Boston. World’s Finest Cookware.”
“I’m his granddaughter, Miss Lindberg. Are you Mr. Reed?”
He rocked back on his heels, a genial expression on his face. “My name is Roland Dunwoody. I’m Henry Reed’s representative in southern Missouri.” His vivid blue eyes scanned the room. “Where’s your grandfather?”
“He’s turned the store over to me. I’m authorized to order merchandise.”
“Well, bless me! Dress goods and laces, I suppose.”
“Everything, Mr. Dunwoody. I’ve been thinking of adding more cookware.” She pointed at the leather case. “Do you have illustrations of your products?”
“Everything,” he repeated in a wondering tone. “This is a first.” He unbuckled the case and passed her a booklet, open to a page covered with pictures of frying pans, sauce pans, and kettles, arranged in sets. “You won’t find better quality anywhere.”
“Please excuse the question, but if they’re so good, why hasn’t my grandfather ordered from you before? The cast iron we have in stock is from another source.”
He leaned forward, and for a moment she thought he was going to give her a fatherly pat on the shoulder. “I’m glad you asked. Until recently, travel within Missouri has been uncertain, as you can no doubt appreciate. Now that the war has ended, Mr. Reed has expanded his territory.”
Faith studied the illustrations again. Encouraged by the sale of tinware to Mrs. Holmes, she rested her index finger on the largest display. “We’ll take two of these sets.”
The salesman’s smile grew broader. “Excellent. You won’t be disappointed.” He flipped open an order book and scribbled the information on a blank page, then wrote a copy for her. “Our supply center is in Rolla. You should have your goods within two weeks, cash on delivery.”
She placed her copy of the order in the till as a reminder to have the money on hand when the new cookware arrived. “Good. I’ll look forward to adding these to our stock.”
He plopped his hat back on his egg-shaped head. “A pleasure meeting you. You’re much prettier than your grandfather.”
“You’re very kind.”
He bowed with a flourish and strode toward the door.
A woman approached the counter as he left. “I’d like ten yards of that green flowered calico you have on the shelf.”
“Splendid. And do you need buttons and ribbon for trim?” Faith took a pair of shears from under the counter and led her customer to the measuring table.
The bell over the door pealed. “Faith, I want you to read this.” Grandpa’s cane thudded across the floor. He held a sheet of paper in his free hand.
She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I’m busy right now, but I’ll be happy to look at it after supper.”
“It’ll only take you a minute.”
The woman took a step away from the table. “I don’t really have much time . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Faith brandished the shears. “Show me which of the flowered designs you want.” She shot an apologetic glance at Grandpa in time to catch an expression of hurt cross his face.
“When you have a moment to spare, I’ll be out back.” He turned toward the door, shoulders slumped.
“Excuse me a moment.” She placed a bolt of green fabric on the table, then hurried to her grandfather. Hand held out, she said, “What did you write?”
His eyes lit. “I remembered a story from when I was a boy. Thought you’d be interested.”
The page he gave her contained one long paragraph that filled the sheet from top to bottom.
I was sent to a poor mountain school kept by one Bobby Dolliehyde. Why he was named so, I cannot tell unless it was his penchant for hiding the boys and making dolls of the girls. I must have been a rather forward boy for my age, for I recollect . . .
Faith lowered the paper. “Grandpa, I love how you’ve started this story. May I please finish it at home this evening?” Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed her customer sidling
“I’m his granddaughter, Miss Lindberg. Are you Mr. Reed?”
He rocked back on his heels, a genial expression on his face. “My name is Roland Dunwoody. I’m Henry Reed’s representative in southern Missouri.” His vivid blue eyes scanned the room. “Where’s your grandfather?”
“He’s turned the store over to me. I’m authorized to order merchandise.”
“Well, bless me! Dress goods and laces, I suppose.”
“Everything, Mr. Dunwoody. I’ve been thinking of adding more cookware.” She pointed at the leather case. “Do you have illustrations of your products?”
“Everything,” he repeated in a wondering tone. “This is a first.” He unbuckled the case and passed her a booklet, open to a page covered with pictures of frying pans, sauce pans, and kettles, arranged in sets. “You won’t find better quality anywhere.”
“Please excuse the question, but if they’re so good, why hasn’t my grandfather ordered from you before? The cast iron we have in stock is from another source.”
He leaned forward, and for a moment she thought he was going to give her a fatherly pat on the shoulder. “I’m glad you asked. Until recently, travel within Missouri has been uncertain, as you can no doubt appreciate. Now that the war has ended, Mr. Reed has expanded his territory.”
Faith studied the illustrations again. Encouraged by the sale of tinware to Mrs. Holmes, she rested her index finger on the largest display. “We’ll take two of these sets.”
The salesman’s smile grew broader. “Excellent. You won’t be disappointed.” He flipped open an order book and scribbled the information on a blank page, then wrote a copy for her. “Our supply center is in Rolla. You should have your goods within two weeks, cash on delivery.”
She placed her copy of the order in the till as a reminder to have the money on hand when the new cookware arrived. “Good. I’ll look forward to adding these to our stock.”
He plopped his hat back on his egg-shaped head. “A pleasure meeting you. You’re much prettier than your grandfather.”
“You’re very kind.”
He bowed with a flourish and strode toward the door.
A woman approached the counter as he left. “I’d like ten yards of that green flowered calico you have on the shelf.”
“Splendid. And do you need buttons and ribbon for trim?” Faith took a pair of shears from under the counter and led her customer to the measuring table.
The bell over the door pealed. “Faith, I want you to read this.” Grandpa’s cane thudded across the floor. He held a sheet of paper in his free hand.
She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I’m busy right now, but I’ll be happy to look at it after supper.”
“It’ll only take you a minute.”
The woman took a step away from the table. “I don’t really have much time . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Faith brandished the shears. “Show me which of the flowered designs you want.” She shot an apologetic glance at Grandpa in time to catch an expression of hurt cross his face.
“When you have a moment to spare, I’ll be out back.” He turned toward the door, shoulders slumped.
“Excuse me a moment.” She placed a bolt of green fabric on the table, then hurried to her grandfather. Hand held out, she said, “What did you write?”
His eyes lit. “I remembered a story from when I was a boy. Thought you’d be interested.”
The page he gave her contained one long paragraph that filled the sheet from top to bottom.
I was sent to a poor mountain school kept by one Bobby Dolliehyde. Why he was named so, I cannot tell unless it was his penchant for hiding the boys and making dolls of the girls. I must have been a rather forward boy for my age, for I recollect . . .
Faith lowered the paper. “Grandpa, I love how you’ve started this story. May I please finish it at home this evening?” Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed her customer sidling
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