first bidder. “Do I hear seven?”
If this spirited bidding continued, the auction would raise enough money to purchase the building supplies. Every able-bodied man in town had volunteered their labor. They’d cleared the debris. But with none of the modest houses insured, the burned-out homeowners needed assistance.
One man could handle the loss with a mere nod of his head, but George Cummings did nothing unless he benefited. What else could she expect from the ruthless banker who’d brought about her father’s death?
A nudge of conscience reminded her that the senior Cummings had burned his hands fighting the fire and no doubt suffered. But then, hadn’t he brought suffering to others often enough?
Leon Fitch stepped to Abigail’s side. Tall and thin, a thatch of russet hair parted in the middle, Leon rested gentle hazel eyes on hers. Not like the intense, unsettling eyes of that rogue across the way.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said slightly out of breath. “Right before closing time folks lined up to withdraw money for the auction. I haven’t missed your lunch, have I?”
Abigail assured him he hadn’t.
For several months, Leon had escorted her to an occasional dance and church social. Not that she’d call their outings courting. Leon was far too deliberate to take such a momentous step in haste. Their companionable relationship suited her. She wasn’t looking for love.
As they watched, two more boxes sold, one for eight dollars, the other for ten. Rachel’s lunch came next.
Across the way, Abigail’s friend stood beside her father, her hand rested on his arm as if to ensure he wouldn’t bid. Rachel needn’t have worried. Two men vied for the privilege of sharing her lunch. Jeremy Owens, the owner of the livery, and Harrison Carder, the new lawyer in town, a Harvard friend of Wade Cummings.
One glance at Wade and her heart lost its rhythm. A sudden longing rose up inside of her. Refusing to ponder the absurd reaction, she forced her attention back to the bidding.
The attorney won the bid at nine dollars. Rachel beamed while her father looked bewildered, as if he couldn’t fathom his little girl stirring the interest of a man.
Oscar held aloft a box she recognized as hers by the blue-and-white checked cloth and red bow. She’d packed a hearty lunch for two of crispy fried chicken, golden biscuits, bread-and-butter pickles, potato salad, deviled eggs and slabs of blackberry cobbler, all Leon’s favorites.
And not a single bite of strawberry pie.
Oscar inhaled. “Just take a whiff of this, gents. I’d say whoever wins the bid is in for a feast of fried chicken. Who’ll give me five?”
“Is that yours?” Leon whispered. “It’s red, white and blue like you said.”
At her nod, Leon raised his hand, fingers spread wide.
Oscar pointed at Leon, taking his bid.
Abigail shot him a smile. Not the highest bid today but generous. Especially for a man who kept a firm grip on every dollar.
A smug expression on his face, Leon leaned back on his heels. “I know the contents will be worth the cost.”
“It’s for a good cause.”
With a grin, he patted his flat abdomen. “That too, but at the moment, my stomach wins hands down.”
“Who’ll give six?” Oscar called.
“Ten dollars!”
Abigail spun to the speaker, her heart slamming into her throat then plunging to the pit of her stomach with the weight of a boulder.
Wade leaned against a gaslight lamppost, loose limbed, his expression unreadable on his Stetson-shadowed face.
A face she’d like to slap.
How dare he ridicule her in front of the entire town? Why did he bid? What did he want?
Oscar whirled to Leon, seeking a raise in the bid.
Beside her, Leon huffed. “Eleven dollars,” he said in a voice that croaked, as if he might do the same.
Wade straightened, his gaze pinning Leon as if he were a frog in a science experiment. “Twenty-five.”
“Well, praise be!” Oscar hooted. “If that ain’t a bid that’d curl a pig’s tail.”
Around her folks murmured, a few chuckled nervously, aware no Cummings and Wilson shared a conversation, much less a meal.
Ever. Well, almost ever.
Abigail folded her arms across her torso and glared at Wade. Surely he had no intention of actually eating the food she’d prepared.
With her.
Not when their families had been at loggerheads for eons. Not when they’d never communicated more than a look in years. Until today.
“Leon, this here’s your chance to be one of them knights in shining armor. Are you going to twenty-six?”
Abigail met Leon’s baffled gaze. Why didn’t he raise the bid? Surely he could see the entreaty in her eyes. Would he turn her over to Wade?
Leon shoved his hat down and kept his mouth nailed shut. Obviously she wasn’t worth such an exorbitant sum. Her heart skipped a beat. Not to him.
Or perhaps Leon feared losing his job. The Cummingses owned much of the town, including the bank where Leon worked. Heat filled her veins. She wouldn’t put such malice past a Cummings.
“I’ve got twenty-five. Do I hear twenty-six? Twenty-six?” Oscar chanted, scanning the throng. As if anyone else in town had the wherewithal to match the bid. “Going, going, gone. Sold!” Oscar beamed. “Wade Cummings paid twenty-five dollars for the privilege of sharing lunch with the young lady who prepared it. Reckon with Leon bidding we all know that’s Abigail Wilson.”
Around her a few people clapped but far more spoke behind their hands. Everyone was aware of the feud and did what they could to keep the Wilsons and Cummingses apart. Agnes sat them in opposite corners of her café like prize fighters in