her showcase to the world. Its cluttered furnishings testified of the
family’s social status—and Letitia’s good taste.
Exotic odds and ends filled every nook.
Vases reposed on shelves, her porcelain tea service sat atop a polished wooden
tray, and an assortment of cupids, hearts, and valentines—all done in shades of
gaudy pink—decorated the walls and mantel. Even the fireplace screen was hand
painted in rosy hues which Willie had never quite seen in nature. Dried roses,
all gifts from his father, sat in glass jars. His mother had added liberal
sprinklings of cinnamon and other spices to scent the potpourri. It always made
him sneeze.
He grabbed for his handkerchief and
pressed it to his nose just in time.
For so many years, her mother had
entertained in this cozy parlor while her husband busied himself in his study
or while he was making the circuit—always taking Willie with him.
Oh, the hours she’d spent in games of
whist with her society friends, the polite afternoon teas and conversations,
the piano and vocal recitals she hosted. One of the leading lights of Denver’s
elite, she had graciously opened her home to her social retinue, friends, club
members, her minions, all of whom had quietly slunk way since the family’s
disgrace.
Now the parlor exuded—along with the
spicy potpourri—dust and loneliness. Cobwebs actually hung from the ceiling,
and several statuettes had somehow become chipped or cracked as if they, too,
felt the strain.
Letitia turned to her son. “Why did
everyone desert us, Willie?”
“That’s how people are. We still have
each other, Mother. Those others don’t matter.”
“But they do matter to me. I gave so
much of myself to my ladies’ clubs, my meetings, my lectures and recitals.
Shouldn’t someone care what happens to me?”
“I care, Mother. I’ll come to call as
often as I can.” He headed for the stairway. “Excuse me, I want to pick up a few things to take back with me.”
His mother’s head bobbed in a curt nod.
He hated himself for hurting her feelings, but coming home to Denver, coming
back to the place of his shame and disgrace would only drag him down again.
He’d found a new freedom—and a future—in the little town of Sunset. He’d found
hope. He’d found courage.
All of it came from Hattie Mae
Richards.
Thoughts of his sweet angel bolstered
his spirits. Ignoring the stiffness and pain in his leg, Willie climbed the
narrow staircase, first to the second floor of the house, and then the next
flight leading up to the attic with its stuffy air and low ceilings. A small
pane of glass let in only enough daylight for him to make his way past the
stacks of boxes and paraphernalia, assorted remnants of the affluent lifestyle the
Morse family had once lived, and which his father had now effectively destroyed
for all of them.
Tightening his hands into fists, Willie
fought back another round of unhappy thoughts. But like a persistent sparring
partner, those thoughts kept jabbing at him, pushing him, and prodding him.
Shaken by anger and other furious
emotions, Willie closed his eyes, momentarily leaned against the rough-hewn
walls of the upstairs storeroom, and sucked in a deep breath. No need to get himself riled up. Thoughts of Hattie soothed him at once.
Willie had climbed the stairs with a
specific intent. Now, he set about his mission with renewed interest. He knew
what he was looking for, and he knew exactly where to find it. With careful,
halting steps, he made his way toward the back wall.
Yes. It was still there, just as he’d
known it would be.
He reached out, unfastened the fancy
fishing rod from the peg where it hung on the wall, and took it down. Memories
flooded his mind. He remembered the morning when his father had brought it home
and handed it to him. The judge had given his son the gift along with his
promise that they would “go out and reel in a few big ones…” As
soon as the judge could find a little time.
Willie carried
family’s social status—and Letitia’s good taste.
Exotic odds and ends filled every nook.
Vases reposed on shelves, her porcelain tea service sat atop a polished wooden
tray, and an assortment of cupids, hearts, and valentines—all done in shades of
gaudy pink—decorated the walls and mantel. Even the fireplace screen was hand
painted in rosy hues which Willie had never quite seen in nature. Dried roses,
all gifts from his father, sat in glass jars. His mother had added liberal
sprinklings of cinnamon and other spices to scent the potpourri. It always made
him sneeze.
He grabbed for his handkerchief and
pressed it to his nose just in time.
For so many years, her mother had
entertained in this cozy parlor while her husband busied himself in his study
or while he was making the circuit—always taking Willie with him.
Oh, the hours she’d spent in games of
whist with her society friends, the polite afternoon teas and conversations,
the piano and vocal recitals she hosted. One of the leading lights of Denver’s
elite, she had graciously opened her home to her social retinue, friends, club
members, her minions, all of whom had quietly slunk way since the family’s
disgrace.
Now the parlor exuded—along with the
spicy potpourri—dust and loneliness. Cobwebs actually hung from the ceiling,
and several statuettes had somehow become chipped or cracked as if they, too,
felt the strain.
Letitia turned to her son. “Why did
everyone desert us, Willie?”
“That’s how people are. We still have
each other, Mother. Those others don’t matter.”
“But they do matter to me. I gave so
much of myself to my ladies’ clubs, my meetings, my lectures and recitals.
Shouldn’t someone care what happens to me?”
“I care, Mother. I’ll come to call as
often as I can.” He headed for the stairway. “Excuse me, I want to pick up a few things to take back with me.”
His mother’s head bobbed in a curt nod.
He hated himself for hurting her feelings, but coming home to Denver, coming
back to the place of his shame and disgrace would only drag him down again.
He’d found a new freedom—and a future—in the little town of Sunset. He’d found
hope. He’d found courage.
All of it came from Hattie Mae
Richards.
Thoughts of his sweet angel bolstered
his spirits. Ignoring the stiffness and pain in his leg, Willie climbed the
narrow staircase, first to the second floor of the house, and then the next
flight leading up to the attic with its stuffy air and low ceilings. A small
pane of glass let in only enough daylight for him to make his way past the
stacks of boxes and paraphernalia, assorted remnants of the affluent lifestyle the
Morse family had once lived, and which his father had now effectively destroyed
for all of them.
Tightening his hands into fists, Willie
fought back another round of unhappy thoughts. But like a persistent sparring
partner, those thoughts kept jabbing at him, pushing him, and prodding him.
Shaken by anger and other furious
emotions, Willie closed his eyes, momentarily leaned against the rough-hewn
walls of the upstairs storeroom, and sucked in a deep breath. No need to get himself riled up. Thoughts of Hattie soothed him at once.
Willie had climbed the stairs with a
specific intent. Now, he set about his mission with renewed interest. He knew
what he was looking for, and he knew exactly where to find it. With careful,
halting steps, he made his way toward the back wall.
Yes. It was still there, just as he’d
known it would be.
He reached out, unfastened the fancy
fishing rod from the peg where it hung on the wall, and took it down. Memories
flooded his mind. He remembered the morning when his father had brought it home
and handed it to him. The judge had given his son the gift along with his
promise that they would “go out and reel in a few big ones…” As
soon as the judge could find a little time.
Willie carried
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