The Daughter's Walk - Jane Kirkpatrick [117]
“Oh, you can’t forget God,” Louise said. “He’s the one who’s done that.”
I looked at her. “Yes, He did, when I listened. But my sister was speaking of you two. I’ve made a new life, and you’re my family now. So please, Olea, come back. Let’s live together. I need you because I’m going to do something you and Franklin suggested I do years ago: make up fur fashion designs and have them manufactured. I’m going to sell the other river property and invest it to take care of us.”
“You’ll make designs?” Olea asked.
“I have a few finished, and I’m thinking of—”
“I thought you should have done that years ago instead of that trapping business or the fur ranching fantasy,” Olea said.
“And you were right.”
“She got a nice trip to Europe though,” Louise said.
“And she almost died of pneumonia too,” Olea reminded her.
“But the Warrens looked after me. They were sent just when I needed them,” I said. I loved the banter between Olea and Louise, my part in the subject. I’d missed that!
“Lucky you.” Olea smiled. “We’ll have to plan a trip together, the three of us.”
“Yes, we will,” I said. “You’ll come back and live here? Please do.”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
We turned the shed into a workplace for Olea and got her house repaired and ready to sell. A hawk circled outside the window higher and higher, and I felt like him, more pleased and satisfied and hopeful than buying property had ever made me. We called Franklin, told him of our plans, and he concurred, helped us define each of our parts in this new venture.
In 1914, when Franklin arrived, we were ready. I’d sold the Spokane River properties to the Washington Water Power Company. It had been the most painful of sales because it meant I was truly giving up the livetrapping future. The water company planned to dam the river, and my orchards and shoreline and even the old building would be under water, only the high timber left. I’d likely never walk the land again. I thought of my mother and the Mica Creek farm. One had to move on.
Olea’s house sold. I’d put the rentals in Spokane on the market, and several other properties I’d planned to keep longer to turn a better profit, I released for sale. I wanted to pool our funds for this large investment. We put the farm up for sale too, but I expected it would take a while to sell given the drought. I’d keep the taxes up.
I might sell the ring Franklin gave me to get more cash … but I couldn’t let go of it, at least not yet. I twirled it on my finger as we talked.
We all sat at the table after finishing a breakfast of oatmeal and maple syrup. The windows frosted with the February cold made designs that reminded me of my mother’s Hardanger lace. Franklin wore a look of anticipation.
“You’ll buy high-quality pelts in Montreal, or Russia if you think, but I’d prefer as much come from North American furs,” I said.
“The size and coverage is better and the color richer and deeper,” Olea reminded him.
He nodded and I continued. “You’ll need to secure a contract with tanners and manufacturers in London. Or Paris or Florence or Athens. We’ll leave that to you. Have the garments made up where you think best, but I did like what I saw in Montreal and Paris. Bring them back for sale here in the States. Sell them in New York and Chicago.”
“Not Spokane?” he said. “Isn’t that what you imagined years ago?”
“Maybe, but you were all right: the big markets are where people are, and that’s the East, New York. Maybe Chicago and Detroit.”
“Clara,” Franklin said, “if you now have resources to invest, don’t you think you should follow what you’d always wanted to do, ranch wild game?”
“It’s sweet of you to remember,” I said. I sat back. “This is a better arrangement for our … family. And this yield doesn’t depend on vagaries of breeding stock or whether I can locate enough protein within a reasonable distance, nor the years it’ll take to see a profit. This is what we think we should do.”
“Tensions are running high in Europe,” he said. “The Balkans.