Engaging Deception, page 25
So was she telling the truth?
With a last look at the library, he exited the house. He couldn’t stay there. The children. Mrs. Wester. He could think better while walking to the Dennis house.
What did he know about Olive? He knew that she had been reading the materials in his library. He knew that the average person on the street would find those papers uninteresting and confusing. He knew that someone in the Kentworth family was responsible for constructing several different buildings about town. Everyone believed it to be Amos, but Max had always doubted that.
If not Amos, then who?
He waited for traffic to ease on Main Street so he could cross the business district and go into Murphysburg. How proud he’d been when he showed Olive his plans for the department store. He had expected her to ooh and ahh and make all those feminine sounds of approval that men sought. What he hadn’t expected was for her to instantly understand what his drawing represented. He didn’t expect that she would put her focus on the page instead of him trying to explain it. And he really was surprised when she came up with an idea for the interior that perfectly addressed his client’s request.
How could the builder be anyone other than her?
“Maxfield!” Mr. Dennis waved his hand above the pedestrians on the sidewalk. “Maxfield Scott. Just the man I was looking for.”
Not who Max wanted to see, but it was his job and right now it was his only job. “Do you have time for coffee?” Max asked. He might as well give Mr. Dennis his full attention, and a hot cup of coffee would make the time pass more enjoyably.
“My treat.” Mr. Dennis led Max to the bakery and ordered two cups. Whatever it was that he wanted to say, he was already buttering Max up for it. This didn’t bode well.
They’d just taken their seats at a round café table when Mr. Dennis broke the news. “I want to put a halt to the construction at my house.”
Max gulped down a mouthful of hot coffee despite the scalding his throat was taking. He coughed into his hand, then looked up with watery eyes.
“Stop altogether? Why?”
“There’s no reason to keep building until Amos Kentworth is finished with Mr. Blount’s house. If my aim is to have the biggest house in Joplin, then I have to wait until the biggest house is finished and then determine how much bigger mine needs to be.”
It wasn’t Amos Kentworth building it. Max was coming to terms with that, but it didn’t change Mr. Dennis’s request.
“What’s to keep Mr. Blount from adding on again when I start construction back up? This could go on forever.”
Dennis tapped the side of his coffee cup. “I reckon it’ll go on until one of us runs out of yard to build on.”
“You already started adding to the second story. How high are you willing to go?”
“I hadn’t considered that.” He stared down into the coffee as he swirled his cup around. “But you see why it doesn’t make sense for you to keep on. Not until we know what we need to do to beat that old dog.”
Maxfield rubbed his forehead. He should’ve been done with this project weeks ago. If it wasn’t for Olive getting involved . . . But it wasn’t fair to blame Olive. She was doing what he did, accepting jobs to build whatever her clients wanted.
“If the house remains unfinished, will Mrs. Dennis and Ruby be content staying at the Keystone much longer?”
“I say let them move in. We’ll close off the room that is unfinished. They might as well have the use of the rest of the house.” Mr. Dennis eyeballed him suspiciously. “That is if you’re going to approve the womenfolk coming on-site before the house is finished.”
Maxfield was learning to let go. He was learning that a tragedy of the past didn’t have to force him into more tragic mistakes, and insisting that Mrs. Dennis and Ruby avoid their home would cause hard feelings. He could overlook his fears for their ease.
“The house is ready for them,” he said. “If we’re not going to complete it right now, I’ll have the materials removed tonight, and it’ll be clear by the end of the day tomorrow.”
Mr. Dennis beamed. “Thank you. That will thrill the ladies.” He tapped the side of his coffee cup again. “And I’ll settle up on whatever bills you have outstanding. We’ll consider the house finished, and when Blount makes his final move, then we’ll start a new project on the house. That way you’re free to move on to the department store you wanted to work on.”
Perfect. The department store that he’d already given to Olive. If he’d known that Mr. Dennis would close down his house, he would have kept Mr. Christman’s project.
“I’m headed to the house right now,” Maxfield said. “Are you?”
“No, I’ll go back to the hotel and let the missus and Ruby know that it’s time to start packing. They’ll be overjoyed.” He reached into his wallet and took out some coins. Dropping them on the table, he stood. “I’m sorry this turned out so messy. If it weren’t for that Kentworth, we would’ve been done by now.”
Max gave a courtesy nod even though he disagreed. It wasn’t Olive’s fault. It was men like Blount and Dennis who were to blame. They had no respect for the aesthetics that went into design. They didn’t understand the balance of the elements that Max used. They only knew numbers, and in this case, it was the number of square feet. That’s all they cared about.
Alone at the table, he finished his coffee and willed the kinks out of his shoulders. He’d given the department store away. If Olive decided to do it, would she allow him to be involved? Not that he’d want any kind of say on the project, but would she let him check in from time to time, just so he could share the joy of watching it go up? He took his hat as he exited the café. She shouldn’t let him. Not after the way he treated her. She should expect nothing more from him besides disrespect and a power struggle.
If he was her friend, he’d advise her to keep him at arm’s length.
He continued on down Virginia Avenue and every sight reminded him of Olive. A flash of blond hair caught his eye, but it wasn’t her. A purple martin flew by, bringing to mind the birdhouses that she’d crafted. An advertisement for the Schifferdecker Electric Park reminded him of the roller coaster and how he’d held her tight.
And the sign going up on the Byers Building looked, at first, like it bore her name.
The workman held his screwdriver in the way, so Max couldn’t quite see it, but he knew now that he was imagining things. There couldn’t be a brass plate on the Byers Building that read Olive Kentworth, Architect. That was beyond ridiculous.
The workman polished the directory board with a soft cloth, and when he lowered it, sure enough, there were the words that Max thought he’d imagined.
She had an office? But why wouldn’t she get an office? She was building Mr. Christman’s department store. People with much smaller clients fancied themselves professionals. He stood before the sign, still in disbelief. This was his nanny. He thought he knew her. How could she have hidden something so important from him? Or had he been too blind to see it?
His nanny was an architect. Olive with clients, and him with none.
“Is there something wrong with the sign?” The workman held up his thumb and squinted toward the sign. “It’s straight, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it looks fine. Splendid. Superb.” Max kept looking at the door to the office building. Was she inside? It’d been so long since he’d seen her. An eternity, it felt like.
“Room 108,” the worker said. “You might as well pay your competition a visit, Mr. Scott.”
Maxfield shot the man a second glance. He didn’t know him personally but, more than likely, he’d worked on one of Maxfield’s projects. And here Max stood in the street, as stunned as a painter who’d breathed in too many fumes.
“I will go inside,” Maxfield said, “and wish her good luck. She’s a friend of mine, after all.”
“Oh, that explains it. I was wondering how a lady got started in the business. It makes sense you pulled a few strings for her.” The man gave Maxfield a wink then took up his toolbox.
But he hadn’t helped her at all. She’d done this without knowing anyone in the industry. She hadn’t had the opportunity to go to the universities or the world tours he’d gone on. No one had helped her, and she’d managed to build two praiseworthy buildings for her family. When Maxfield thought back to all the people who had helped him along in his career, he had to wonder if he would’ve persevered without them.
“Wait.” He turned, but the workman was already across the street. Maxfield darted after him. He should’ve looked first because an automobile swerved at the last minute, barely clipping Maxfield’s leg with its front bumper. The driver blasted his horn as he rolled on down the street. Maxfield plowed on, despite the bruising pain, and caught the workman in front of the shoe store.
“Excuse me.” Maxfield grabbed him by the shoulder. “I have something to say.”
The man bristled until he recognized who had him. “Mr. Scott? What’sa matter?”
“I didn’t help her,” he blurted. “I cared about her, and if I’d been a better man, I would’ve realized that she had a gift, but I was too caught up in my own story to see hers. She did this all on her own. I didn’t help her, but I wish that I had.”
The workman’s brow lowered. “I’m not a priest, sir. If you’re looking for someone to confess to—”
“You thought something that wasn’t true, and I couldn’t have you leaving without correcting you. Especially as it gave me credit when it wasn’t due and took away from Miss Kentworth’s accomplishments.”
“Sure, buddy.” The workman had gone from a polite subordinate to a concerned peer. “I didn’t think poorly of Miss Kentworth. It’s okay.”
“But you understand what I’m saying?”
“I understand what you’re saying.” He stepped backward and held his toolbox between them. “I don’t understand why, but I hear you. Now, if you’ll let me go, I’ve got another job for Mr. Bragg. Take care of yourself.”
Maxfield let him go this time. He’d already made a fool of himself, but he wasn’t going to stop. Not yet. He still hadn’t talked to Olive.
Crossing the street took longer this time. He was more careful, and the limp slowed him down. He should get some ice on his leg. It’d be bruised, but he’d hurt feelings worse than he’d hurt his leg, and it was those feelings he should look after first.
She’d feared her office would look empty and forlorn, but Olive hadn’t counted on her cousins’ help. In the week that had passed since they’d told her about her new office, the family had showered Olive with gifts and advice. With Calista’s newfound knack for being fashionable on a budget, they took drapes that Maisie’s mother-in-law had replaced and sized them down for her window. Then Maisie and Calista had thrown together some knickknacks and family photos to populate the areas of her bookshelves that weren’t full of secondhand architectural tomes.
Aunt June, who kept the records for Granny Laura and the Kentworth ranch, had come by to help Olive set up a filing system, as well as instructing her on accounting and bookkeeping techniques. Two desk drawers on the oak desk now contained files with divided pockets for holding receipts and time cards for her crews. The timing was perfect. She’d never done a project as big as Mr. Christman’s department store and having the organization in place would be vital. The drafting board was a gift from Willow and Graham, and Olive couldn’t believe she’d gone from spreading papers across her sister’s old bed to this.
Although her sketches, books, and pencils were still in boxes, Olive knew what she wanted to do next. She took a framed needlepoint out of a box and held it against the wall to see where it looked best. Some might say it was too homey for a professional office, but she didn’t care. The verse her mother had embroidered around a rendering of a log cabin was Psalm 127:1, “Except the LORD build the house, they labour in vain that build it.” She wanted to be able to see it from her desk, so she’d always remember to give the credit for any success where it was due.
“Olive?”
She was on her tiptoes, pushing a tack into the wall, when she heard his voice. Turning her head, she saw Maxfield in the doorway. She pulled the sampler against her chest and faced him.
“Mr. Scott. I didn’t expect a visit from you.” Her heart leapt. Whether it was out of happiness or dread, she wasn’t sure. Anything was possible.
“You should’ve known if you opened an office, I’d find my way to it eventually.” He walked to her bookcase, but instead of admiring the knickknacks from Calista, he read the spines of the books, giving Olive time to fret over his intentions.
It had been so long since they’d spoken, even longer since they’d had a friendly conversation. She felt like they were starting all over. Was he planning to denounce her for lying about being an architect, to denounce her for spying on his work, or to beg her to return to watch the children, ignoring the fact that she had another opportunity available?
But addressing her wasn’t his first priority. He continued to study the volumes, leaving Olive to wonder at what he might be thinking. She hung the picture on the tack as he released a quick breath, almost a chuckle. She watched as he reached for a battered copy of Alberti’s On the Art of Building.
“How did you acquire your education?” he asked.
A calm descended over Olive. This was a sensible question, and she could give a sensible answer. “Mother was sick so often that I had time to read practically everything in the library. Once I read my first book on designs, I was hooked. After that, I was always looking at buildings when I walked to town or drove to the ranch. When I recognized something I’d read about, it was like greeting old friends. I read all the books the library had. I ordered some from a catalog when we had the money, and if I ever found a used book on the subject, I felt like I had found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.”
Maxfield cracked open the book. The red cloth cover had worn thin on the edges, exposing the hard board beneath. He thumbed through the pages until he found what he was looking for. Turning the book around, he held it out to her. His eyes crinkled at the corners.
“These are my notes.” He pointed at his angular annotation in the margin of the page. “I thought this looked familiar. I donated it to the church’s rummage sale after Georgia died. I gave away a lot of my things then. I wasn’t sure I wanted to build anything again.”
“But you did.”
“Staying home doing nothing proved an even worse idea, so instead of hiding from my work, I hid in my work.”
“If that’s yours, then you know this one too.” Olive moved a picture of her mother and pulled out A Book of Architecture by James Gibbs. “I got this book at the same bazaar. I always wondered who it was that had such wonderful resources.”
“They were dated by then, anyway.” Then, seeing her expression, he hurried to add, “The textbooks contain excellent information, though. I’ve often regretted my impulsiveness because the fundamentals are sound. Thomas Jefferson kept a copy of Gibbs in his library.”
“Ah, Thomas Jefferson. Another untrained, amateur architect.” She found a particular box and pulled out volume after volume until there was a stack that reached from her desktop to over her head. She looked at all the titles. That day she’d felt like God had opened a door to her with the discovery of all these books. Without them, she wouldn’t have had the knowledge or the confidence to do what she did. And she’d only gotten them because of Maxfield’s grief.
“Here.” She pushed against them, but they only slid an inch. “Take them back. How can I use them now that I know?”
He laid his hand atop the stack. “I want you to have them. They were meant to be yours.” He moved his hand away from the books and buried it in his pocket. “Don’t you see? You are doing what you’re supposed to be doing. Maybe I was acting out of grief and despair, but God had a purpose. By throwing out those books, I gave you a chance. And look what you’ve done with it.”
Olive’s hands went cold. Did he finally believe her? He was there talking to her as if it didn’t matter that they were rivals. In fact, for being a rival, he was quite complimentary.
“You don’t have to say that.” Her throat was tight with tears. “I mean, I know you don’t have to say it, but it’s so nice that you did.”
The light in the room seemed to shimmer. She didn’t want to cry but she’d been so worried about what he thought, so concerned that she’d ruined her reputation, so fearful that he would mock her. His understanding was unexpected but so appreciated.
He reached for her hand, but she drew back. “I hope you’re here about Christman’s department store.” She lifted her chin as she sniffed the last of her emotion away. He was her first professional visitor. A colleague in the industry. She couldn’t behave like a sentimental weakling. “You still have the plans, don’t you? It’s your work, your design, and you should be the one to build it.”
He had offered her respect. She wouldn’t trade it for pity.
He read her intent and honored it by taking his place at the opposite side of her desk and giving her space. “That’s not why I’m here. Actually I wasn’t planning to come, but when I saw your name on the sign, I had to. The last time we saw each other, I behaved poorly. I should’ve apologized immediately, but I can be hardheaded.”
“Marlowe warned me,” she said.
His eyebrows raised. “He’s not wrong. I was upset that you hid something essential about yourself but looking back, I realize why you hesitated to tell me. At the time, I refused to even let a lady visit one of my sites.”
“Has that changed?” Olive asked.
He smoothed his lapel. “It has. I can’t say that the thought doesn’t make me nervous, but you were right about accepting the risk. I wouldn’t allow another man to make that type of a decision for me. I have no right to make it for you.”
