Christine Johnson - Groom by Design

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 it was long distance. Father was in New York. At least Sam hoped he was. “What does he want?”

“I don’t know.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, wincing with each movement. “He wouldn’t tell me anything except that he needs to talk to you right now.”

“All right.” He motioned her ahead. “Let’s go.”

“You go ahead.” Again she winced. “I’ll follow in a bit.” She grabbed the frame of the dress-shop window for support. The poor woman must have developed blisters.

He sighed and offered her his arm. “Father can wait a minute or two longer.”

“Thank you.” Miss Harris offered a teary smile. “You’re a real gentleman.”

Then why did he feel like a heel for wishing it was Ruth’s hand on his arm? Though pretty by conventional standards, Miss Harris didn’t inspire the slightest interest. Ruth, on the other hand...

He glanced one last time into the dress-shop window, only to see Ruth staring at him, a stunned expression on her face.

* * *

Sam had a wife. Or a girl.

Ruth looked away the moment his gaze landed on her, but she’d seen his dismay. Not only was he married, but he also didn’t want her to know about it. If he hadn’t wanted to keep his wife a secret, he would have told Ruth about her. He’d had ample opportunity. He might have mentioned he was married when she invited him to church. Any decent man would, and she’d thought him thoroughly decent.

Maybe she was wrong. Maybe he wasn’t married. Maybe that woman was a mere acquaintance. Except she didn’t look like an acquaintance. The pretty woman hung on his arm, her head practically against his shoulder.

Feeling slightly nauseous, Ruth sank onto her stool. What had she been thinking? Daydreaming was more like it. She took a deep breath and chased away the disappointment. Rich men did not look twice at poor, plain women. This incident proved that fact. At least she’d discovered the truth before introducing him to Jen. No wonder he’d hesitated to accept her invitation to Sunday worship.

With a clatter, Jen and Minnie burst into the shop.

“Did you see that?” Jen said as she plopped onto one of the wooden stools opposite Ruth. Minnie took the other.

Ruth couldn’t discuss this calmly, so she began pinning together the panels of the blouse that she had just cut. “I can’t imagine what you mean.”

“Your Sam helping that woman.”

“He’s not my Sam,” Ruth said. “He’s simply a new acquaintance.”

“He’s more than an acquaintance, silly goose. He looked for your approval before helping her.”

“What he does or doesn’t do is none of my concern.” Ruth smoothed the tricky voile before matching edges and pinning.

“I thought you liked him,” Minnie said.

“He’s a pleasant gentleman.”

“Pleasant?” Jen snorted. “That’s not going to get his attention. If you like him, you have to go after him. Let him know how you feel.”

“Go after him? You must stop listening to this modern-girl nonsense. Nice women do not chase after men.”

Ruth reached for another pin, but Jen yanked the pincushion away. “She’s not his girl.”

“Who’s not whose girl?” Ruth motioned for the pincushion.

Jen moved it farther away. “That woman. She might like your Sam, but he’s not the least bit interested in her.”

Ruth dropped her hand to the tabletop. “How do you know?”

Jen grinned. “He called her ‘Miss Harris.’ He was only helping her because she’d hurt her feet in those ridiculous shoes. If you ask me, anyone who wears such impractical footwear deserves to get blisters.”

Ruth felt such relief that she didn’t bother to scold her sister for her lack of compassion. Sam had addressed the woman formally. That meant... “She must work with him.”

“That would be my guess.” Jen leaned forward to whisper. “It leaves the door open for you.”

As always, heat flooded Ruth’s cheeks. “I am not pursuing a man. I—I couldn’t.”

“That’s where we come in. In fact, we’ve already set things in motion.”

Ruth stared at Jen. “What have you done?”

“Nothing much.” But Jen’s impish grin said otherwise. “We just talked to Beattie and came up with a plan. What you need is a pretty new ball gown, one that will catch Sam’s eye.”

“A ball gown? For me?” Though she secretly longed to someday wear a fancy gown, the stack of unpaid bills came to mind. “I’d rather spend the money on Daddy’s treatments.”