Page 66 of More than Words Can Say

By the time Rosalind came down to open the shop, they’d stockpiled twelve dozen biscuits in cloth-covered baskets.

“Don’t forget to eat,” Rosalind cautioned him as she neared the stove, where he stirred yet another batch of honey butter. She carried a coffeepot in each hand that she’d filled at the sink and set them on the hot part of the stove. When she opened the coffee tin to retrieve the grounds she’d milled last night, the scent hit Zach hard in the gut, setting his mouth to watering.

“I’ve already snitched a couple biscuits,” he admitted softly, “but I sure could go for a cup of that coffee when you get it ready.”

Rosalind smiled at him. “First cup’s yours.”

Living in an all-female household did have its advantages. Coffee made by someone who knew what they were doing, for one. Having it delivered, for another.

’Course, there were disadvantages too, Zach recalled five hours later as he paced the length of the upstairs hall for the sixth time. How long did it take to throw on some clothes, for pity’s sake?

The parade started at two o’clock. The float had to be lined up in its assigned position at one. Rosalind was supposed to report to City Hall at one thirty. Mayor Longfellow planned to declare her Queen Bee of Honey Grove for the Fourth of July Parade as part of his oration to kick off the festivities. But here it was, nearly twelve thirty, and she and her sister were still in their room, fussing with who-knew-what while he paced the hall. Again.

He’d washed, shaved, put on his Sunday suitcoat, double-checked the biscuit baskets, and even made his bed. He never made his bed. At least not voluntarily. That was how desperate the situation had become.

After the eighth pass down the hall, Zach huffed out a breath and knocked on the door to Rosalind’s room. “You gals almost ready? We gotta get goin’.”

“Almost,” his wife called. She’d closed the shop in order to help Rosalind dress. Why a grown woman needed help dressing, Zach couldn’t fathom, but he considered sending out for reinforcements, since two didn’t seem sufficient for the task at hand.

Abigail planned to attend the mayor’s speech and watch the start of the parade before hurrying back to reopen the shop. The parade route would start at City Hall, make its way down Hickory to Sixth Street, circle around the square, then head east down Main to finish up in front of the Christian Church. Once the parade vacated the square, spectators would disperse. Those who’d traveled a significant distance would seek provisions to see them through the journey home. Locals planning to stay for the fireworks that evening might be in the market for a snack to keep their energy up. Hence the biscuit stand.

Zach, however, was going to need a lot more than a biscuit to get him through the rest of the day if those two didn’t speed things—

The door opened. Zach spun around at the sound of the hinges.

“It’s about t—” The complaint died on his tongue as his wife stepped through the doorway. She’d abandoned her work apron and changed her dark blue shirtwaist for a white lacy confection with a pleated front that highlighted her abundant curves. She’d tied a red sash around her waist that set off her blue skirt with patriotic flair and had somehow folded a scrap of leftover paper festooning from the shop’s decorations into a circle thing that looked remarkably like a flower. It was pinned to her blouse like a brooch. She’d also magically woven red ribbon through the braid on her head, a ribbon he was certain hadn’t been there when they’d been working side by side that morning.

“Isn’t she stunning?” Abigail asked as she turned her face away from him.

She? He only saw Abigail.

When Abigail gestured behind her, Zach finally noticed Rosalind stepping into the hall. She didn’t make his heart pound like Abby did, but he had to admit that she was a right fine-looking female. They must have taken curling tongs to her hair, for it hung in blonde ringlets down her nape in a way that reminded him of the fancy women in New York who used to bring donation baskets to the orphanage at Christmas. Her clothes were much fancier than her sister’s too. All white and frilly. She’d taken some of the bunting fabric and fashioned an overskirt that draped down her front and pulled up into a big bow at the back. She wore a straw hat decorated with more of those red, white, and blue paper flower things.

For someone who’d known for less than twenty-four hours that she was going to be the star attraction of the Fourth of July parade, she’d done an impressive job of improvising a patriotic ensemble that would no doubt put Sophia Longfellow to shame.

Abigail shot him a look that felt remarkably like a kick to the shin. Obviously, she expected him to say something. And not to her.

He smiled at Rosie. “I’ve never seen a prettier Lady Liberty.”

Abby beamed at him, making him stand a little taller, since he’d somehow managed not to stick his foot in his mouth. Then she took her sister’s hand. “You’re beautiful, Rosalind. No one deserves the title of Honey Grove’s Queen Bee more than you.”

Rosalind ducked her chin. “I just hope all this hoopla is worth the effort.”

“It will be,” Abby assured her. “You’ll see. We’ll break all kinds of sales records today. I just know it!”

Zach wanted to share her optimism, but his instincts warned that trouble lay ahead. And his instincts were rarely wrong.

CHAPTER

33

“There you are, Miss Kemp.” Sophia Longfellow separated herself from the group of aldermen’s wives in front of City Hall and crossed the street to meet Abigail and Rosalind. Her face pinched, Sophia clicked her tongue in displeasure. “If you’re going to represent Honey Grove, you really ought to have a care for punctuality. The photographer’s been waiting for an age.”

“Ph-photographer?” Rosalind’s gaze darted to the men gathered beneath the clock tower at the front entrance of the stone building. “No one told me anything about a photographer.”

Abigail touched her sister’s arm, scanning the crowd herself. Thankfully, the man holding the box camera and tripod was Alexander Westman, the local portraitist who doubled as the photographer for the Honey Grove Signal, the local paper. An older gentleman, a church deacon, nothing like that perfidious Julius. Nevertheless, Abigail felt a tremble course through her sister, and her steps slowed.

“Of course there’s a photographer,” Sophia said as she whisked Rosalind away from Abigail’s side and drew her toward the group of women who were timidly edging near. “We commemorate every Fourth of July with a photograph of our civic leaders prior to the mayor’s speech. You know that.”