Sam stood inside the garage watching Peter assess the damage to the case. The lad looked rather young to be an expert carpenter, yet his blackened mechanic’s hands tenderly stroked the oak framing. His solemn, almost reverent expression contradicted the cowlick springing from the crown of his head. Tall and beanpole-thin, he looked like a boy trying to be a man.
“That’s a pretty bad split,” Peter said slowly as he pointed out the worst of the fractures. “It’s at the joint. I’d hafta replace three pieces. Here, here and here.” He indicated each one. “But this is old oak. I can’t match it.”
Father’s sharp eyes would notice the repair unless Peter could make it seamless. “What can’t you match? The color?”
“I’ll try, but it’ll be tough.”
Sam chewed on that. “Can you get close enough that people won’t notice?”
“Can try.”
Apparently that was the best Sam could hope for. He’d checked out the shelving and counter at the bookstore and found the workmanship first-rate. If Peter met those standards, he just might pull this off. “And the glass?”
“Got some out back that’d do. It’s not quite this clear, though. If you want the same kinda glass, we’ll hafta order it.”
Sam didn’t have the time or money to order new glass. He was going to have to pay for the repairs himself. Father didn’t accept additional costs. Period. “We’ll use what you have on hand. Your rate?”
Soon enough they settled on a reasonable fee. Sam paid half in advance, but Peter seemed less interested in the money than the work. Soon he resumed running his hands along the breaks and examining the joinery.
“I saw your work at the bookstore,” Sam commented as he tucked his wallet back into his suit jacket. “You planning on going into carpentry? You’re young. What? Twenty?”
“Eighteen.”
Just a boy. At eighteen, Sam had been ready to conquer the world. College and sport beckoned. Girls flocked to his side. Those were carefree times. He’d made friends, garnered accolades and met Lillian. Again he shoved away the thought. “So why work at the garage?”
Peter’s attention never left the display case. “It’s the family business.”
“Ah, I understand.” All too well. Families could be both a blessing and a curse. Like Peter, Sam was tied to the family business. His brother was champing at the bit to join the Hutton empire, and his father loved to pit the brothers against each other. Survival of the fittest, Father claimed. Fine. Sam would prove he deserved to inherit the business. He’d make his mark with the Pearlman store.
Ruth Fox had it easy. Sisters had to be kinder than brothers. Her father wouldn’t force the girls to fight for survival. They’d be expected to work together to make the dress shop succeed.
“Do you know the Fox family?” Since that walk yesterday, Sam had been unable to get Ruth out of his head.
Peter looked up. “Why?”
“I met one of the daughters yesterday.”
Peter stiffened. “Which one?”
“Ruth.”
“Oh.” Peter’s shoulders relaxed, and he went back to his examination of the case. “She runs the dress shop down the street.”
“Then it’s her business.”
Peter’s brow furrowed. “She tell you that? I didn’t take her for one to put on airs.”
“No, no.” Sam quickly backtracked, feeling as if he’d betrayed her. “I assumed she owned it, because she seemed to be in charge.”
“It’s her pa’s.”
“I see. So she’s managing it for now.” Sam couldn’t bring himself to say aloud that he’d heard Ruth’s father was in the hospital, even though Peter no doubt knew it. “She seemed nice.”
Peter shrugged. “I suppose.”
That was just the sort of answer he should have expected from an eighteen-year-old, but Sam wanted to learn more about Ruth. “She has pretty features. Probably draws a lot of attention at dances and church suppers.”
“We talkin’ about the same woman? The Ruth Fox I know don’t go to dances. I ain’t never seen her with a fella, neither. Maybe you mean one of her sisters. They’re all friendly as can be.”
“And Ruth’s not?”
He shrugged. “Jess quiet, is all. Kinda hard to get to know.”
Sam couldn’t deny that. He’d sensed her reserve, and the one time she’d stated her opinion, she’d quickly retreated behind self-deprecation. Why? What held her back? Why didn’t she trust people? Of course, if she knew who he was, she’d have good reason not to trust him. But she didn’t know, and he’d done everything he could to charm her. He’d even given her his most expensive catalogs for that Vanderloo woman’s replacement gowns. Yet she’d acted as if they were coated in curare, dropping them on the dress shop’s worktable without so much as a thank-you.
Well, if that was what she thought of his generosity, why did he bother?
“Something wrong?” Peter was staring at him.
“No. No.” Sam patted his jacket as if he’d forgotten something. “I should get back to work.”
“Yeah, me, too.”
After one last handshake, they parted. Nice, clean business deal. Exactly the way he should be dealing with Ruth Fox. But her face kept coming to mind. Those pale blue eyes, the translucent complexion, the honeyed hair. The worry creasing her forehead.
Sam hurried his step. He needed to stop thinking about her. She wasn’t his problem. Her father wasn’t his problem. Their dress shop wasn’t his problem.
He barreled down the boardwalk. Unfortunately, he had to pass the dress shop to get to his store. Despite it being a Saturday, Ruth was hard at work, her back to him as she pieced fabric at the large worktable. He slowed to take it all in: the dress form draped in voile, the bolts of fabric piled on shelves and sketches tacked to the walls. He slowed when one drawing caught his eye. He’d never seen such an exquisite gown. Who had drawn it? Ruth? Or someone else in the family? He had to know. Whoever it was, he or she displayed remarkable talent.
His fingers grazed the door handle. Her sisters weren’t there. Just Ruth. If she’d drawn the sketches, the compliment might bring her out of her reserve. His gaze flitted to the sketch of a stunning peacock-inspired gown. Ruth would glow in such a dress. He envisioned entering the finest ballrooms in New York with her on his arm. Heads would turn. The grand dames would wonder who she was. The younger ladies would ask where they could purchase such a gown.
Sam sucked in his breath. This was lunacy. He needed to get control of himself.
“Oh, good. You’re back,” called out a female voice.
Heels tapped the boardwalk, punctuated by breathless gasps.
Sam dragged his gaze away from Ruth. “Miss Harris.”
The store’s secretary hobbled toward him gingerly. Each step brought a grimace.
“Mr. Roth—”
“What is it?” he snapped before she blurted out his whole name.
She patted her bobbed brunette hair. “Your father is on the telephone. Long distance.”
Of course