Enduring Dreams: Widow's Might, #1

©2020 Enduring Dreams by Sandra Ardoin

Corner Room Books, Salisbury, North Carolina, USA

For more information on this book and the author visit: www.sandraardoin.com.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. For further permissions, please contact the author through her website: www.sandraardoin.com/contact.

Enduring Dreams is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used for fictional purposes. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Any mentioned brand names, places, and trademarks remain the property of their respective owners, bear no association with the author or the publisher, and are used for fictional purposes only.

Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

ISBN: 978-1-7334630-2-7 (Print); 978-1-7334630-3-4 (E-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020914845

Cover design by Evelyne Labelle, Carpe Librum Book Design.

Edited by Lynne Tagawa

Have you read Unwrapping Hope, the novella that kicked off the Widow’s Might series?

Get it as my thank you when you sign up for the Love and Faith in Fiction newsletter at www.sandraardoin.com/newsletter.

If you prefer to purchase the novella, you’ll find it at https://books2read.com/u/47EWlg

Make no little plans;

they have no magic to stir men's blood

and probably will themselves not be realized.

—Daniel Burnham, Architect

Chapter One

A t long last, this is a reality. Mark Gregory stood in the center of the empty drafting room of his new architectural office. His gaze skimmed every corner, every square foot of the cool and empty room. He was three months late taking in this sight, and he intended to enjoy it.

There was nothing more stimulating, more capable of pumping the blood through a man’s veins with vigor, than seeing something he’d dreamed about for months—years, even—come to fruition. His own business.

Come see this, Mark.

He peered over his shoulder at Addison O’Keefe, the agent who leased him the office. Tell me about it.

Addison stared out a window and chuckled. We’re only on the second floor. What harm could come to you?

Plenty.

Mark reminded himself that his new friend spoke in innocence, ignorant of the circumstances surrounding the death of Stefen Grzegorczyk. Addison assumed fear held Mark back. In fact, heights recalled his father’s suffering and the reason for it. He rubbed his left forearm, painful only in his memory.

He ambled to the open window and peered down at the people scurrying from one place to another. A steady stream of horse-drawn traffic moved up and down Commerce Street, the town’s main thoroughfare. His nose wrinkled at catching a whiff of coal smoke and last night’s trash—a mild stench compared to what he left behind in Chicago.

Addison pointed west. What do you make of that?

Thankful for the distraction, Mark concentrated on the half-finished, three-story structure a block away. He had passed the building numerous times since arriving in town a few days ago.

It’s hideous. The structure looked like a hodge-podge of various patterns with no common connection. And what good would that bell tower do? It was attached to an office building, not a church. A good architect would have stuck to one style and ensured that every element flowed together. Clearly, the designer attempted to create something unique but only proved he has too little talent to realize his goal.

I agree. However, that hasn’t stopped me from contacting the owner to act as his leasing agent.

I wish you luck. Mark chuckled. Actually, the blight is an advantage. The people of Riverport now have access to an architect they can trust to provide sensible designs.

And you will. Addison slapped Mark’s back. He might have no financial interest in Mark’s company beyond his work for the landlord, but in their communications and meetings, the two men had quickly become friends.

Mark turned to survey his rented space again, unable to get enough of it. His hands rested on his hips as he admired the large room. Two electric lamps hung from the ceiling and the wood floor had been buffed to a sheen. The only flaw was the small closet that blocked a window. It was soon to be torn out.

This room is large enough to accommodate three or four additional draftsmen. I’ll need them in the future. It was an audacious statement, but with the threat of a significant loan payment due in a few months, he must think audaciously. He hadn’t the time to be timid or modest.

His father’s words echoed in his mind. A man’s reputation is everything, son. Don’t throw it away on debt.

In the past, Mark had agreed, but old age would have overtaken him by the time he’d saved the amount required to tide him over until the business began a profit. He had vowed years ago that he would not die young like his father without making a name for himself first. This venture gave him the opportunity.

Although he had budgeted for a less expensive rent payment, Mark had selected this suite because of the natural lighting coming from the triple bowed windows in the drafting room. More importantly, the limestone façade presented an appearance of the success he expected to achieve.

If not for his mother’s illness, he would have opened the office in February, easing the strain on his timetable. But he couldn’t—wouldn’t—leave her alone in Chicago with no one to care for her. Now, he must work harder and faster to achieve his goal. He must. Failure was unacceptable.

The empty space amplified his harrumph. He would not fail. Not only would he lose everything, including the reputation he wished to build, but his mother would insist he tuck tail and rush them back to the old neighborhood.

From this moment on, the word failure was struck from his vocabulary.

Mark rubbed his hands together, eager to get started. Tomorrow, the furniture is delivered. He had purchased everything from a retiring architect, impressed by the excellent condition of the pieces and swayed by the reasonable price.

Addison pointed to the turret area. You’ve already said you’ll position the drafting easel near these long windows to take advantage of the light. What else?

For the time being, the table for conferring with clients will go in the middle of the room. The bookcase and a smaller table there. Mark pointed to the back wall. I have a desk and chair for the outer office. Eventually, I’ll hire an assistant for that room—a man to handle the visitors, billing, and correspondence.

Marek?

Mark stiffened at the voice that called his name—the one given to him at birth. He strode into the front room. I wasn’t expecting you here today, Mama.

She brandished a broom in one hand. A bucket filled with rags and scrub brushes hung from her other arm.

He took the items from her and set them on the floor. What is all this?

She tucked a stray lock of salt-and-pepper hair under her hat. You must not move your furniture into a dirty office. Even after living in America for thirty years, she still spoke with a slight Polish accent, although her English was near perfect...when it suited her.

The office isn’t dirty. The janitor cleaned it the other day.

She expressed her disbelief with a sniff. It will not take long.

As usual, he might as well speak to the wall. What did it matter? Moving here had uprooted her from the community in which she felt at home, so if cleaning the office pleased her, he would oblige.

His arm swept the air with a flourish. Do what makes you happy, Mama. As soon as he said that dangerous phrase, he regretted it.

She set to work sweeping the floor and dusting windowsills, then smiled when he grabbed a rag and started on the other end of the room.

How do you like the house, Mrs. Grzegorczyk? Addison asked.

It is too big, Mr. O’Keefe.

It’s not much bigger than your old house. Mark rented the new one for its three bedrooms as well as the separate dining room and large kitchen with a nice pantry. His mother could cook Polish dishes to her heart’s content.

Still, I have been thinking.

Mark caught himself before his inner cringe shivered into a visible one.

I will look for a boarder for that extra room upstairs.

He paused in the middle of wiping down a wall, and his temple throbbed. We don’t need a boarder.

We don’t need an extra bedroom, either. Until you are a rich and famous architect, you could use the money. Perhaps you have a recommendation for someone, Mr. O’Keefe?

Behind him, Addison snickered. Mark shot him a look. O’Keefe backed toward the room’s entrance. It was nice to see you, Mrs. Grzegorczyk, but I’m afraid I’ll leave this subject for you and your son to discuss. He slipped out the door and into the hall. His laughter trailed behind him like a comet’s tail.

We don’t need money from a boarder, Mama. Not once his business became known. Also, I’m certain it’s against the conditions of my lease.

She waved her hand, and her rag flew like a flag in a stiff wind. All these new expenses to make you look like an important businessman. What do we need with three bedrooms?

"What if Ciotka Gizela visits?"

Then my sister can stay with me in my room, as she always does.

Mark fought to wipe exasperation from his voice and said, No boarder, Mama. That’s my final word on the subject.

"Marek, mój słodki chłopcze, we will discuss it later. For now, work."

Calling him her sweet boy meant trouble and an intention to finagle a way to get what she wanted. She also called him that whenever she bemoaned his offenses against his Polish heritage—among them, moving her out of their neighborhood, Americanizing his name, and refusing to marry Paulina, the woman she believed best suited him.

After his father died when he was twelve, Mark had assumed the responsibility of caring for his mother, a responsibility he’d gladly accepted as an only child. Those years taught him to be vigilant and as stubborn as the woman who bore him.

No, sir. He loved his mother, but in the matter of a boarder, he would dig in his heels. And when he married, it would be to a woman of his choosing, no one else’s.

Mark’s shoulders slumped. What a pretty speech. The truth was, when Anastazja Grzegorczyk chose to do something, only God could stop her, and Mark learned long ago that the Almighty rarely wished to intercede on his behalf.

Why should he ask God to intervene in his minor problems when God had refused to intervene in the matter of saving his father’s life?

CLAIRE KINGSLEY’S JAW ached after nine hours of smiling. In the privacy of the employee salon, she stretched her arms, then released a groan.

After a full day of selling indecisive and sometimes peevish women everything from undergarments to evening gowns, she couldn’t wait to leave behind the bustle and noise of S. F. Newland’s Department Store. She couldn’t wait to reach the quiet of her bedroom and...

And what? Retreat into the past, into a time when her imagination soared—into a world she once embraced but no longer called her own?

Claire took the elevator from the fourth floor down to the first and left the store through a rear door. She walked around the corner and down Commerce Street on her way to her parents’ house, to the place she had called home for almost two years. She loved her family, but how she missed having her own house, her own things around her, her own right of possession.

Perhaps it was time to look for a room to rent. She had intended to live with her family for months, not years, only until she’d come to grips with her new circumstances and assuaged some of the grief.

She had intended to do many things with her life. That included spending the rest of it with Richard, designing buildings in an age when elevators carried people up ten or fifteen stories to the tops of skyscrapers. She’d intended a life with her husband that included children who might someday follow in their parents’ professional footsteps.

If Claire had learned one thing in life, it was that intentions lasted only as long as the will and the courage to achieve them.

At the corner of Commerce and Henning, she paused to survey the building being constructed across the street. Whoever designed it had succeeded in creating the ugliest structure she had ever laid eyes on.

An older gentleman, short and stout, stopped on the sidewalk beside her. One hand gripped a black walking stick with a carved ivory top while the other stroked a full gray beard. His attention never wavered from the monstrosity on the other side of the street. That’s quite something, isn’t it?

Yes. It is something.

He turned to her. You aren’t impressed?

For all Claire knew, the man could be the architect or owner. While she hesitated to insult him, she wouldn’t lie. Instead, she implemented the diplomacy she had perfected while dealing with customers at the store. It is an interesting choice of style.

The man pursed his lips as he studied the building again. It does look as if the designer couldn’t make up his mind and preferred, therefore, to use everything in his creative arsenal in a single building.

She laughed at the disgust in his tone, which freed her to give her true opinion. I see a hint of Georgian in the pattern and form of the windows, a little Romanesque in that corner tower, and...heaven only knows what that flat roof line with the extended eaves is supposed to represent. Architecture should welcome the onlooker, not repel him. What I see instills nothing more than confusion.

You’re well-informed about architecture.

For a woman? Claire flashed her practiced smile, hoping to take the sting from the words that sprang from her mouth, even if she couldn’t hide the bitterness.

I cannot deny my surprise. Although I assure you, no offense was intended.

Defending her work in the profession of architecture was a battle she had fought too often, with her parents, and especially with her husband’s partner, George Brant. That man hadn’t waited until Richard was cold in the ground before informing her that her services were no longer needed at Kingsley and Brant Architects.

True, she’d had no formal education, but she’d had something better. She’d had her husband’s expertise to guide and teach her...superior to any classroom study.

She sighed. I owe you an apology, sir. Sometimes, I’m too passionate in my own defense. But my being female doesn’t mean I have no imagination or skills.

I agree with your viewpoint, ma’am. The gentleman beside her arched an eyebrow. Then you are an architect?

As it had so often, the truth stabbed her like the point of a drawing compass to the heart. According to the firm’s contract, the business went to George as the surviving partner. Claire, the surviving partner in life, was stripped of any official role in the company and the ability to carry on the profession she’d shared with Richard. Not anymore. Before my husband passed away, we often worked together.

The man shifted the walking stick he carried to his other hand. I’m sorry to learn of your loss. However, if God has given you a pursuit, never apologize for being passionate about it or for a commitment to it.

Surely, God did not instill dreams in one person to destroy the life of another. That had been her doing.

May I ask why you work in a department store these days, ma’am, rather than in an architectural office? Her curiosity in learning how he knew where she worked must have shown on her face, because he pointed to her gray suit. The other women in Newland’s dress in similar clothing.

You are perceptive, Mr....

Dover, ma’am. Charles Dover.

It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Dover. I’m Claire Kingsley.

He dipped his head in acknowledgment. You were about to tell me why you’re no longer an architect.

This man would not be sidetracked. Never would she tell him that, because of that passion they discussed, her precious Richard perished, or that, because she feared another miscarriage, he died without an heir.

We have no architectural office in Riverport, though if we did, I doubt they would hire me. Not all men are as open-minded as you, Mr. Dover.

Though she had never admitted it to others, the truth was that resuming work in the profession terrified her, even as it called to her with a thunderous voice.

A pity. Once more, he arched an eyebrow, the other one this time. It has always taken pioneers to blaze the way through new territory, you know.

At one time, she had believed she possessed the pluck to be a pioneer. She had been young and naïve. Society had its role for women, one that didn’t include working in a man’s world. Even her parents had pleaded for her to remain where a woman belonged and not venture into uncharted territory. She had ignored them and the other naysayers...until she let the fantasy exact too high a price.

Are you an architect, sir?

No. I’m simply someone who recognizes what he likes when he sees it. He raised the stick and pointed it at the building. That is not it.

We agree. Curiosity gained a foothold. May I ask why you support the idea of professional women?

His brow crinkled. My niece fought long and hard to become a respected physician, to gain patients who trusted her ability and advice. Many of her loudest detractors were colleagues.

Did she succeed?

Eventually. He tapped the brim of his hat. I have enjoyed speaking with you, Mrs. Kingsley. Perhaps, one day, we’ll meet in front of another new building and stop to compare opinions.

I would like that, sir.

Claire stared after him as he walked away. What an understanding, modern thinker.

She studied the building once more. Such a waste of an expensive piece of property. Richard could have created something inspiring on that lot. They could have created it together.

Because of her, he would never create anything again. Because of her, the Kingsley name would never grace another blueprint of a well-received design.

Chapter Two

If Mark’s mother ever admitted to a vice, it would be a love for hats—seeing them, trying them on, examining every little adornment.

Mark had little time or money to spare, but if a new hat helped her to feel better about their move to Riverport, he would devote a few minutes of his day and a portion of the coins in his pocket to escort her on a shopping excursion. Though why she desired a new hat, he couldn’t say. Not when she crafted them herself like another woman might crochet lace or embroider a pillow covering. What had she done with them all?

As he followed her through the elaborate front door of S. F. Newland’s, he pulled out his father’s silver pocket watch etched with a simple leaf design on the back. Thirty minutes should give her time to find something nice.

He slipped the watch back in his pocket and surveyed the first floor of the department store. Just as Riverport was nothing to rival Chicago, this store was nothing to rival Marshall Fields in size or style. Still, at four stories, it was the tallest and most impressive building in town, a building designed with both luxury and functionality in mind. Even during a workday, the place buzzed with customers. People must come from miles around to shop its merchandise.

He approached the marble-topped counter in the center of the first floor and asked the male concierge manning it, Where will we find ladies’ hats?

All women’s fashions are on the third floor, sir. Ask for Mrs. Kingsley.

The young man’s enthusiastic grin was infectious, and Mark responded in kind. Thank you.

He led his mother to the elevator next to a wide staircase, prepared to escort her up the steps. She balked. I am not so feeble that I cannot climb stairs, Marek, and you have no business in a ladies department. Who knows what you will see.

After almost twenty-nine years of watching her unmentionables flying from the clothesline, he doubted he’d see anything to shock him.

You’re not feeble, Mama— far from it—but it hasn’t been long since your bout with influenza.

I am well. Now go.

Fine. I’ll look around down here. Remember to ask for Mrs. Kingsley.

She gripped the wrought iron handrail and nodded. I will not be long.

Mark wandered through the departments on the first floor—from the perfumes to the kitchen supplies. He stopped at a display of linens, pulled out a white damask tablecloth, and held it out to examine the fruit design and scrollwork border. Perhaps his mother would like it for the dining room table.

Probably, but she would only tell him he couldn’t afford it, and she’d be right. Not even three months before the bank expected a large payment on his loan.

When Mark decided on a location for his office, he looked for a growing town with little competition. Not that he lacked the self-assurance to succeed. Quite the contrary. However, Chicago already ran rife with some of the century’s most amazing architects: Lewis Sullivan, Daniel Burnham, and Dankmar Adler, to name a few. He wanted somewhere ready for his business but not overwhelmed with talent.

A fellow draftsman at D. H. Burnham and Company suggested Riverport near his hometown in Indiana. More than a farming community, Riverport had experienced strong growth in the past two decades, both in population and wealth. New buildings. New homes. New department store. It was a splendid place for a new beginning.

Mark refolded the linen and put it back on the shelf. All he needed was one important project between now and the end of July.

After wandering some more, he stopped near the concierge counter for the second time. The young man asked, Did your mother find what she was looking for, sir?

She’s still up there.

Well, if she met Mrs. Kingsley as I suggested, she might be a while. My sister is quite the saleswoman.

And the brother was adept at promoting his sister. I hope she’s not too much of a saleswoman. We’ll need to eat the rest of the month. It was a half-hearted joke, but perhaps he should make sure the clerk didn’t take advantage of his mother. He pulled out the watch and checked the time again. I think I’ll hurry them along.

He stopped at the staircase of white marble treads and walnut risers and looked up at two floors with nothing but a slim, waist-high wrought iron barrier to prevent a customer from tumbling and falling to the first floor. Foolishness.

Mark wrapped his fingers around the handrail of the staircase and climbed to the second-floor landing. He looked up and craned his neck, trying to locate his mother above him. Naturally, she was nowhere in his line of sight.

Halfway to the third floor, a child of seven or eight bumped into him as he raced down the stairs without a second thought to his safety.

Be careful that you don’t fall. Mark imagined the boy tripping and lunging headfirst in a tumble to rest in a broken heap on the landing. The rascal reached the second floor, never having looked back. Mark shook his head.

The first thing he saw on the third floor was a display of women’s hats. He searched the area for his mother with no success.

A straw boater snagged his attention. Thick, black feather plumes stuck straight up, held by folds of some type of orange-gold material that matched one of her suits. He thumped a feather and watched it wave back and forth.

That’s a beautiful choice, sir, though you may prefer a style that better matches your suit.

He looked up to find a mesmerizing blonde with expressive blue eyes grinning at him. Her light gray suit with a white shirtwaist matched the uniforms of other women who worked