Bowing to Betsy (The Matchmaker's Ball Book 11) Read online

  “I thought so. And you see, Joey and I happen to be quite fond of candy, so as part of getting to know you, I figured I’d better find out if you are too.”

  “I am,” she replied. She glanced down at herself. “Perhaps a little too fond sometimes.”

  “Do you have time to go for a walk with me? I thought a little stroll . . .”

  She shook her head. “I’m so sorry, but I’ve only left the restaurant on a quick errand. I have to be back as soon as possible.”

  “And here I am holding you up. May I walk back with you at least?”

  “Of course.”

  He gave a nod. “I’ll be right here when you’re done.” He held up the sack. “Along with this.”

  She laughed aloud, then stepped around him and entered the store. Goodness, he did have a way of taking her breath away.

  Mrs. Jackson gave her a knowing smile. “Imagine seeing you here. I was just chatting with Bradley Larson about you.”

  “Chatting? About me?”

  “Yes. He asked if I knew your favorite candy. No particular kind stood out in my memory, but he solved that problem quite nicely, didn’t he?” Her smile grew wider. “I wasn’t eavesdropping, I promise. I just happened to hear a tiny bit of your conversation through the door.”

  Betsy wondered if her cheeks were as red as they felt. “It was a very thoughtful gift,” she said at last. “And you didn’t give him the idea? Getting one of everything, I mean?”

  “No, I didn’t. I just said that you’d probably like whatever he brought. He didn’t seem quite satisfied by that answer, though. He wanted just the right thing.” She leaned forward and spoke confidingly. “I rarely see a man plan out a gift so carefully. I think he’s got some real feelings for you.”

  Now Betsy was sure she was bright red. “I . . . I don’t know what to say,” she finally stammered.

  “I say, enjoy it.” Mrs. Jackson smiled again. “Now, what can I help you with?”

  “Oh!” Betsy had almost forgotten the reason for this trip. “We ran out of flour, and the mill won’t be delivering our order for a few days.”

  “That’s certainly a problem. Thankfully, I can help you with that. How much do you need?”

  “Four fifty-pound bags. Is that possible?”

  “My goodness. That’s certainly a lot, but you’re in luck—yes, I have that in stock. Delivered, I’m guessing?”

  “Yes, please, and as soon as possible.”

  Mrs. Jackson nodded. “We’ll be making a delivery run in about an hour, and I’ll make sure you’re first on the list.”

  “Oh, thank you. I really appreciate it.”

  “That’s what we’re here for—and I can’t let you run out of flour. How else would you make the spaghetti I’ve been thinking about all day?”

  Betsy laughed. “Please do come by. We’d be glad to make you a plate.”

  “I believe I’ll have to take you up on that offer.” She smiled again. “Betsy, go find that man. I can see him through the window—he’s out there waiting patiently for you, but snap him up quick before someone else does.”

  Betsy nodded. She didn’t know a thing about snapping a man up, but she’d certainly give it some long consideration.

  As she exited the store, Bradley turned from where he’d been leaning against the porch railing. “Were you able to get what you needed?”

  “Yes, thank goodness. And now I must be getting back.”

  He nodded. “I was just thinking to myself how much I’d enjoy a walk in that direction.”

  “That direction in particular?”

  “Yes, indeed. It just came upon me. Strangest thing—I don’t want to go that way or that way. I only want to go that way.” He nodded in the direction of Francine’s.

  “Then this is your lucky day.”

  He held out his arm, and she looked at it for a moment. She’d taken it at the ball, and gladly so, but now, to be seen in public together . . . it seemed so forward.

  He correctly interpreted what she was thinking. “Miss Walters, we’ve established that we’re courting, haven’t we? And there’s nothing improper about taking a man’s arm when you’re courting.”

  She took a deep breath, then smiled up at him. “You’re right. There’s nothing improper at all.” She slipped her arm through his, and they began their walk back toward the restaurant.

  She might have imagined the dozens of eyes that turned their way as they went. They probably didn’t look as peculiar as she feared they would. Still, she found herself wanting to snatch her arm back—she was so tired of being a spectacle, of being the object of gossip. But she didn’t. She kept her arm right where it was because she didn’t want to embarrass Bradley, and it was also high time that she was noticed for something positive.

  “Would you like some lunch?” she asked as they drew closer to the restaurant.

  “Would I like some lunch?” he repeated, looking thoughtful. “Well now, let me see. Do I want to eat the world’s best food served to me by the world’s sweetest waitress? That’s a mighty hard question to answer.”

  She smiled, ducking her head. “I take it that’s a yes.”

  “It’s a yes a million times over. And I don’t much care what you bring me, either—it’s all tasty.”

  “All right, one plate of whatever’s being cooked at the moment, coming up.”

  They entered the restaurant and he sat at the table she showed him, then she scurried to the back and grabbed her apron. “One plate of whatever’s fastest!” she called out.

  Bruno Romano looked up from his pot on the stove. “What, they don’t even care? They just want something?”

  “Just something!” she replied.

  “I think maybe he’s not here so much for the food as he is for the waitress,” Mrs. Romano said, giving Betsy a nod.

  “Ah, I see,” Mr. Romano replied. “Yes, Francesca told us all about it. I’ll make a plate for your young man—a plate that will make him sing!”

  “Thank you, Mr. Romano,” Betsy said, trying not to giggle at the words “your young man.” She’d never thought she’d have a young man all of her very own before. It almost made him sound like a possession, like her book or her blanket. Her young man. She did like the sound of that.

  “Eh, why are you calling me ‘Mr. Romano’ all the time? I think you could call me ‘Papa’ by now.” He waved his big spoon in her direction. “Another daughter, eh, Mama?”

  “Of course.” Maria said, taking both Betsy’s hands in hers. “Mama and Papa Romano. There’s always room in the family.”

  Betsy squeezed Maria’s hands in return. “Thank you, Mama, Papa.” She hadn’t used those names in so long, they felt strange on her lips. But just like having a young man, she liked it—she liked it a great deal.

  “Here you go.” Bruno turned and handed her a plate piled high with fettucine and ravioli. “Something special, eh? And soon, we’ll be planning your wedding too!”

  “We only just started courting,” Betsy protested, but Bruno waved his spoon again.

  “These things don’t take long. You know, these matchmakers—they know their business. They know love. As soon as I met Maria, I knew she was the one for me, and I thanked our matchmaker a dozen times at least.”

  “She did a good job,” Betsy agreed.

  “She did the best job! But then she died. No more matches.” He shook his head. “Now we have this Mrs. Morgan to do the job.”

  “Now go! Feed him,” Maria said. “Don’t stand here listening to him talk. He never finishes, and you’d be here all day.”

  “I never finish because I never run out of things to say! But yes, go, go. Feed him.” Bruno waved his spoon again, and Betsy left the kitchen with a big smile on her face.

  “I’ve just been adopted,” she said as she set the plate down in front of Bradley. “Apparently, I’m Italian now.”

  “Is that so?” Bradley asked. “Turns out, Mrs. Stratton adopted Joey just today as well.”

  “Sh
e did?”

  “She did. And she’s told me that she expects to watch him whenever I come into town to pay you a call. Then she pointed at me and said, ‘It had better be often, too.’”

  Betsy bit back a chuckle. “She really said that?”

  “Yes, when I took Joey up to the house before coming here. She was very serious about it, and I’d hate to cross her in anything, so I think you’d best plan on seeing quite a bit of me.”

  “Well, I’d hate to cross her too,” Betsy replied. “It sounds like I’d better keep my schedule clear.”

  The door to the restaurant opened, and four people walked in. Betsy glanced over her shoulder to see that Francine was already quite busy with her tables. “I’m sorry—I need to seat them.”

  “Don’t apologize, Betsy. I realized I’m interrupting your work day. Do whatever you need to do.”

  “Yes, you’re interrupting, but that doesn’t mean I mind.” She gave him a smile, then greeted her new customers. She’d give them her best attention, but she wouldn’t be one bit surprised if her mind—and her eyes—kept wandering over to a certain small table by the wall.

  Chapter Eight

  Bradley had left the restaurant shortly after finishing his meal, saying he needed to get back, but he’d tucked the bag of candy into Betsy’s hand and asked if she’d go for a drive with him after church on Sunday. Now it was Sunday morning, and she was scrambling through her wardrobe looking for something to wear.

  The dresses she wore at the restaurant were simple and subdued, which was how the waitresses were supposed to look. But that just wouldn’t do for today. She hadn’t dressed up for the ball—through no fault of her own—so now was her chance to put on something pretty.

  She rummaged clear to the back and found a pink dress she’d purchased on a whim the year before. She’d never had a chance to wear it, and as time went by, she’d almost forgotten she even owned it. Now she took it out and removed the lavender sachet she’d pinned to the front to keep it fresh. A little bit of ironing, and it would be just the thing.

  Twenty minutes later, dressed and with her hair curled, she stood in front of her mirror and looked at herself from every angle. She looked, if she dared think such a thing about herself—pretty. The dress suited her well, her hair had fallen into place with little effort, and she seemed happy, which was the most remarkable change of all. She’d been reasonably content up to now, but this was different. This was a feeling of hope and possibilities and wonder. There was still a bit of apprehension mixed in, but she pushed that down and focused on the hope. That took less energy than worrying.

  She entered the church building and sat toward the back. Her attendance wasn’t consistent—some of the older members of the congregation were the ones who had been the unkindest to her mother, and she remembered that most vividly. But Bradley suggested that they leave on their drive from the church, so she smiled, held her head high, and took her place along with everyone else.

  When Bradley and Joey entered a few minutes later, they sat across the aisle and ahead a few rows. It was hard for Betsy not to stare at Bradley’s profile whenever he turned to whisper something to Joey. She was so distracted that she finally had to force herself to ignore him and pay attention to Reverend Theodore instead. She might have come to church that day specifically to meet Bradley, but she wouldn’t dishonor God’s house by tuning out the sermon and daydreaming.

  At the conclusion of the service, she nodded politely as a few of her mother’s old associates passed by, not responding to their upturned noses and snide smiles. Then she stepped outside and waited for Bradley and Joey to exit the building.

  She didn’t have to wait long. Joey came running up to her, Bradley a short distance behind. “Hello, Miss Walters,” he said. “Papa says we’re taking you on a drive today.”

  She glanced up at Bradley, hoping he could read the question in her eyes. She’d thought they were going alone, not taking Joey. “Um, yes,” she replied.

  Bradley looked a little uncomfortable. “A chaperone,” he said softly.

  “Oh.” That made sense, Betsy supposed, but she had also supposed they were both adults and didn’t need such things. Well, Mrs. Morgan had put quite an emphasis on it, and it was sweet of Bradley to want to follow convention. “Yes, let’s go for a ride,” she said, giving Joey a smile.

  They climbed into the buggy, and Joey hopped in the back. “Mr. Stratton let us borrow his buggy, Miss Walters. Isn’t it a nice one?”

  “Yes, it is,” Betsy replied. “One of the nicest I’ve ever been in.”

  “Well, he said Pa could use it whenever he wants unless he needs it himself. He didn’t need it today because he stayed home with Mrs. Stratton—the old one. I mean . . . I mean . . . Papa, what do I mean?”

  Bradley laughed. “I think calling her ‘Mrs. Stratton’ is fine. At least until the wedding.” He glanced over at Betsy. “We’re still trying to work that out,” he explained.

  “I see.” Betsy looked over her shoulder at the boy. “Why didn’t Mrs. Stratton come to church today?”

  “She said she was feeling a bit peckish. I don’t know what that means, exactly, but it makes her sound kind of like a chicken. I shouldn’t say that, though, because Pa didn’t like it when I said she looked like a turkey, so I’m thinkin’ that probably calling her any sort of bird isn’t a good choice.”

  “A turkey?” Betsy asked, looking back at Bradley. She sensed there was a story behind that statement.

  “On account of the skin on her neck,” he explained. “But you’re right, Joey. Calling her any sort of bird name wouldn’t be respectful.”

  “All right.” Joey slumped back a little bit, and Betsy shook her head. This boy was a handful and a half.

  “I thought ‘peckish’ meant ‘hungry,’” Betsy said. “But I’ve also thought it meant ‘cranky.’ Neither sounds like a reason to stay home from church.” As though she had any right to judge after all the things that had kept her away.

  “I think she was just trying to put a comical light on her arthritis,” Bradley explained. “She did a bit more walking this week than she’s used to, and it took a toll on her.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Please give her my best.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  Bradley drove the buggy to a beautiful spot where a mountain stream cut through a meadow filled with a wide variety of flowers and trees. Betsy gasped when she saw it. “This place is magical! How did you ever discover it?”

  “Mr. Stratton likes looking for flowers for his perfume, and we’ve driven all over the place with him,” Joey explained. “Papa, can I go look for fish in the stream?”

  “Yes, you may,” Bradley corrected him gently, “but don’t be gone too long because we’re going to have lunch soon.”

  “Lunch?” Betsy asked. She was getting hungry, but she’d just assumed they’d eat when they got back to town.

  “We packed a picnic. It’s not very fancy, but Joey made the bread, and he’s very proud of it.”

  “Joey made the bread?”

  “Mrs. Stratton taught him how while I was buying you some candy.” He grinned. “So, have you decided which is your favorite yet?”

  She took his hand as he helped her down from the buggy. “No, I haven’t. I do like lemon drops quite a bit, but I also like horehound, and honey taffy . . . What about you?”

  “Candy sticks,” he said without hesitation. “They cost a little more, but if you suck on them instead of biting them, they last a long time.”

  They slowly walked across the meadow, keeping Joey within their sights. Betsy took a deep breath, wishing she could freeze this moment forever. The setting couldn’t have been more perfect for their outing if she’d chosen it herself.

  “Betsy,” Bradley said after a comfortable moment of silence had gone by, “Mrs. Stratton made a comment, something I’ve been wanting to ask you about, and I think now’s a good time while Joey’s out of earshot. In case it’s personal. And if
it’s too personal, well, you don’t have to share it . . . but I feel like I should ask.”

  And the comfortable moment was gone.

  “What did Mrs. Stratton say?” Betsy asked, feeling her stomach start to tighten.

  “I told her who Mrs. Morgan had arranged for me to meet at the ball, and she was happy to hear it was you. She had nothing but kind things to say, and then she said something about how you’d risen above your difficulties beautifully. And when I asked what she meant, she said it would be up to you to tell me.”

  Betsy stopped walking and turned away. Mrs. Stratton’s praise was well intentioned, but she wished the woman hadn’t said anything at all. She’d wanted to feel a little more secure in their relationship before she told him her secret. Well, the secret he didn’t know, but so many others in town did.

  “I’ve been worried about your reaction,” she said. “It’s not something I like to talk about.”

  He touched her elbow. “Then I won’t ask again.”

  “No, I think we do need to discuss it. If we’re to have a relationship, we should be honest with each other.” She turned to face him, but didn’t meet his eyes. Not yet. “The truth is, my parents weren’t married. Ever. I’m what you might consider one of the scandals of Creede.”

  He didn’t say anything for a long moment, and she glanced at his face. There was no expression, no reaction. Why wasn’t he responding?

  She was just about to break the silence herself when she heard a scream come from the direction of the water. She spun around and saw an arm flailing above the surface. “Joey!” she gasped.

  Bradley took off across the field, tearing off his jacket and throwing it on the ground as he ran. Betsy followed, picking up the jacket, her heart pounding—how deep was that stream? Or was it more of a river? How quickly was it moving—how cold was it? So many thoughts raced through her head, they didn’t seem to have a beginning or an end.

  As soon as Bradley reached the bank, he threw himself in. The water had to be deeper than Betsy first thought. She quickened her pace even more, her lungs starting to burn. Why hadn’t he pulled Joey out yet? What was going on?