Dreams Rekindled Read online

  What she thought was that it was wonderful that he cared about her opinion. What she said was, “That sounds reasonable, especially if you bill them quarterly.” Even the Downeys, the richest people in Mesquite Springs, might be unwilling to pay $20 in one installment.

  “What about the price for subscriptions?” she asked. This was a discussion Dorothy suspected few would find interesting, and yet it made her heart beat faster. It felt good to be talking to Brandon. It felt even better that he was treating her as if her views mattered, as if she were helping him make decisions.

  “The going rate seems to be five dollars a year, so that’s what I was planning to charge. Individual issues would be fifteen cents.” He turned toward her, his eyes seeming to darken as he gazed at her. “Does that sound reasonable?”

  “It does. And the yearly rate is a good incentive for people to subscribe rather than pay for individual issues.”

  They’d turned north on Mesquite and had reached the corner of Main. As he raised an eyebrow, silently asking whether she wanted to turn left toward Polly’s Place or continue north, Dorothy pointed forward. This conversation was too enjoyable to cut it short.

  “I was planning to offer the first issue free,” Brandon said as they crossed the town’s main street.

  “That’s an excellent idea.” Evelyn hadn’t offered anything free the day she’d opened Polly’s Place, but a newspaper was different from a restaurant. Mesquite Springs had never had a paper, and until residents discovered how valuable one was, they would be unwilling to subscribe.

  “I want it to be ready on the twenty-fifth.”

  Dorothy visualized the calendar Evelyn had hung in the kitchen. “A Tuesday? How did you choose that day?” She was certain it hadn’t been a random decision and wanted to understand how Brandon’s mind worked.

  “In my experience, it’s the least eventful day of the week. Folks are done discussing the parson’s sermon, and it’s too early to get excited about anything that might be going on the next Saturday. My hope is that the paper will give folks something to talk about.” He paused for her reaction. When she nodded, he continued. “I expect the local happenings column to be a major part, at least initially.”

  Dorothy wasn’t surprised. “I’ve seen them in other towns’ papers, and I understand their appeal. Everyone likes to see their name in print.”

  “Most everyone.” Brandon wrinkled his nose. “The Wanted section is also popular, but for the opposite reason.”

  They walked silently for a minute, and while Dorothy might have found silence awkward under other circumstances, this time it was comfortable. It also let her focus on the thoughts whirling through her mind.

  “Have you thought about a name for the local news column?”

  Brandon shook his head. “I didn’t give it a title in Xavier.”

  So that was where he’d lived. Dorothy hadn’t heard of it, but there were many towns in Texas whose names she didn’t recognize.

  “Since you asked, I’m guessing you have a suggestion.”

  She hadn’t had anything in mind, but Brandon’s statement sparked a thought. “What about ‘sociable’?”

  He slowed his pace, and furrows formed between his eyebrows. “Wouldn’t ‘social’ be simpler?”

  “I was thinking about the noun, not the adjective. An informal gathering. Characters in the books Laura sent me from Charleston were always going to sociables. That’s where they learned what their friends were doing. Isn’t that the column’s purpose?”

  When Brandon remained silent for a moment, Dorothy was certain he disapproved. She shouldn’t have been so presumptuous, but he had asked. To Dorothy’s relief, he nodded. “That could work, but let’s call it ‘The Sociable’ so there’s no confusion. Now, do you have any other ideas?”

  She did. “What if we got people actively involved in the first issue?” Oh, why couldn’t she curb her tongue? She should never have said “we.” Even though he’d said “let’s call it” rather than “I’ll call it,” the Chronicle was Brandon’s paper, not hers.

  “What did you have in mind?” To Dorothy’s relief, either he hadn’t noticed her use of the plural pronoun, or it didn’t bother him.

  “When you told me the date of the first issue, I realized it would be exactly a month before Christmas, and that made me wonder whether you’d have a Christmas theme for it.” This time she was careful to say “you.”

  “You could ask the old-timers to tell you about early Christmases here. You know how folks like to talk about the olden days. You could write their stories. That way they’d be part of the paper.” Dorothy stopped abruptly, conscious that she hadn’t given Brandon a chance to express his opinion. Once again, she was being presumptuous.

  Brandon didn’t seem to mind. Instead, he laid his other hand on top of hers and gave it a little squeeze as he turned to smile at her. “That’s a great idea. I wish I’d thought of it myself.” A second later, he released her hand. “The only problem is, it’ll take a lot of time. I’m not sure I can do it alone.” He paused, slowing their pace again so that he could watch her. “Would you help? You wouldn’t have to actually write the stories, but if you’d talk to some of the old-timers, as you call them, and take notes, I think we could make this an issue no one will forget.”

  Dorothy’s heart skipped a beat at the realization that he’d included her in his plans. He’d said “we.” Was there ever a more beautiful word in the English language? Even better was the fact that unbeknownst to Brandon, he was offering her a chance to make one of her dreams come true.

  “Will you help me?”

  Dorothy’s pulse raced, and her heart beat so rapidly that she feared it might burst through her chest. This was what she wanted. This was what she’d dreamt of for so long. This was the culmination of the hope that had lodged in her when Brandon had said he was a newspaperman.

  It wouldn’t be difficult to get people to reminisce, especially since many of them came to Polly’s Place and sought reasons to linger over their coffee. Dorothy would listen to their stories, but she could do more than that. She could write the articles. They wouldn’t have the same impact as Harriet Beecher Stowe’s book, but . . .

  Unbidden, her sister-in-law’s advice reverberated through her brain. “Don’t abandon your dreams,” Evelyn had said. “Life is too short to waste a single minute. If being a writer is truly important to you, you’ll find a way.”

  “Yes!” Dorothy practically shouted the word. “Of course, I’ll help you.”

  This was her beginning.

  CHAPTER

  Four

  Welcome to Polly’s Place.” Dorothy smiled at the man who’d just entered the restaurant. Though she did not know his name, she recognized him as the younger man who’d been sitting on the boardinghouse porch when she and Brandon had passed it yesterday. He was taller than she’d thought, only an inch or so shorter than Brandon, with unremarkable brown hair. What was remarkable were his vivid green eyes and his almost painful thinness. She’d ensure that this man received larger than normal servings of whatever he ordered.

  “Would you like to share a table, Mr. . . .” Dorothy let her voice trail off as she waited for his response.

  “I’m Phil Blakeslee, and I’d be honored if you’d call me Phil. I’ve heard that most folks here call you Dorothy.”

  “That’s true. Are you feeling sociable, Phil, or would you prefer a table by yourself? I have to warn you that my only table for one is in the least desirable location.”

  “A single table is fine as long as I have a view of some of the other diners.” Phil Blakeslee patted the book that he’d been carrying under one arm. “I like to draw.”

  Dorothy tried to mask her surprise. She’d told Laura that new people would come to Mesquite Springs, but she hadn’t expected both a newspaperman and an artist to arrive the same week.

  When she’d shown Phil to his table and recited the day’s menu, she fixed her gaze on his sketchbook. “Would you show me
some of your drawings?”

  “Why, of course, Miss Dorothy. An artist can’t make a living unless people see his work, can he?”

  He flipped the book open. “What do you think of this?”

  She gave a small gasp as she looked at the sketch of Polly’s Place. Phil had captured the details of the exterior perfectly—the door half-open, as if inviting customers inside; the bench where people waited for a table on busy days; the window with “Polly’s Place” stenciled on it.

  None of those surprised Dorothy. What did was the sight of her face looking out the window as if she, like the half-open door, was welcoming patrons. It was uncanny and a bit eerie that a man she’d met only a minute before had, unbeknownst to her, studied her closely enough to capture her image that well.

  He’d made a mistake. Something about the sketch had disturbed her, and now she was wary. That wasn’t what he’d intended. Phil watched the direction of Dorothy’s gaze and how she frowned ever so slightly when it rested on her likeness. That was the problem. She didn’t like him drawing her.

  “I heard the town is going to have a newspaper,” he said, trying to make amends. “You probably want to place an ad in it, and I thought having your pretty face would attract more attention than just words.”

  She appeared slightly mollified. “I don’t know whether Brandon is planning to have illustrations.”

  Brandon. It appeared he’d been right in thinking that Dorothy and Holloway were more than casual acquaintances.

  “I can ask him,” she continued, “but even if he agrees, it’s not my picture that should be on the ad. It’s Evelyn’s.”

  John had said that Dorothy was filling in until her sister-in-law returned. “I doubt she’s as pretty as you.”

  Though Phil had expected the compliment to please Dorothy, it had the opposite effect. “How could you draw me? We’ve never met.”

  Oh. That was what bothered her. “My sister used to say God had given me a special talent. She was a better artist than me, but she needed to have the model in front of her. If I see someone—even from a distance—I can usually create a good likeness. I saw you walking last night.”

  Dorothy’s relief was visible. “That is indeed a special talent. Does your sister still paint or sketch?”

  There was no reason to lie, especially since he wanted her sympathy. “Esther died when I was still a boy.”

  As he’d expected, Dorothy’s eyes filled with compassion. “I’m so sorry.”

  Sorry didn’t begin to describe Phil’s emotion.

  Brandon looked up at the sound of the front door opening. He’d had a number of visitors today, people curious about his plans for the Chronicle and wanting to see a printing press. A few had mentioned subscribing, and several of the proprietors had inquired about the cost of ads. None of those visitors had surprised him. This one did.

  Brandon rose and extended his hand in greeting. “What can I do for you, Blakeslee?”

  The man looked around, his eyes appearing to catalog everything in the office. “It’s more of a question of what we can do for each other. Your paper could benefit from illustrations, and I could benefit from a little extra money.” He patted his stomach. “Dorothy’s not giving away those meals she serves.” The hostility Brandon had seen at the boardinghouse had been replaced by a conciliatory expression, as if Blakeslee regretted their first meeting.

  “It’s a good idea.” Brandon found himself wishing he could agree to it.

  As if he sensed Brandon’s vacillation, Blakeslee opened his sketchbook. “No one wants to buy a pig in a poke. Here’s what I can do.”

  Brandon whistled. The drawing was more than good. It was excellent. “How did you get Dorothy to stand still long enough to sketch her?” In Brandon’s experience, she was always in motion.

  “She didn’t have to pose. I saw the two of you walking, and that was enough. You could say she was etched on my brain.”

  Brandon had no trouble imagining that, because visions of Dorothy flitted through his brain at the oddest times. There was no question about it. Blakeslee was a talented artist, and the Chronicle would benefit from him.

  “I wish I could hire you, but I’m not set up for woodcuts. Even if you could make them, it’ll be a while before I can afford to pay anyone.”

  Blakeslee nodded, almost as if he’d expected Brandon’s response. “Sorry to hear that, but when you’re ready, the offer stands.”

  “Then you’re planning to stay.” Brandon had had the impression that he was an itinerant artist.

  “Sure am. Mesquite Springs has more to offer than anywhere I’ve lived.”

  Brandon started to ask where Blakeslee had been before but stopped himself. The man was entitled to his privacy, just as Brandon was.

  His first Sunday in Mesquite Springs. Phil tried not to scowl at the thought of what lay ahead—an hour, maybe more if he was unlucky, listening to people praise God, and the preacher drone on about some obscure Bible verse, most likely one about God’s love.

  Phil knew all about God’s love. It was a myth, just like the myth that ministers were shepherds, taking care of their flock. Pastor Selby had taken care of him and Esther, all right. When he’d read the article that meddling Monroe had put in the paper, Selby had denounced Esther from the pulpit, calling her a whore when she’d sold the only thing she still possessed to buy food for them.

  And then, when the shame had been too much for Esther, that sniveling preacher who called himself a man of God had refused to bury her in consecrated ground. “The church forbids it. Your sister was a sinner.” As if that sanctimonious man had never sinned!

  Phil closed his eyes, willing the painful memories away. It had been two decades since the horrible day when he’d found Esther’s lifeless body, two decades during which he’d managed not simply to survive but to thrive. If he did everything right here, by next summer, he’d be a wealthy man. He might even go back East and show that no-count Selby that the boy he’d driven out of the church had no need for him or his false piety. But first Phil had to finish his work here, and that involved going to church.

  He would sit through the service that wouldn’t be as entertaining as Brother Josiah’s. He’d bow his head and pretend to be pious while he mulled over the people he’d met. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why Dorothy wanted to spend time with Holloway, but the fact that she did meant that she might be useful to Phil. If Brother Josiah didn’t know what had happened in Xavier, Dorothy might.

  While the preacher was exhorting his flock to do something, Phil would figure out a way to ingratiate himself with Dorothy. Then, when the service was over, he’d shake the minister’s hand and tell him it was a fine sermon. All those were part of the role he had to play. Afterwards, when the congregation made its way out of the church, he’d begin his real work by introducing himself to the three men whose land would house Mr. K’s new home.

  The Bosch, Sattler, and Link ranches had the best access to what the locals called a river, and that’s what Mr. K wanted—a lot of land with a view of running water. It was up to Phil to convince the ranchers to sell.

  “Welcome to Mesquite Springs.” The minister smiled as he shook Phil’s hand after the final hymn had ended. “I hope you plan to make this your home. There’s no finer town in the Hill Country.”

  No finer town for Mr. K, but Phil would not say that. Instead, he merely nodded at the man who had—as Phil had predicted—turned a single Bible verse into a half-hour sermon.

  “It’s the shortest verse in the Bible,” Pastor Coleman had announced, “but one of the most important, because it shows that while he was on Earth, Jesus experienced the same emotions we do. Jesus wept.”

  Phil had tried to ignore the rest of the sermon. According to the Bible, Jesus had wept when he learned of his friend’s death, and then later, he’d raised Lazarus from the dead. A nice story and one that others might believe. Phil knew better. Where were Jesus’s tears and his life-restoring touch when Esther die
d? He may have cared about his friend, but he didn’t care about Phil or his sister. That story, like the rest of the Bible, was a myth.

  What was real was what had been done to Esther. Phil touched the oilskin packet that he kept close to his heart. A stranger might find the contents ghoulish, but to Phil they were precious, the only tangible memories he had of his sister.

  “My wife and I would be pleased if you’d join us for dinner today.” The minister’s words brought Phil back to the present. “We like to welcome newcomers to town, and this week we’re blessed to have both you and Mr. Holloway. Will you join us?”

  No! Absolutely not! It would be bad enough to have to endure a meal with the preacher, but Phil had no intention of spending any more time than he had to with the town’s newspaperman.

  Though he was tempted to shout his refusal, he said, “I appreciate the invitation, but I’m afraid that I have other commitments today.”

  “Another time then.” The way Coleman looked at him made Phil suspect the man had seen beneath his excuse.

  Another time? Not if he could avoid it.

  “We’re so grateful you’re starting a paper here, aren’t we, Jonathan?”

  The smile Mrs. Coleman gave her husband reminded Brandon of the ones his parents had shared.

  “Mesquite Springs needed one,” her husband agreed as he helped himself to another serving of mashed potatoes.

  The “simple Sunday dinner” he’d offered Brandon had turned out to be a feast, the table laden with platters of both chicken and ham; bowls of green beans, carrots, and mashed potatoes; plates heaped with fluffy biscuits, pickled beets, and a spicy cabbage salad. It was more food than Brandon had seen since Ma died and left little doubt why the minister was as heavy as he was.

  “Right now, the town gets much of its news through the grapevine, and that’s hardly reliable.” Pastor Coleman frowned, as if remembering a particularly unpleasant instance of inaccurate reporting.

  “The idea of asking residents to share their stories is a good one.” Mrs. Coleman favored Brandon with a smile.