Free Every Perfect Gift by Dorothy Love

onto her chair. What was wrong withEthan Heyward that made him feel he had to control everything and everybody?
    “That’s what I told him, but he wouldn’t listen. He paid me and told me to clear out.”
    “I’m truly sorry. I never meant to cause you any trouble. But I doubt there is anything I can do for you, Mr.—”
    “Stanhope. Caleb Stanhope. And yes, ma’am, there is something you can do.”
    She waited, one brow raised in question.
    “You can give me a job.”

    Ethan paused on the dirt trail leading upward from the resort and waited for his breathing to slow. The sounds of dozens of hammers echoed through the thick stand of trees, drowning out the calm burbling of the stream running parallel to the path.
    He took off his jacket and sat down on a fallen log. Already he regretted firing Caleb Stanhope. Caleb was a good worker and one of the best finish carpenters on the crew, but he was quick tempered and loose-tongued. Since Miss Caldwell’s editorial last month, the men had grown ever more restless and outspoken.
    Last night Stanhope and a group of others had confronted the two new Chinese cooks with complaints about the food. Ethan happened upon the situation just in time to avert another melee. True, Stanhope didn’t start it. One of the Chinamen threw the first punch. But Ethan depended on the cooks to keep the crews fed. Stanhope, despite his skill, was not so irreplaceable. He had to go.
    Ethan studied a delicate trillium growing beside the log and sighed. It was all Sophie Caldwell’s fault. How could such a willowy little thing stir up so much trouble? Still, he found himself devouring each edition of the Gazette and waiting impatiently forthe next one. Miss S. R. Caldwell was a gifted writer who could tackle any subject from wildflowers to national politics and make readers care about it. If only she would stick to those topics and forget about the problems at Blue Smoke.
    He took out his leather notebook and flipped to the sketch he’d started last night when sleep eluded him. Horace had mentioned that one of his colleagues back in Baltimore planned to build a new house on the shore. Ethan wasn’t sure yet just how he could approach the man about designing his new home, but memories of growing up along the Chesapeake had fueled his ideas for a long, low building with plenty of windows opened to the water. A house on the shore had been his Aunt Eulalie’s dearest wish, but he’d been too young and too poor to fulfill it.
    He balanced his notebook on his knee and watched a couple of blue jays darting through the trees. If it hadn’t been for Horace, maybe Ethan would still be knocking around Baltimore, aimless and angry at the tragedy that had befallen his family, picking up work on the crab boats or digging in the potato fields just up the road. He was grateful for the chance to escape his dead-end life, and he’d worked hard to justify Horace’s faith in him. If only the man wasn’t so stubborn when it came to getting his way about everything.
    Just this morning they’d had another set-to about the long-delayed railway passenger car. Italian leather, Texas leather—what difference did it make? Their guests wouldn’t notice. But Horace had gotten his dander up about it all over again. And once again, Ethan had nearly lost his temper.
    Shaking off the memory of Horace’s red-faced tantrum and his own less-than-temperate response, Ethan bent to his work, flipping the pages of his notebook as new ideas emerged. The quiet stream, the pure sunlight filtering through the stands of oak and hickory, calmed him and soon he found himself thinking of Sophie Caldwell again.
    No doubt she’d get her dander up too when she found out he’d fired her informant, but that was how it had to be. Maybe she’d be over it by the time the reception for the press rolled around. He was eager to show her the resort once the last of the furnishings and the artwork was in place. Somehow it mattered to him that