Page 12 of I Do, I Do, I Do
Within a day she recognized the futility of the task. The city was too large, too far-flung. She would never find his company. After forty-eight hours of searching followed by agitated pacing and wringing her hands, she came up with the idea of checking city and county records. A visit to city hall and then to the King County Courthouse verified what she desperately did not want to admit.
“The city didn’t issue a business license for a Villette Import and Export Company. And no Jean Jacques Villette owns property anywhere in King County.”
Clara lowered a fork full of lemon pie. “You actually wasted time checking?”
There was virtually nothing about Clara Klaus that Juliette admired or liked or enjoyed. And Clara exhibited innumerable traits and habits that Juliette deplored. At the moment, she would have liked to scream across the dining-room table that she was sick and tired of Clara’s implied criticism. Naturally she did no such thing. The more life crumbled around her, the more she retreated within, relying on the manners and standards that made civilized life possible.
“It would have been unjust to assume that my husband lied about everything,” she said coolly. “I prefer to keep an open mind.” It irked her to realize that she had hoped for a little praise for going to city hall and then to the courthouse all by herself.
“So now you know that he did indeed lie about everything.” Clara finished her pie.
Here was another thing that Juliette despised. Clara brought no grace or delicate niceties to the table. She appeared to know which fork and spoon to use, but chose to employ them correctly only about half the time. She ate with unbecoming gusto and cleaned her plate, which no true lady would think of doing.
“I refuse to believe that Jean Jacques lied about everything,” she insisted. She couldn’t let herself believe that.
“He didn’t lie about going to Seattle,” Clara said, leaning back in her seat so the waiter could whisk away her pie plate while another waiter poured coffee for them both.
The waiters scrupulously treated Clara the same as they treated Juliette, even though Clara lacked even a semblance of style. Clara wore a straw boater squarely on top of her flyaway red hair, and she squinted when she was outside because the hat brim didn’t shade her eyes and she never remembered to carry a parasol. She insisted her plain, ugly boots were sensible for walking, but Juliette thought they looked like men’s boots. In between the poorly trimmed hat and chunky boots, Clara wore a dark skirt, a white shirtwaist, and a cape that might have been modish during a distant ancestor’s lifetime.
For the life of her, Juliette could not fathom why a discriminating man like Jean Jacques Villette would have taken up with a common creature like Clara Klaus.
After a deep sigh, she broke the silence. “All right. How do you know that Jean Jacques came to Seattle? You couldn’t possibly have called at all the hotels and boardinghouses.”
“There are six banks in the area. I started with the one nearest the hotel and told the manager that Mr. Villette wished to rent commercial space from me and had named the bank as a reference. I wished to verify that he had an account and inquire if he was known to the bank personnel.”
“You misrepresented yourself!” Juliette could never have done such a thing. But she grudgingly conceded the scheme was clever.
Clara rolled her eyes, then continued the story of her triumph. “I found him at the fourth bank.”
Juliette clapped a hand over the sudden racing of her heart. “He’s here?” she whispered.
“He was. The manager said Jean Jacques closed his account two weeks ago.” She ground her teeth together. “We missed him by two weeks.”
“Oh, no.” Juliette stared across the table. “And we have no idea where he might have gone from here!” Tears burned her eyes, and she blinked them back rather than cry in a public place or in front of Clara.
Clara stirred cream into her coffee. “Ask yourself this question. Why would a man come to Seattle? What’s happening here as opposed to—” She shrugged. “Chicago, for instance?”
Juliette had seen enough of Seattle to notice the lines of grimly determined men crowding the outfitters’ stores. Since the hotel was near the wharf area, she’d even strolled to the piers to watch the crowded Alaskan steamers sail off for the Klondike.
“Are you suggesting that Jean Jacques went to the Yukon to search for gold?” she inquired, forming the words slowly.
“I’m starting to think it’s certainly possible. What I don’t understand is why he didn’t sail immediately. Why would he wait until late July?”
“Men are still sailing to the Yukon. Steamers leave for Alaska every day.”
“True. But the stampeders are taking a risk by leaving this late. Winter comes early up there. So why didn’t Jean Jacques sail in April or May?”
“Maybe he didn’t have enough money to pay for his passage and his outfit? Someone told me the Canadian customs won’t allow anyone into the Klondike unless they have a year’s worth of supplies.”
Clara’s lips thinned into a bitter twist. “He had plenty of money, believe me.”
It was small comfort to realize that Clara also felt foolish. Juliette wished that she had never met Clara Klaus. Clara was living, breathing proof that Jean Jacques was not the man she had so totally believed him to be. Lowering her head, she gazed into her lap at her wedding ring, hating that Clara’s ring was identical to hers.
In fact, Clara Klaus brought out the worst in her. Her mother and aunt would have been appalled by the unladylike thoughts tumbling through her head and the sharp words that occasionally shot from her lips like barbs aimed at Clara.
“So what do you suggest we do now?” she said, looking away from the curly red strands falling out of Clara’s hat.
“I don’t know what you’re going to do, but I’m going to visit every outfitting store until I confirm that Jean Jacques bought supplies for the Yukon.”
