The Daughter's Walk - Jane Kirkpatrick [123]
We sat in the kitchen going over our accounts. Franklin’s face was drawn as he talked about receiving the news, how he’d hated to call me. He apologized again and took my hand in his. Sharon sat beside him. “I wouldn’t have done anything to hurt you; you know that. We were partners.”
“We were.” I pulled my hand from beneath his. “DDOL, gone. What will you do now?”
“We’ve talked about it.” He turned to his wife. “I think we’ll settle in Montreal. I can get contracts from there. I’ll still be in the business. And you? Would you consider more designing?”
“I suspect military designs will be of greater importance now.”
“I love what you did,” Sharon said with her French accent. “The clothes were magnificent.”
“You saw the coats before they shipped?” I felt a twinge of envy.
She nodded. “Fur as soft as a baby’s bottom. Supple and such beautiful lines. Franklin picked skillful tailors. And the pearl cape”—she kissed her fingers—“magnificent!”
“I don’t think I’ll pursue design,” I said. “I’m going to get steady work, with a paycheck. Something we can count on. In time, I might reinvest in property. It financed this … adventure.” I tried to be philosophical about this great loss, remembered my mother’s attitude that December in New York.
“It was circumstances, the way things happen. You do what your heart tells you,” Franklin said. “You understand that, don’t you?”
I nodded, and I knew he spoke not only of furs but of the love of his life now sitting beside him, a gold ring on her finger. I’d made a different choice years ago not to pursue that life.
We moved into the living room. Franklin and Sharon sat on the settee, one Olea had imported and kept. We three women of the house sat in high-back chairs across from them. I felt like my aunt Hannah, though I was only thirty-eight. Somehow I’d become the older generation that my younger brothers and sisters and I had giggled over when they came to visit, smelling of cabbage or pulling on their heavy socks.
“Do you have a big family?” Olea asked Sharon.
“Oh no. Only me now. My parents are both gone. I am without brothers or sisters. And my first husband, he has died too.”
“How did you two meet?” Louise asked. “I love romantic stories.”
Sharon cuddled up against Franklin’s shoulder. “She’s a model,” Franklin said. “I met her on the runway at the Montreal fair.”
“He was the tall American who always arrives late,” she said. “This time I bump into him, and voilà, it is love at the first seeing.”
“It was that,” he said.
As much as I struggled with the business loss and my own emotional disjoining from Franklin, I found I liked Sharon. I enjoyed seeing my friend’s eyes shine when he looked at her. We’d find a way to accommodate, to alter our relationship. When they left, I became another shoulder for Franklin to hug, just like Olea and Louise; Sharon’s was another cheek to kiss. I’d accept it and be grateful. I wouldn’t become embittered like Ida, letting past disappointments or mistakes define my future.
I worked as in a daze, forgetful like Louise, unable to stay focused. I had no real goal, no real plan except to survive. Louise complained that I’d stopped filling my plate again, picked at my food “like a chicken.”
There was nothing to keep us in Coulee City, I decided. Farm auction signs sprang up like tares among the wheat. In February, a cattleman expressed interest in our wheat land, and I told him to make me an offer. It was less than I’d hoped for, but once the house sold, we’d have enough to buy a place in Spokane, which is where I felt we needed to go.
Olea said I chastised myself too harshly about the grandeur of the plan, the impact of the insurance and the war. “People make judgments. They’re good or bad. Seeking wisdom is like that. Look at us, with you and your mother’s wager,” she said. “Five of us offered funds in 1895 to set up the walk, and one year later, everyone’s pot was less full. But we found a way to come back, at least a little, and then we could help you. You’ll rise again, Clara. We’ll rise together.”