Read Online The Fire of Home (A Powell Springs Novel) by Alexis Harrington - Free Book Online Page B

papers this way and that, trying to read them with the big lens. At last he picked up a pen to sign the first check and his signature ran off the edge of the paper onto the desk blotter. In frustration, he pushed away the folder and its contents. “Damn it, Monroe, this is no good.”
    Harlan did his best to hide his jittery impatience. The old man was still sharp enough but could be querulous and easily upset over small matters. “Mr. Burton, you could use that rubber signature stamp we ordered for you. It’s in your desk.”
    His white brows rose in an instant of recollection. “Of course, of course. I’d forgotten about that.” He unlocked the drawer where it reposed and brought it out. “Thank you, Monroe. You’re always thinking and you’re resourceful. I value those qualities in a man.”
    Harlan did his best to put on a humble expression. “Thank you, sir.”
    “I believe I’ll go up for my afternoon siesta when I finish here. You won’t be bored, I assume?” the man said.
    “No, I have your bank deposit to make and I need to pick up your pocket watch from the jeweler’s.” Harlan watched as Burton stamped the signature line with more success than h e’d had writing out his name with a pen. Then he collected the papers and retreated to his own desk in a tiny office down the hall. It had a narrow view of the garden but at least it wasn’t downstairs with the kitchen and the rest of the staff. And it had a door that locked.
    With the knob secured, he sat down at his desk, made out another check, pulled out a rubber stamp identical to the one h e’d ordered for Burton, and stamped it. Folding the paper, he put it in the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
    He checked his watch and saw that he had just enough time to get to the banks before they closed. That was good. He had an important errand tonight that would require a significant amount of cash. It was a high-risk venture, but it paid very well.

    It was late afternoon when Amy opened the door to Granny Mae’s café. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and other familiar, savory aromas filled her head and stirred her memories. The restaurant had never had any other name but the word Café painted in red letters on the windows. And it took all the courage she could muster to walk into the place, knowing that Mae and Jessica had become friends during those days the y’d fought the influenza epidemic, side by side. They had taken care of Amy, too, when she had been so ill she was delirious.
    It looked the same as it had when sh e’d last seen it, right down to the checked tablecloths. Sh e’d heard that Granny Mae and Shaw Braddock, Cole’s father, had had a brief romance going until h e’d died from a bleeding ulcer in 1920. She found the whole idea a little revolting, especially since Shaw had been more rude and abrasive than anyone sh e’d ever met. Sh e’d doted on him when Cole had been courting her simply to win him over to her side and away from Jessica’s, no difficult task. Jessica had always been the golden child, the apple of their father’s eye. Corrosive jealousy and a schoolgirl crush on Cole had fueled her conviction that Jessica was not worthy of him. She didn’t dwell on the memory. It was not something she was proud of.
    Weary of the treatment sh e’d received around town, she wasn’t expecting anything better from Granny Mae, and only Deirdre’s sickbed appeal had made Amy come in. Her cold and barking cough had worsened and kept everyone awake last night. She swore by Mae’s sovereign cough remedy. Amy had tried to persuade her to accept something from the druggist’s or even Bright’s Grocery, but the pale, wan soul looked so pathetic that sh e’d relented, if only to give peace to the rest of the household.
    There were several people in the café, and when they glanced up to see wh o’d walked in, heads came together and the whispering began. Suppressing a sigh, Amy pretended not to notice and looked around for