Page 29 of Stolen Time
I did my best to remind myself that I was a fit woman of twenty-two, not an octogenarian, and even though getting up the hill was something of a workout, I could still manage it just fine, even in those damn heels I had to wear all the time.
“Oh, and see if they have any more clothes that would fit you,” Ruth said as she handed over the list, written in a neat copperplate script that looked like something out of a museum. “Since it seems as if you’re going to be here longer than we first thought, it would just be smart for you to have a few more things to wear.”
Even though I’d already started to wonder how I was going to manage with only three daytime outfits and three sets of underthings, I couldn’t help protesting, “Oh, I don’t want you to be extravagant on my account.”
“Nonsense,” Ruth said briskly. “I’m not asking you to buy a silk dress to go and meet the King. I just think it would be more comfortable for you to have a few more dresses, and another skirt and blouse outfit if they have something that would work. Molly McAllister contracts with seamstresses in both Cottonwood and Prescott, and sometimes even gets items from Los Angeles and New York, so it’s hard for me to say what she has on hand. You’ll just need to ask.”
I could tell there wasn’t much point in arguing with Ruth, not when she had that firm set to her mouth, as if she knew she was the final word in any discussion that took place in her household. And with Timothy sitting a few feet away, obviously hearing everything but not bothering to cut in with a comment about the cost of supplying me with an adequate wardrobe, it seemed my impression was correct.
“Yes, I’ll be sure to see what they have,” I said, then drained the final contents of my cup of coffee and ate the last bite of the bacon sitting on my plate. “I’ll go get ready now.”
She nodded at me, and I headed upstairs to take care of my teeth and face — and also to redo my hair, since I’d made kind of a hash of the bun in my haste earlier this morning and didn’t want to look like a total slob.
I might have been a stranger with no known past, but I still wanted to make a good impression in case Seth’s parents were working at the store when I got there.
The sun was up, but the air still felt mild enough as I made my way down the hill. Whether it would be quite so mild on my return trip, I didn’t know for sure, although I told myself the hour was early enough that I wouldn’t have to worry about the heat too much.
Quite a few cars and trucks came and went, but since I’d never made a study of antique vehicles, I had no idea what models and makes they all were. For some reason — probably because any images I’d seen of the era were in black and white — I’d somehow assumed all the cars would be black. Instead, they came in a multitude of shades…dark green, deep burgundy,a handsome saddle brown, one flashy convertible in a surprising pale butter yellow…and I did my best not to stare too much.
Well, except at the convertible, which was driven by a man in a straw fedora and had a woman with equally pale yellow hair in the passenger seat, a silken scarf fluttering in the breeze as they drove past. But since I wasn’t the only one gawking — clearly, the striking pair were from out of town — I figured that was probably all right.
Ruth had given me a delicate wristwatch to wear, so I knew it was about eight minutes past eight when I walked through the front door of the mercantile. The façade of the building wasn’t all that different from the way it looked in my time, with two picture windows flanking the door and a transom window above it, but inside it was very much changed from what I knew. Instead of the local pottery and jewelry and touristy T-shirts and baseball caps Rachel’s store had on display, there were long counters on either side, with tall shelves behind them stacked with merchandise. Along the back wall stood large bins that I guessed held staples such as flour or grain, and a table in the center was piled high with boxes of shoes and other odds and ends.
I immediately noticed Charles, who stood behind one of the counters and was showing what looked like a pickaxe of some sort to an older man who didn’t appear to be a miner, maybe instead a rancher or farmer. Why he’d be shopping here rather than down in Cottonwood, I didn’t know — Jerome was way too hilly for any kind of agriculture — but maybe McAllister Mercantile had a better selection of those kinds of tools.
Behind one of the other counters was a woman who looked like she might be in her middle forties, pretty, with wavy, soft brown hair pulled into a low bun similar to mine and eyes so clear and blue, I knew she had to be Seth’s mother.
I walked toward her, and she smiled. “How can I help you, miss?”
She had a small dimple in her right cheek, and something about her smile reminded me of Seth as well, genuine, open, without any false friendliness. I found myself smiling back as I said, “I’m Deborah Rowe, the girl who’s staying with Ruth and Timothy McAllister. Ruth gave me a list of things she needed — and she also wanted you to check to see if you had any more clothes that might work for me.”
As soon as I said my name, the woman’s expression lit up that much more. “Oh, how nice to meet you, Deborah! I’m Molly McAllister, Seth’s mother. Let me see that list, and then I’ll go through our stock and find a few things for you.”
Relieved that she didn’t seem to find it at all odd that her cousin wanted to pay for my expanded wardrobe, I handed over the piece of paper Ruth had given me, then waited as Molly went along the shelves, gathering the requested items. Through all this, I waited at the counter, almost feeling the moment when Charles was finished with his current customer and turned his attention toward me.
In fact, he walked over while his mother was crouched down, sorting through packets of sewing needles.
“Good morning, Miss Rowe,” he said.
Nothing in his expression or his words was particularly hostile, but I found my hackles going up anyway.
Something about the guy just rubbed me the wrong way.
However, I did my best to sound pleasant as I said, “Good morning, Mr. McAllister. Ruth sent me down to pick up a few things for her.”
“It was kind of you to run the errand.”
“Oh,” I said deprecatingly, “I’m much better suited for this sort of thing than trying to help out in the kitchen.”
One of his dark brown brows lifted a fraction of an inch. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those ‘new’ women.”
“‘New’?” I repeated, not sure what he meant. Was that what men in the 1920s called women who wanted to vote and have their own careers?
I had a dim recollection that women definitely could vote by 1926, but I had to admit I’d sort of daydreamed my way through a lot of U.S. history, finding the history of Europe in the Middle Ages much more interesting. Now I wished I’d paid more attention.
On the other hand, I had to believe there were still quite a few men who weren’t too happy with the change in women’s circumstances even several years after female suffrage became a thing, so maybe the exact year didn’t make that much of a difference.
“As in, new to town?” I asked innocently, and Charles’s brow furrowed that much more.