That was when the woman noticed Miss Fox, and all the venom that might have been directed at him spewed instead on Ruth. “What have you done to my gowns?”
Ruth flinched. “Th-th-there was a little accident.”
“Little? It looks like you threw them in the mud and trampled on them. What were you doing? You were supposed to bring them before five o’clock.”
“Yes, I know.” Poor Ruth’s complexion got blotchy. “I would have been here if I hadn’t dropped them—”
Sam was not going to let her take the blame. “The only reason she dropped them was because I ran into her. The fault is entirely mine and so is the remedy.”
Mrs. Vanderloo didn’t seem to hear him. “I trust you’ll make this right, Miss Fox, or I’ll have to take my business to a more reliable establishment.”
Sam clamped his jaw shut so he wouldn’t speak his mind. He would like to tell the woman that she’d have a tough time surpassing the excellent stitching he’d noted on these gowns, but Ruth rose to the occasion with surprising grace.
Calm as a pool at nightfall, she expressed her sympathy and regret, ending with “Of course, I’ll compensate you for your loss.”
She would compensate Mrs. Vanderloo? It took all of Sam’s will to hold his tongue. Ruth had claimed the credit, when he was paying the bill. Part of him wanted to correct the record, but another part remembered that Ruth’s father was in the hospital with a serious illness. Justice against charity. In the end, charity—and the lovely Ruth Fox—won out. It wouldn’t hurt his pride too much if Mrs. Vanderloo thought that Ruth was paying the full cost.
He shot the socialite his most disarming smile. “Not only will she make it right, but Miss Fox has promised to buy you two new dresses to replace those that were ruined. That’s quite a generous offer.”
As expected, Mrs. Vanderloo’s ire diminished. “I, uh—”
He lifted an arm of the ivory georgette dress to drive home the point. “Considering how outdated these frocks are, you’re making quite a bargain of it. Two new gowns in the latest fashion. You won’t find that guarantee elsewhere. Miss Fox can drop off some catalogs tomorrow.” He’d make sure Ruth had those catalogs before they parted ways tonight. “Make your choices at your leisure. We don’t want to keep you from your guests any longer.”
The woman seemed placated, until one last burst of petulance sneaked out. “But it doesn’t help me tonight. I’d planned to wear one of them.”
“That would have been a dreadful mistake.” Sam snuffed out her objections with the kind of observation that had won over reluctant girls in his college days. “The color and style are all wrong for you. Mint-green? Ivory? Not with your complexion. And the length. They must come to the ankle. Not at all stylish these days. In my opinion, that delightful navy suit brings out the copper in your stunning auburn hair.”
Mrs. Vanderloo primped with a girlish giggle, and Sam knew the battle was won.
Until he looked at Ruth. Miss Fox’s lips were pressed into an expression of undeniable displeasure. Now what had he done?
Chapter Three
That evening Ruth tried to keep her attention on the stack of bills piled on Daddy’s desk, but her thoughts kept drifting to Sam. When he’d suggested a rose-colored dress would suit her complexion, she’d foolishly thought he saw something unusual in her, but apparently he said the same sort of thing to every woman. A charming smile came in a salesman’s box of tools. It meant nothing.
Moreover, he’d abdicated his offer to buy the dresses, instead placing that burden on her. How would she manage to scrape up enough to pay for two new gowns capable of meeting Mrs. Vanderloo’s standards? She’d already spent her meager savings reducing their debt at the mercantile so the store would extend them credit again.
Ruth sighed and opened an envelope from the Battle Creek Sanitarium.
The figure on the invoice made her heart stop. How could they ever pay this, not to mention the additional treatment? Yet the doctors had made it clear that without that therapy, Daddy would not survive the year.
Ruth’s hand trembled. He couldn’t die. All her prayers and pleadings must count for something. She would do anything to save him. Anything? Jen’s bold idea came to mind. Would she marry for money? Ruth didn’t contemplate the answer for long. No matter what she would do, no man of means would marry her. Jen, on the other hand, could captivate someone like Sam. Perhaps Sunday would initiate the most unlikely of Jen’s many ideas.
Ruth smiled at the thought and reached out to touch one of the miniature stuffed elephants that stood on the shelf above the desk. She’d made them for her father when she was much younger. Red, green, purple, gold, blue. She’d been so proud of them, and he’d treated each like a priceless jewel.
“Exquisite,” he’d said after receiving every one. “Perfectly stitched.”
He’d encouraged all of them in their talents. Never once did he criticize her shyness or Jen’s poor stitching. He didn’t push any of them into the dressmaking business. Ruth couldn’t spend enough time in the shop. She loved the feel of the different fabrics, the satisfaction of the perfect pleat, the hope that sprang to life with each new dress. She loved to sketch new designs and dream one of her creations could turn a goose into a swan.
She picked up the first elephant she’d made, a pathetic calico creation with uneven stitching. Only her father had recognized that it was an elephant. He gave it a place of honor. She wiped away a tear and set the elephant back in place. Her father had taken one of her elephants with him to the sanitarium, along with Jen’s tattered baby blanket, photographs of Beattie’s babies and Minnie’s copy of Little Women, which he’d promised to read. He’d insisted those treasures would heal him more quickly than any doctor.
Yet he was still sick.
“Get well, Daddy,” she whispered.
In the meantime, she had bills to pay and no money with which to do so. Mother had told her which accounts to pay and which could wait. Daddy’s care came first, followed by the dress-shop bills. She had assured Ruth that the merchants in town would extend credit a bit longer, but the drugstore had insisted on cash for a single box of aspirin, and the mercantile had refused any credit until the account was paid down. Considering her oldest sister’s husband managed the mercantile, it was a slap in the face.
Now, as Ruth stared at the ledger, she could see disaster looming. Paying the sanitarium would nearly empty the family’s bank account. She’d have to short the shop’s fabric supplier in order to buy Mrs. Vanderloo’s dresses.
“It’s bad, isn’t it?” Jen had crept up so softly that Ruth hadn’t heard her.
Ruth slammed the ledger shut. “Nothing to concern you.”
Jen pulled up a chair. “Just because Mother put you in charge doesn’t mean you’re the only one who knows what’s going on. I can read a ledger, too. I keep the accounts at the airfield.” She tapped the ledger cover. “I say we ask Beattie for help.”
Memories of Beatrice’s whispered fears swept over Ruth. “We can’t.”
“Why not? Blake might be tightfisted, but she’ll get it out of him somehow.”
Ruth couldn’t tell Jen that their oldest sister’s marriage was struggling. Her husband, Blake, gave her only a pittance to spend on herself. Beattie used every cent for the children. Moreover, Blake’s lack of leniency at the mercantile showed he would give his in-laws nothing. Beatrice had confirmed Blake went through money at a frightening rate. She feared gambling—or worse. No, Beattie couldn’t help.
Neither could Ruth betray a confidence. “I could never ask Beatrice to part with money intended for her children.”
Jen dismissed