It was an hour before the time when Wendell usually closed down his office, and it had been a rather productive afternoon. He’d decided to push the incident with Miss Chapel out of his mind entirely and focus on work, and he’d finalized a few of the contracts that had been pressing on him. Bernard Newell, a lawyer who had come to town around the same time as Wendell himself, was acting on his behalf in these sales, and they’d be meeting in the morning to make sure all the details were in place. Then Wendell would have yet more profit in his pocket, which was how he liked things.
When his office door opened, he startled, fearing that Miss Chapel had come back. If she had, he’d be making an appointment to see Dr. JT as soon as possible. He didn’t know if JT treated mental issues, but he needed some sort of help, that was for sure.
He was relieved to see a tall man enter the building instead, pulling his hat from his dark hair as he crossed the floor.
“Mr. Thurgood?” the man asked.
Wendell came to his feet. “That’s right.”
“I’m Thomas Wells. I’ve come to make you a business proposition.”
Wendell indicated the empty seat across from him. “Make yourself comfortable. I’m always interested in discussing business.”
Unlike Miss Chapel, Mr. Wells sat right down. “I’m interested in purchasing the piece of land just outside of town, the one with all the aspens growing on it.”
“That’s definitely a fine property, and you can sell that wood at a profit,” Wendell replied. He fished in his desk drawer for the file containing all the information on that land. “It’s twenty acres, and I think you’ll find the price reasonable.”
Mr. Wells looked at the paper Wendell handed him. “That is a good price. I’ll take it.” He paused, then added, “But that’s not all.”
“Oh?” Wendell had never seen someone make an offer so quickly, and he was startled to think that only was this transaction happening at such a speed, but that his customer wanted even more. “What can I do for you?”
Mr. Wells leaned back in his chair and crossed one booted foot over the opposite knee. “I represent a gentleman who has a great deal of interest in this area, and who plans to purchase several of the properties left behind by the demise of Mr. Archibald Grady.”
“Oh, I’m not involved with those properties,” Wendell said. “You’d need to talk to the bank about those.”
“What I’m proposing, Mr. Thurgood, is that you become involved with those properties,” Mr. Wells continued. “We’d like you to be our agent in these matters.”
“But it’s simple enough to go into the bank and inquire yourself,” Wendell replied. “I don’t see why you’d need an agent for that.”
“It makes things simpler, knowing that all our eggs are in one basket. My employer will pay you a nice fee, and that leaves me free to travel as I need to without having to worry about business here in town.”
Wendell thought about it for a moment. It wasn’t unusual for a wealthy businessman to have someone else handle his transactions, and if it meant adding to his profits, he couldn’t see any harm in it. “Very well. Do you have a list of the properties you’d like me to look into? I have to warn you, many of them are mortgaged, and I’m not even sure you’ll really want them once you see what all is entailed.”
“I’m sure we’ll want them.” Mr. Wells reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a list. “Here you go. I appreciate your help, Mr. Thurgood.”
“You’re welcome.” He paused. “Your accent—you’re British?”
“London,” Mr. Wells said. “I stumbled across the tea shop here in town quite by accident and met the proprietress—she pours a very nice cup of Earl Grey.”
“She does at that,” Wendell replied, although he realized that he hadn’t tasted the Earl Grey.
“I’ll be in touch.” Mr. Wells gave a nod, put on his hat, and left.
Wendell unfolded the sheet of paper in his hand. The list was carefully written in a neat hand. He should have no trouble talking to the bank and seeing what was still available. He was sure everyone involved in cleaning up Archie’s mess would be glad to have some of these last loose ends tied up.
He slid the page into his desk, locked up, and began the short walk to his small apartment. The building where he lived was one of his many properties, and one that he’d likely retain ownership of himself rather than reselling it. He hadn’t intended to become a landlord, but after Regina Stoker had talked him into renting the tea shop, he had seen the benefits of it, and thought that he might as well do the same with the apartment building.
“I do hope you realize that there are more important things in life than money,” Miss Chapel said, suddenly walking alongside him.
He flinched with surprise. “I wish you’d announce yourself in some way before you just pop up like that.”
“Oh? How? Would you like me to ring a little bell?” She held up her hand, and a small golden bell appeared between her fingers. She rang it, looking thoughtful. “That does have a rather pleasant sound. I’ll have to consider it.”
“I don’t mean a bell necessarily. I just wish you’d stop startling me.”
“I don’t know how to go about that because I don’t know what sorts of things startle you. You might even be startled by the ringing of a bell.” She tucked it into the bag that dangled from her wrist. “But that’s all beside the point, and we’re wasting time. I’ve done a bit of investigating today, and I’ve learned some fascinating things.”
“You have? What sorts of things?”
“I’ll tell you once we’re inside.” She nodded toward the door to his apartment.
He paused. “I don’t believe I should invite you in.”
“Why? Is it a mess? Have you left your socks drying by the oven?”
He found himself unsure what to say. She was the most exasperating woman he’d ever encountered. “You’re a single woman, I’m a single man . . . it wouldn’t be seemly.”
She gave him an incredulous look. “Mr. Thurgood, has it only just now occurred to you that no one can see me but you?”
He blinked. “What?”
She held up a hand. “I should clarify. I can only be seen by those to whom I choose to show myself. Miss Stoker and I had a pleasant chat today, but that was only possible because I made a conscious effort. The rest of the time, I’m as a vapor. A dream. A whisper on the wind.” She waggled her fingers for emphasis. “It will not hurt your reputation, or mine, if I enter your apartment because no one will see it happen.”
He fumbled with his key. “I suppose it’s all right, then . . .” He opened the door and entered, Miss Chapel right behind him. “What about the people we passed on the street as we were coming here? If they couldn’t see you . . .”
“They thought you were talking to yourself,” she said casually, strolling around much as she had in his office. “I doubt they’ll dwell on it, though.”
Wendell hung up his hat, then his coat, then sank into a chair. “So I won’t have a reputation for inviting beautiful women into my apartment, but I will have a reputation for talking to myself on the street.”
“Everyone talks to themselves once in a while. It’s completely natural. And thank you for calling me beautiful. It’s nice to hear those words from time to time.” She paused by the shelf near the front door. “Who is this?” She indicated a picture frame with the tip of her finger.
“That’s my younger sister, Lolly. She passed away when she was nineteen.”
“I’m so sorry—she seems sweet. I admit, I’d hoped you’d say she was a long-lost love of some sort.”
“You’d wish a long-lost love on me?”
“Oh, don’t take it so harshly. I’m just saying that it would show that you’d once had a romantic bone in your body. It would give me hope.” She circled back around. “Well, have you?”
“Have I what?”
“A romantic bone in your body.”
“I’m not sure.”
She sighed and lowered herself onto the horsehair sofa in the corner. He’d meant to offer her a seat, but knowing she probably wouldn’t accept it right away, it had left his mind. “As I mentioned, I chatted with Miss Stoker today, and also her sister, and what I found was most disturbing.”
That was all Wendell needed—something else to be disturbing. “What was that?”
“I’m afraid, my dear sir, that you are considered somewhat of a stick in the mud.”
“Well, that’s certainly not surprising.”
“It’s not to me either, but it’s something that must change immediately.” She set her bag on the small table next to her. “I’ve concocted a plan.”
Why didn’t that surprise him? “What sort of plan?”
“Wooing through the ages has often been done most successfully through the use of the written word.”
“I’m sorry?”
She gave him a look. “You’re going to write her love letters.”
“Love letters?” Now he was surprised. And more than just surprised at her suggestion, but at the realization that maybe he wasn’t just imagining her. If he’d created her in his own mind, nothing she said would startle him. But this idea . . . it was so far-fetched, so out of his realm of experience, that it certainly didn’t come from his head.
“Yes, exactly. A woman’s heart can be won over quite easily when she reads the words her beloved has penned with her in mind.” She nodded quite decidedly, and the feather on her hat bounced.
“But I’m not her beloved.”
“Are you going to be difficult? Of course you’re not her beloved now, but you will be later on.” Miss Chapel sighed, sounding as though all the weight of the world was on her shoulders. “Let me see your stationery.”
“My stationery?”
“Your writing paper. That you use for letters.”
“I only have what I use at the office.”
“Well, that’s no good whatsoever! You want to woo her, not write up a business agreement. Your first task is to go to the general store and buy some stationery. Nothing too feminine, of course, but it needs to show a little personality. Maybe a nice scroll design or a quill.”
“A scroll design?”
She tossed her hands in the air. “Are you going to repeat everything I say? If I’d known that, I would have asked to be assigned to a parrot. I’d have much the same experience.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just . . . confused.”
“That’s obvious. I’m so glad you have me to walk you through this.” She repositioned herself a little bit on the chair. “Get some stationery, and then we’ll discuss how to phrase your letters. It would be best if you started out anonymous, like a secret admirer, and then slowly revealed yourself. That way, she’d learn some interesting things about you and become intrigued before learning your identity.”
“If I wrote a letter and signed my own name, you think she’d reject me?” That wasn’t encouraging at all. Should he even be trying this?
“I think she needs a little time to look past the . . . well, the things she already knows about you.”
“You mean, my boring exterior.”
Miss Chapel lifted a finger. “I want you to remember that you’re the one who said it first. Speaking of that, you do make an excellent point. I believe a haircut is in order, and a new suit.”
Wendell lifted a hand to his head. “I just had my hair cut last week.”
“By whom? A blind man with a butter knife?”
“No, by Stubby Reynolds down on Main Street.”
She tsked. “Stubby is a nice man, I’m sure, but you want to look dashing, don’t you? Exciting? Mysterious?”
He wasn’t sure how to respond. Did he want to look all those ways?
Miss Chapel sighed again. He had the feeling he’d be hearing that sound from her quite a bit—he couldn’t seem to stop exasperating her. “I’ll cut your hair myself, and in the meantime, we must see what we can do about getting a decent barber in this town. How old are you, Wendell?”
“Thirty-eight.”
“You are? Oh, my. This is terrible. It’s just terrible.” She looked him up and down. “With that haircut and those clothes, you look nearer to forty-five. You simply can’t afford to age yourself beyond your actual years. You don’t have that kind of waggle room.”
She stood up and removed her hat, then reached into her bag and brought out a pair of scissors. “We can fix the hair immediately, and so we shall. Tomorrow morning, you’ll buy a suit before you even open the office—that’s how important it is. Oh, we have so much work to do—so much time to make up.” She paused and put a hand on her hip. “Who dresses you?”
“Who . . . who dresses me? I do.”
“I mean, who chooses your clothes?”
“I do,” he repeated.
“Well, stop it!” she said with a little stomp of her foot. “I mean it. There’s so much . . . wrongness happening here.” She gestured toward his outfit. “Wrap a towel around your shoulders and let’s get busy. I’ve got at least seven years to take off your appearance, and we haven’t got all evening.”
Wendell didn’t know what to say. He supposed he could refuse, but if she really was an angel, as she said, would he get in trouble with the Almighty if he didn’t obey? Then again, was it really the will of the Almighty that he get a haircut? He didn’t know what to think. This woman, whoever she was, had him so confused, he didn’t know if he was coming or going.
Rather than trying to work it out any longer, he grabbed a towel, wrapped it around his shoulders, and sat down.
From the same magical bag from which she had produced the scissors, Miss Chapel pulled out a comb, and within seconds, she was setting his hair to rights. He didn’t suppose he should waste time wondering what else she had in the bag—she had gotten her hands on a bell without any trouble at all, so he imagined that she could conjure up just about anything as she felt the need. That would certainly be a handy skill to have.
“Now, tell me, Wendell,” she said as she worked on the hair around his neck. “What’s the most fascinating thing about you?”
“The most fascinating thing? Um, well, I study butterflies and moths.”
She paused, her hands going still. “Moths? You mean, those annoying pests that like to flutter in my ears when I stand too close to a light?”
“I suppose they can be annoying, but they’re also quite interesting. Did you know that there are nearly eleven thousand species of moths in the United States alone?”
“No, because I don’t like to delve into the lives of things that flutter in my ears. Tell me more about butterflies. Those seem more palatable.”
“There are over five hundred species of butterflies in the United States.”
“My goodness—the moths certainly have them outnumbered. Tilt your head to the side, please.”
He complied.
“The problem, my dear sir, with reciting statistics regarding your little flying friends is that it’s not romantic. What can you tell me about butterflies that’s romantic? Or at least . . . compelling to a young lady? Or at least . . . not deadly dull?”
“I don’t consider any of it to be deadly dull,” Wendell protested.
“And you’re still unmarried, aren’t you?” she shot back.
“Yes, but surely I don’t have to give up my hobbies in order to find a wife.” Wendell wasn’t sure he could do that. If he gave up everything he enjoyed, marriage would feel like he’d lost part of himself, and he wanted to add to his life, not take away from it.
“You don’t have to do any such thing. You just have to find some aspect to it that your wife can appreciate too. You’ll have plenty of opportunities to bore her down the road, but while you’re courting, you want to remain as fascinating as possible.”
“All right.” This was sounding more complicated than he’d originally thought. “So, I come up with something romantic—or not deadly dull—about butterflies. And I write her letters, and I get a haircut and I wear a new suit. What else?”
“You take her out to dinner and for a walk under the stars. You go for buggy rides in the rain. You—”
“Buggy rides in the rain? Won’t she get wet?”
“You put her in the buggy before it starts to rain, of course.”
“But how do I make sure of that? I can’t predict the weather.”
She sighed again and moved around to the other side of his head. “You really are determined to argue with everything I say, aren’t you? Fine—no buggy rides in the rain. But bringing her flowers is a must.”
“I can do that.”
“See? Was agreeing with me so difficult?”
“No. We just needed to talk about something that I could agree with.”
She stepped back and gave him a smile. “What’s this? You’re showing a little bit of backbone. Maybe even some temper.”
“I’m sorry,” Wendell said, feeling ashamed. “I shouldn’t . . .”
“No. Not a bit of it. This is the most interesting you’ve been all day. You’ve gone from whining and complaining to having some real strength behind your arguing. It’s an improvement, believe me.” She finished that side of his head, combed through it, and stood back, surveying him. “I do believe you now look thirty-eight. Maybe even thirty-seven, but I wouldn’t push it any younger than that. Not until you have a new suit.”
Wendell stood up and walked over to the small mirror that hung on the wall by the front door. He never spent much time looking in it—it was basically there so he could check the straightness of his tie as he left each morning. Now he turned his head from side to side, amazed.
“I do look younger,” he said at last.
“That’s what I said, and I would not lie.” She tucked her scissors and her comb away in her bag and looped it over her arm again. “I must be going. You haven’t had your dinner, and I’m sure you’re starving. Remember your assignments—suit shopping first thing in the morning, followed by buying stationery. Be thinking about butterflies, but if you do happen to come up with another, more interesting pursuit, by all means, pursue it. And I’ll see you later.”
She held up her hand, and the bell reappeared. “I’ll give you warning next time. Have a good night.”
With a slight tinkle of the bell, she was gone, and Wendell stared at the floor where she’d been standing. Figments of his imagination could not give haircuts, so he had to concede that she was real. And if she was real, and if she could help him win Miss Stoker’s heart . . . well, it was certainly worth a try.
First things first, though. He needed a bath to wash away all the tiny hair bits along his collar or he’d go mad with the scratching.