Chapter 21 – May 1910 – This town will never support a cafe
"Abigail, have you seen it? Have you seen what he's done?"
Florence was clutching her purse and turning red, her frenzy the only thing keeping her from tears. Though her friend had a tendency to be melodramatic, the edge of panic that lined Florence's voice told Abigail this was different.
"Florence, what is it?"
"The café," Florence said, shaking. "He's shut them down, Abigail. Emily and her little girls."
Abigail's breath caught, the scene ahead of her slowly coming into focus. Emily Valentine sat, shaking and crying, on the steps of the café. Molly and Marta each had an arm around her, their eyes dark in helpless faces. A pregnant Carla stood above them, rocking the Valentines' ten-month-old child. She was turned away, so that Emily would not see the wet trails forming on her own cheeks. Beyond them stood Virgil, a pale portrait in the doorway, unable to pass through to either side of it. Mr. Jenkins was talking next to him, his hands moving in imploring gestures that intended compassion. Virgil could only shake his head. Two-year-old Betsy clung firmly to her father's leg, too young to understand but aware enough to be frightened. The weathered café sign hung above them all: Valentine's.
"What are they going to do?" Florence was asking in a trembling voice. "What are we going to do?"
ooo
"He didn't even give us a chance. I know we weren't bringing in what they wanted, but he doesn't know this business. He wouldn't listen to any of our ideas. God forgive me my wickedness but I hate him, Abigail. I hate him."
She shouldn't have done it. She knew that – she knew it with every single step. It was rash, and it was stupid, but he was still the first person she wanted to talk to whenever there was something to say.
"Henry?" She rapped her fist on the door, though she'd already opened it. The sliver of sun she had let in fell over his face, dust floating in its beam. He had looked up and was squinting in her direction.
"Henry," she said again. "Can I come in?"
He stayed seated, his face puckering. Tapping his pen on the desk, he shrugged at her. "If you like."
She studied the room as she walked in, trying to calm her nerves. It had the opposite effect.
Dark marks and dents spotted the walls, likely created by tumblers or ledgers flung in frustration during late nights. Having never been inside the office before, she couldn't say who had put them there. At some point an expensive ceiling fan had been installed, but despite the day's warmth it hadn't been turned on. Maybe he was punishing himself. Maybe he ran cold. Its stillness meant the only sound in the office was the tick of a clock behind him, and the shuffling of the papers with which he occupied himself so that he would not meet her eye.
She had seen this mood before. It made sense, given what had just happened. He probably thought she was there to blame him, or to yell. They were on uncertain terms right now after all. But the Henry she knew had probably found himself caught in the company crosshairs, unable to justify mercy towards a frontier family whom his bosses had never met, in a town they'd never been to, in the face of a red balance sheet. The Henry she knew was probably just as desperate for strength and compassion as the Valentines.
She did not take a seat, instead standing timidly at the other side of the desk. She recognized it later as some kind of expectation, or hope, that he would need to reach for her.
"Closing the café must have been a difficult thing to do," she started. He said nothing, so she continued. "I'm sure you've gotten to know the Valentines, so I can't imagine that was a conversation you ever wanted to have. It's a tough situation for everyone involved."
He nodded, still not really looking at her. "I appreciate the consideration."
"So I've been thinking, maybe there's another way."
At this his movements stopped, his hand freezing in the middle of some illegible scribble. He lifted his head at last to address her.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Well, I was just talking with Emily, and she told me that the upstairs could – "
"Let's stop right there." Henry cut her off with a firm wave of his hand, making her step back when he stood abruptly from behind the desk.
"Alright…" she conceded, not sure what was happening.
"Tell me," he said, squinting at her again, "why is it you always seem to think you can offer your opinion on my business decisions?"
Her hands dropped slowly to her sides. She felt the ending before she understood it. Despite the confusion and supplication in her eyes, his remained hard and unwavering.
"I'm sorry. I thought… I thought that we could talk about these things."
"We can. At the next town council meeting. You can bring up any concerns you have there, in the proper forum, like everyone else."
Like everyone else? At a loss, she glanced around the room again, but she found no explanations, no one else there. They were alone.
"Henry, what's going on? I mean, is it… can we – " She stumbled, still not ready to admit to what she had done out loud, especially now, withering in the harsh glare that seared her from under his rigid brows. Averting her eyes did nothing; his entire body radiated with a contempt that held her as its only target.
Had it all been some tragic delusion? The date, the intimacies, the pure energy that pulsed in the space between them - had she misread it all? How could this be something only she had felt when it had affected her so powerfully?
"I've actually still got a lot of work to do, so if you don't mind…" Henry gestured to the door, not letting her find her words or even walk away before sitting back in his chair. The conversation was, evidently, finished.
Abigail could only scoff in disbelief. Apparently he did not even have enough fondness for her to spare her so degrading a dismissal.
"So that's it?"
"That's it."
The curt response sent a furious red flush across her cheeks. "Because you've said so? Because you're the one who gets to decide everything around here?" she spat, the volume of her voice rising.
"I am the executive director of the mine –"
"Oh, I'm aware!"
"- and the president of the town council – "
"And what am I, Henry?"
"What you are, Mrs. Stanton, is my superintendent's wife!"
The shout rung out into the cavernous office, shaking her into stillness. It was the one thing… the one thing he could have said… to utterly devastate her.
In his face she found no regret for this violent turn, no compassion for the wound left by his lashing. Disdain had carved itself into his skin and nothing of Henry seemed to be left.
Noah's wife, then, was what she was. All she had ever been.
She felt suddenly as though she had been cruelly used. But she would not let him see her cry.
"That I am, Mr. Gowen," she said, matching the ice in his glare. "And my husband and I will be seeing you at the next town council meeting. Have a lovely afternoon."
She threw the door open, the wooden blinds banging back against the glass. Molly and Florence got out of her way without being told, already having heard the shouting from their hopeful position at the bottom of the steps. Abigail stopped for no one, speeding down the main street and down toward the rowhomes, not slowing down until she was sure the women hadn't followed her, and not allowing her tears to fall until she had thrown herself into Cat Montgomery's arms
