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The Brightest Hope, Echoes of the Heart Book 3

By Naomi Musch

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May, 1924

Holly Allen closed the time-worn cabinet that had stood in the same corner of her office since her father-in-law's days at the helm and let her soon-to-be former secretary get it all out. "I'm tired of doing my bit for the duration. The duration was over four years ago." Ginny spun about to face Holly. "I'll be glad to focus on homemaking again. Really, I will. My Terence needs me." Tears shone in Ginny’s eyes. She blinked them away with a stiff smile and plucked at the sleeve of her blouse.
Holly took slow steps across the faded wood floor and hugged the younger woman. "I know he does. Don't feel bad, Ginny. It's time. If I were in your shoes…" She stepped back and laid a hand across her Ginny's shoulder. "Many married women have gone home, back to raising beautiful children and taking care of their husbands. Of course, our men deserve the best after all their sacrifice, but we can't forget that their wives sacrificed plenty too. Everyone has a life they’d like to return to." Holly dropped her hands and strode behind her desk. Yes, sacrifice found almost all of us. Though it drew her, she refused to glance at the old map on the wall. Holly cleared her throat as she sat in her old leather office chair then focused on Ginny again. "We'll get by here somehow. Don't worry about us. Just stop to say hello when you can."
Ginny’s brow puckered. "Oh, I sure will. You can bet on it. Thank you again, so much, Mrs. Allen—Holly. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't let me work here at Allen’s all this time."
"Never mind that. It's just as you said. We all had to do our bit." Holly forced a smile.
Ginny dashed at the corner of her eyes and brightened. "Yes, we sure did. You can bet I'll stop by. We both will." She gave a soft smile as a farewell and let herself out of Holly's office.
Holly tapped her short nails on the oak desk, tidy but for some ink stains that wouldn't be removed. She lifted her shoulders and dropped them with a long breath. Life was always changing, at least for some. There was no sense crying any more about it. Pulling open her right-hand desk drawer, she lifted out a stack of letters. A knock drew her glance upward as she set them on the desk. "Yes?"
The door opened a few inches. "Are you free?"
"Come on in, Ray."
Raymond Johnson, her chief printer, slipped through the door still wearing his black apron, though it must be close to lunch time. He approached Holly with a half-grin. "Tough luck, huh? Ginny leaving like that?"
Holly drew her lips tight and shrugged. "It was time. I’ve felt it coming for over a year now. I'm surprised she waited so long. She wants to start a family, you know."
"I suppose. Will you fill her position right away?"
Holly wrinkled her nose as she swiveled the chair. "I don't think so. The way business has been lately, I think I can get along without a secretary for a while, don't you?"
"It's not right, you know." His smile fell, and he flipped back his wave of blond hair. "Business falling off like it has."
"You mean because there's a woman at the helm? You can say it. I'm not offended."
Ray blew out a breath. "Yeah, because of that."
"That's why it's just fine that Ginny went home to tend her fireside. Men have gone back to their jobs, and some still need to find one. People would rather take their business someplace that supports family men. I don't take it personally. It's just the way things are."
Ray scratched his neck. "I suppose. It's mighty big of you."
She tapped her fingers on the desktop. "I just need to find an angle, that's all. After all, it's not the quality of the work that's causing the problem. I've got the best printer in the county." She gave him a wink before thinking twice then pulled her gaze onto the stack of letters. "It's just that I'm the image up front."
"Aw, Holly, you'll figure out a way to get back on top of things. You always do. Say..." His voice changed. She glanced up. He took another step toward her desk. "I don't suppose you'd like to have dinner tonight? I hear that new place in Chippewa Falls is pretty swanky, but hardly the kind of place a fellow wants to be seen in alone."
She opened the front desk drawer and pushed pens and paper clips around. "I don't think so, Ray. Mom said she planned a pot roast tonight."
She felt rather than heard him back up. "Maybe another time."
"Maybe." She pulled out a rubber band and pushed the drawer closed. "We'll see." She banded the letters as she gave him a polite smile. Hopefully it didn't offer anything more. Ray was the nicest guy she knew, but she didn't need a man right now. Not for romance anyway. "I have to drop these off at the post office and run a couple errands. Maybe I can make a sale or two." She pushed back her chair and stood.
Ray took the hint. "All right. I'd better get back to work then."
"Don't skip lunch."
He gave a nod as he moved to the door.
Holly frowned, considering him and his offer a moment longer. No... She didn't need a man to hold her hand, only... "Ray. Hold up. I think you’ve given me an idea." Holly moved around to the front of the desk and let the idea creep over her.
"What’s that? A better place to eat?"
"No, nothing like that. It just occurred to me that maybe I do need to hire someone."
Ray set his hands on his hips. "But you said—"
"We don’t need to fill Ginny Calvert’s position, but what if I hired somebody to sort of look like they're running things. You know...a front man of sorts. I could spend more time focusing on the administrative work. Stick around the office more. Get things done that I should be doing anyhow. Maybe if it looked like a man was back at the helm—you know—for appearance and all that, we'd make more sales."
"A front man?" Ray chuckled. "Sounds illegal."
Holly rolled her eyes. "Not that kind of front man. You know what I mean. Just an image."
Ray smiled, his expression telling her he was warming to the idea. "I could give it a try if you like."
Holly wouldn't think—no—couldn't think of using Ray that way. Ray was already carrying more than his share of the load around here. Besides, Ray would do anything for her. Taking him up on an offer like that might only give him the wrong impression.
She shook her head and tapped her chin. "No. I couldn't spare you for all that. You do enough already."
"Well, gee Holl, what do you have in mind exactly?"
She paced, then marched back to her desk drawer and pulled out a pad of paper. She scribbled down some requirements. "I think sales. A salesman who'll take over my leg work. Go out to the businesses themselves and give them a pitch. Offer them deals. Be my go-between. He can have Ginny’s desk."
"You think that's necessary? Can you afford to pay a fellow like that?"
She shrugged. Not that it was any of Ray's business, but she nodded. "Not much, maybe, but I think it's worth a shot. Maybe not a great wage, but something with commission. Tell you what, why don't you print me up a couple flyers." She handed him the sheet she'd been writing on. "Can you do that? I'll take them with me."
"I'll do it right now."
"Thanks, Ray."
As he closed the door behind him, Holly leaned back against the desk. This time her gaze drifted to the map on the wall, its edges curled and yellow from the slant of many an afternoon sun. Pinheads that marked the movement of Dex’s troop during the war were coated in dust. All the countries of the world, once vivid in reds, blues, greens, and yellows, had faded. She puzzled about him once again, but not with all the agony of wondering that she used to. It had been four years, after all. She no longer played the scenarios over in her mind of how Dex might have died, nor did she cry over the possibility that it might had been a lengthy illness in the trenches, a shot that led to gangrene and agony, his capture by the enemy where he died in a prison camp, or the slow bleeding out of his flesh. She'd stopped wondering over the hows altogether. More than likely, Dex had been blown apart in a blast. It had been quick. Like so many others, his body too was buried in the mud of a trench where he fell. He hadn't suffered after the blast. Beforehand? She'd heard horror stories of violence and disease, of the rot of flesh from too many days in the damp and cold.
She turned away, forcing out the images, and jotted down a few more notes. The phone rang. She lifted the receiver from its cradle. "Hello. Allen's Printing and Book Bindery. Holly Allen speaking… Oh, hello Mr. Metcalf... Yes, absolutely. We can go over the new posters for the grocery tomorrow. How about I meet with you at ten?" She wrote the appointment down. "Yes, I’ll bring them... You bet... Thank you, Mr. Metcalf. See you then."
She reached for her briefcase and unbuckled it. Pulling out a legal pad, she spent some time writing down ideas for Mr. Metcalf. New ways to put a little pizzazz in his weekly ad. She added them to a folder for tomorrow’s meeting when a knock sounded.
Melvin stuck his head in the door. "Ray says your flyers are ready."
"Thanks. I'll be out."
He disappeared. She scooped up her mail and headed to the door, pausing to pluck her hat off the coat tree and tug it over thick curls pulled up into a faux bob. She draped her coat over her arm. Stepping out of her private office, she strode through the reception room where Ginny Calvert’s vacant desk stood. She pushed through the swinging door into the print room and was met by the clatter and hum of the printing press and the combined oily-carbonized smell of paper and ink. She nodded at Ronald, another worker, as he walked across the room with a long roll of fresh paper.
"Ray?" she called. "You have those flyers?"
He stepped from around the corner, carrying three sheets of paper. "Here you go, milady." He flourished the sheets of barely dried printing.
"Thanks. This ought to do it. Maybe we'll run our own ad in the paper. Give 'em some business," she said with a grin.
Stepping out of the building into the sunlight, a fresh spring breeze greeted her. The day should have warmed up by now. Holly's stomach rumbled. Had she eaten anything after her three cups of coffee this morning? She couldn't remember. Must not have. She could grab a sandwich at the cafe next to the post office. Maybe sell the cafe owners some advertising while she was there.
Holly slid into the driver's seat of the 1921 Nash her father-in-law had given her only months before he passed and thanked God for the invention of electric ignition. Her own dad had broken a wrist once, cranking on their family's Tin Lizzie. The Nash roared to life, and Holly pulled away from the curb in front of the print shop.
Traffic was barely existent in the tiny town of Altoona, Wisconsin. She was grateful that spring had fully sprung, and most of the mud had dried up. In no time at all, she pulled to a stop in front of the post office and lifted the letters off the passenger seat. Sliding out of the car, Holly sidestepped a lingering puddle in the middle of the road and scurried across to the walk-in front of the post office. A man in paint speckled overalls stood on a ladder next to the entry, a white-soaked paintbrush in his hand. She angled past him, careful not to bump the ladder or the paint cans and supplies circling it on the walkway. A little bell jangled overhead when she pulled open the door.
The postman lifted his head and smiled. "Hi, Holly. Got lots of mail for me today?"
"I do." She handed him the stack. "How about you? Have much for me?"
"I think it's already on its way. It'll probably be waiting for you on your desk when you get back. Is that something for me too?" He gave a nod at one of the flyers she held in her other hand.
She held it up. "I was wondering if you'd mind me posting this on your bulletin board. I'm looking for some help."
The postman's bushy gray brows rose. "You sure can. Just pin it up yourself. There should be some thumbtacks over there."
"Thank you." She left the mail and carried the flyer to the community board where ads for free puppies overlapped homemade signs for taking in laundry, feed for sale, and rooms to let. Her gaze moved toward the upper left section of the board, where she thought someone's eye was sure to roam, and she tacked up the flyer.
"Have a good day, Mr. Ostman!" she called as she pushed out the door.
"You too, Holly!"
She'd barely noticed the jingle of the little bells overhead this time when the door went thump, and she gasped as the ladder tilted, wobbled, then righted itself, and the rain—no—the drops of paint splattered her arms and blouse and... "My favorite hat!" Holly groaned more than yelled. She shot an angry glance upward where the painter stood rubbing a hand down the side of his face. "You might not park your ladder so close to the door if you want to stay on it," she snapped.
He lowered his hand revealing a furrowed brow. "You might look out the door before you barge through. It's not as though I was invisible." He marched down the ladder rungs and glared at her as he set the half-can of paint on the ground. He gave the ladder a lurch to the side. "Pardon me."
Holly scooted over before he could cause her more harm. His gray-blue eyes turned on her again, like ice, as he retrieved the paint and went back up. She murmured under her breath and glanced around for something to wipe away the paint spatters. She spied a rag and bent to retrieve it. It looked clean enough. She swiped at the paint specks on the backs of her hands and dabbed at the sleeves of her blouse to little avail. Then she pulled off her hat and looked at it. "It's ruined." It wasn't worth crying over, but a swell of emotion tugged at her.
A sigh drifted down from above, drawing her attention.
The man dropped his brush back into the paint can and came down again, this time more slowly. "Look, I'll pay you for the damage. I just..." He looked at his spattered overalls and back at Holly. "I don't have it on me today. I'll be back tomorrow. I can leave it in an envelope with the postmaster. I—"
"Never mind." Holly shook her head. None of this was worth the stress. "Just forget it."
"Are you sure?"
She glanced at him once more. He'd taken off his hat and now pushed a hand through dark hair with a few gray strands at the temples. His jaw was lean—in fact, all of him was lean. Lean, tall, and fit. Holly frowned. "It's not that important. The blouse is old and the hat..." She heaved out a sigh as she turned it around in her hands, noting the dozens of white splotches. "I can't replace it anyway."
"I apologize. For growling at you like I did. Sun's hot," he added, as if by way of excuse that his brain wasn't quite right.
Holly's gaze inched up at him, a chuckle making its way to her lips over the absurdity of it all. "You—you're lucky I didn't dump you off that ladder."
He gave a friendly grin, nodding. "I am at that."
She tilted her head and sobered. "It could have been worse. Glad you didn't fall."
"I might have spilled the entire can on your head, but the hat would have spared your hair." His gaze shifted to her hair, and self-consciousness stole over Holly. Right then she knew. Soldier. She recognized them pretty easily. He'd served. She just knew it. He oozed that cocky, self-assuredness that she saw in the men who'd been overseas.
She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. "Well, take care now. Better move that ladder." She flung the last words over her shoulder as she turned away. She strode across the street and got back in her car, hoping she wasn't leaving any white smears on the horsehair seats as she started up the engine. So much for a sandwich at the café. She'd have to run by the house now to change. The other two flyers would have to wait until later. Tomorrow maybe.
She looked for traffic as she pulled out, her glance once more flitting to the painter. He was back on his ladder, sweeping long strokes over the trim above the post office door. With his back to her and a hat covering his dark hair, there was no chance for another glimpse of those startling eyes and that strong chin.
Holly righted herself and accelerated. What did it matter? She wasn't interested in a man. Especially not an ex-soldier. Especially not someone his age. Especially not a man with such a cool, condescending air, no matter how good-looking he was.
 

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