Magnolia. Diana Palmer
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innocent, and Daddy defended him successfully.”
“He’ll be a Supreme Court judge one day,” Claire predicted.
“We hope so. Can you manage by yourself on Sunday or would you like me to see if I can find someone to cook for you that day?”
“I’ll do it myself. You taught me how to make chicken and dumplings, after all, and I’m not so squeamish that I can’t kill the chicken.”
Gertie looked dubious. “Suppose you let your uncle do that part for you. He’s much faster than you are.”
“Well, I have to ease up to doing it,” she said, defending her procrastination.
“He doesn’t. You’ll spend enough time dressing it fit to cook.”
“You’re right, I suppose.”
“I’ll have something on the table in a couple of hours for lunch. No guests?”
Claire shook her head. “Kenny had to get to work. It will only be Uncle and me.”
As Claire walked toward the workshop, she called, “I’m back. Need any help?”
Her uncle leaned out from under the front of the car. “Hallelujah! You’re just in time! I had to fix a leak in the radiator. Hand me a wrench and those hoses, and then bring me those new spark plugs!”
IT TOOK ABOUT TWO HOURS to get the new part in place, the plugs in, the gaps set, and the timing just right. Her uncle had to take one of them out and worry with it until it fit properly, but just before lunchtime the engine was running prettily.
“It works! You’ve got it going!” she exclaimed.
He stood up, his white hair darkened with grease from his big hands, a huge smile under his thick silver mustache. “By golly, I sure have! Thanks to you, girl! It was a great day for me when you came to stay. I had no idea what a mechanic I’d make of you.”
She curtsied, ignoring the grease spots on her formerly pristine blouse and her face. “Thank you.”
“Don’t let your head get too big, though. You didn’t replace the last screw in the boiler when you put it back.”
She groaned. “I got interrupted by Gertie.”
“That’s right,” Gertie called from the porch. “Blame it on me.”
“Don’t eavesdrop,” Claire called back.
“Stop talking about me and I won’t. Lunch is ready.”
Gertie went back into the house, and Claire shook her head. “Uncanny, isn’t it—how she always knows when I’m blaming her for some—”
Her uncle broke in. “Let’s go for a spin.”
“It’s pouring rain. Besides, Gertie’s got food on the table.”
He sighed angrily. “Just my luck, darn it! When I’ve got it running right! Why don’t they make tops for motorcars?”
AFTER THEY ATE, THE TWO OF THEM sat in the parlor while the rain beat down outside.
“Why did Kenny bring you home?” he asked suddenly. “Where’s the buggy?”
She drew in a long breath. “The horse took it over a rock I didn’t see and busted the axle. Now, now. It won’t cost so much to have it replaced…”
Her uncle’s husky shoulders slumped. “Oh, dear. Oh, dear, dear,” he murmured. “And I’ve spent the last money we had to buy that new motorcar part, haven’t I?” He looked up. “Why, Claire! I have a thought—we can sell the horse and buggy now,” he exclaimed. “We have a horseless carriage that runs!”
She grinned. “So we do.”
He let out a sigh. “Gasoline is very cheap at the druggist’s, so it won’t be expensive to run it. And the extra money will pay off the last big mortgage I’ve had to take out on the house.” His face assumed a blissful expression. “Our troubles are over, my dear. They’re quite—” He stopped. His face seemed an odd gray color and he clutched his left arm. He laughed shortly. “Why, how very odd this feels. My arm has gone numb, and I have a very hard pain in my—in my—in my throa…”
He looked at her as if he was seeing right through her and suddenly pitched forward, right onto the rug.
Claire ran to him, her hands trembling, her eyes huge and tragic. She realized at once that this was something more than a faint. He was lying so still, not breathing, and his skin had gone a ghastly gray color. But worst of all, his eyes were open and the pupils were fixed and dilated. Claire, who had watched pet dogs and cats and chickens die over the years, knew too well what that meant…
2
IN THE SPACE OF TWO HOURS, CLAIRE’S LIFE changed forever. Her uncle never regained consciousness. Her frantic telephone call from a neighbor’s house to the doctor brought the family physician within minutes.
“I’m very sorry, Claire,” Dr. Houston said softly, with a paternal arm around her shoulder. “But at least it was quick. He never knew a thing.”
Claire stared at him with dull eyes.
“Gertie, bring a sheet, please, and cover him,” he asked the housekeeper, who was quiet and solemn.
She nodded and went away, returning quickly with a spotless white sheet. Fighting tears, she put it lovingly over Will.
That made it all final somehow, and Claire felt her eyes welling with tears. She brushed at them as she began to sob. “But he was so healthy,” she whispered. “There was never anything wrong with him. He never even had a cold.”
“Sometimes it happens like this,” the doctor said. “Child, do you have family? Is there anyone we can get to come and help you sort out the estate?”
She looked at him blankly. “We only had each—each other,” she said, faltering. “He never married, and he was my father’s only living sibling. My mother’s people are all dead, as well.”
He glanced at Gertie. “You and Harry will be here, won’t you?”
“Of course,” Gertie said, coming forward to put her arms around Claire. “We’ll look after her.”
“I know you will.”
He filled out the death certificate, and, by the time he finished, the coroner came and a horse-drawn ambulance took the body to the mortuary. It was only then that Claire realized her position. The doctor and the funeral home would have to be paid. The sale of the buggy and horse would barely cover it. The house was mortgaged; the bank would surely foreclose.
She sat down heavily on the love seat and clenched a handkerchief in her hand. Her beloved only relative was gone; she was soon to be penniless—and homeless. What could she do? She tried to calm herself; after all, she had two skills—sewing clothes and repairing motorcars. She designed and made gowns for rich society matrons in Atlanta. That she could do, but there wasn’t a motorcar in nearby Atlanta, so working on them was no solution.
A renewed wave of panic left her momentarily in tears. But they soon were dried by Gertie, who reminded her that she had few equals with a needle and thread and the fine Singer treadle sewing machine in the bedroom. Claire made all her own clothes, designs of her own creation that most people thought were store-bought because they were so richly and lavishly embroidered and laced.
“Miss Claire, you could work as a seamstress anytime,” Gertie assured her. “Why, Mrs. Banning down on Peachtree Street can’t make clothes fast enough to meet the demand. I bet she’d hire you in a second to work for her. Said she thought your pretty blue suit was a Paris fashion, she did! And she knows you sew for Mrs. Evelyn Paine.”
That made Claire feel a little bit better. But, still, the prospect of a job and an income was only that—a prospect.