Page 3 of Olive Becket Plays the Rake (The Seattle Suffrage Society)

Olive Becket gingerly shuffled her father’s aging baseball cards and savored the memory of the last time they’d pored over them together.

How she’d clutched them to her chest while she sat in his lap, reading the sporting column together.

How he’d smiled with delight each time she recalled the slightest detail about a player.

“I hate these cards.”

She ignored her ten-year-old brother’s heated assertion, accompanied by a scowl and arms crossed over his narrow chest. His reading skills would improve by spring's end, no matter the amount of blood, sweat, or tears required. She flipped over the topmost card and covered the player’s image with her free hand, leaving only the script visible.

“What does this say?”

Robbie gave it a cursory glance, then flopped backward onto the faded patchwork rug with a wail. Apparently, today’s payment was tears. She bit back a sigh and followed him to the rug. Snuggling close, as much for comfort as warmth that blustery morning, she held the card aloft.

“Let’s look at the first letter together. You can do it, Robbie.”

He huffed, but he did as she asked. “It’s a... a K.”

“That’s right. And the next?”

His lips moved as he tried to piece the word together. “Why are there so many Es?”

“Some words are like that. Take it slow, you’re doing fine.”

“Kuh..eee…Kelly! That’s King Kelly.”

“That’s another card,” Olive said gently. “This one is Tim Keefe. Papa loved to tell me how he was the first pitcher to have three seasons with three hundred strikeouts. Imagine the amount of practice he put in, like you’re doing now.”

“I don’t think Tim Keefe had to read letters that ran away from him.”

Her heart pinched at the truth of it, but she refused to let pity creep into her voice. “Maybe not letters, but I bet it was hard to throw a curveball at first, too.”

“I suppose.” He took the next card from the deck and squinted at it. “Who’s this?”

“That’s Cap Anson. Do you remember how we talked about the letter C having two sounds?”

“Oh, you two do my heart good.”

Olive looked up at her mother’s soft interruption.

Anna Becket sat a few feet away at the scuffed wooden table in the dinette—if one could call the cramped space in their tiny apartment a dinette—a bundle of fabric in one hand and a sewing needle in the other.

A wistfulness twisted her delicate features, which had grown far too frail as of late.

“How your father loved those cards. Never smoked a day in his life, but that didn’t stop him from buying all the Old Judge cigarette packs he could find to complete the set.”

“We know.”

Robbie’s sour reply ended in a grunt when Olive’s elbow knocked into his ribs.

It might have been five years since their father had succumbed to pneumonia, but not a day passed without Anna mentioning him.

At least today’s exchange hadn’t brought on tears—yet.

Olive handed her brother the cards, then climbed to her feet and pushed the long sleeves of her thick wool sweater over her wrists.

“Show me what magic you’ve wrought.”

Her mother gave her head a slight shake, a habitual motion she used to dispel the melancholy that hovered a touch too close, then unfolded her fabric.

Olive ran her hand across the gown, the brocade still heavy with the grandeur of another time.

Once, it had been her mother’s pride, ordered from a New York dressmaker when such luxuries were possible.

Now, after careful, yet unskilled alterations, it clung uneasily to Olive’s slimmer frame.

But there was no room for vanity, not when her simpler performance attire had been scorched after being hung too close to the stove during a recent damp spell.

Not when her mother had lovingly attached a bit of lace at the collar.

“Will it work? If only I were as good with a needle as I am with my bobbins.”

“It’s much better, Mama. And most importantly, it’s done in time for the New Year’s Eve Ball.”

“Oh, that reminds me.” Anna scanned the table, currently scattered with wooden bobbins wound with thread, a pin cushion bristling with needles, and patterns on stiff paper.

Among the chaos, she located a delicate strip of lace.

“Please give this to Winnie, and tell her it’s perfect for cuffs or collars. ”

“Mama, you don’t need to send a gift.”

“But I do! Your new friends at the Society have provided a wealth of opportunities, and we must thank Winnie for convincing her beau to include you in his event’s musical lineup.”

Olive gave in; her mother was right. The holidays would have been far more difficult without the connections she’d forged over the past five months. She still wasn’t sure where she’d found the gumption to attend the inaugural meeting of the Seattle Suffrage Society.

She’d met women from all walks of life who shared their stories with an intimidating frankness.

Who made grand, fearless plans. Who welcomed anyone willing to lend their time or voice.

Somehow, that included her—even though she had little time to give, and she used her voice as infrequently as possible.

“Winnie will love it. Thank you.”

But her mother was frowning. “The editor-in-chief of The Puget Sound Post must know everyone in Seattle by this point. Imagine the crush.”

Oh, she had—to the point it made her nauseated. If only teaching children paid as well, but until she found another way to keep her brother’s ever-growing feet shod and meat on the table, she had no option but to perform wherever she could be hired.

She must have made a face because Anna added, “Luckily, you always enter your own world when you play.”

“That’s true.” Once she coaxed the first few notes of a song into the air, the world around her blurred, and the melody consumed her. It was the one thing that kept her from backing out at the last moment. Well, that and the fear of disappointing her friends.

“I’ll press this tomorrow morning,” Anna promised as she set the gown aside. She squeezed between the table and the narrow dish cabinet into the kitchenette. “Will you set the table, sweet child? The soup should be ready.”

“Of course.”

She placed her mother’s lacework supplies into a nearby basket, wiped the table, and laid the placemats.

She opened the cabinet door cautiously, as the latch was given to temperamental fits.

Today, it held firm, and Olive reached for their customary dishes.

But then her gaze fell on the Haviland porcelain bowls tucked into the back, the few dishes from her parents’ wedding set that hadn’t been broken by a careless mover during their third relocation after her father’s death.

She still remembered how her mother had cradled the shards and wept.

What she wouldn’t give to see her mother’s smile again.

On a whim, she gently lowered two Moss Rose-covered bowls and matching plates to the table. She added two silver spoons reserved for the company that had stopped coming ages ago, and finished the setting with Robbie’s sturdier plateware.

“Time to wash up, Robbie,” she called.

A high-pitched whoop and thud emanating from the dressing room answered her. Anna peered around the cabinet, her brows raised in alarm.

“What is that boy up to?”

Olive grimaced. “Probably something to do with his latest plan to become a lawman. I’ll handle it.”

In a few strides, she crossed the apartment and slipped into the dressing room.

She swung open the dressing cabinet, Robbie’s regular hiding spot, but he wasn’t there.

Then the bathroom door creaked open behind her, and she whirled around just as he launched his small, compact body through the air.

She caught him against her chest and held on tight.

“Listen here, Sheriff. If you aren’t careful, you’ll bring the worst foe back into town—the landlord’s wife.”

Robbie groaned. “I can’t do anything without that old dragon complaining.”

“We’ll go to the park after supper,” she promised. “Time to wash up.”

“Lawmen don’t wash their hands.”

“Says who?”

The tow-head gave her his best gap-toothed smile. “God, probably.”

She laughed and released him. “I think someone’s been daydreaming during Bible lessons again.”

“They’re so boring. I’d much rather play cops and robbers.”

“I thought you preferred...” She twisted her hands into claws. “Running from tickle monsters!”

Robbie scrambled backwards with a shriek, but he was no match against her years of experience. She caught him around the midriff with one arm and began to tickle his sides with the other.

“Stop,” he begged between snorts and gasps, crumbling to the cold floor, his stockinged feet kicking in the air.

She attacked his armpit without mercy. “Not until you promise to wash up.”

“P-p-promise!”

With a victorious cackle, she let him go. Breathing heavily, she rose to her feet. The wave of dizziness took her by surprise, and she flung a hand to the peeling wallpaper. The small room tilted and swayed. She squeezed her eyes shut and waited for the spell to pass, as it always did. Eventually.

“Ollie? Ollie?” She slowly became aware of her brother’s arms clutching her waist, his forehead pressed against her ribs. She cracked an eye open; the walls held still.

“No need to worry,” she soothed. “Only a dizzy spell.”

“Should I get Mama?”

“No.” She stroked his blond cowlick to soften her curtness. “We mustn’t worry her.”

“We can practice reading after dinner, if you’d like.”

“I would like that.” She unwound Robbie’s arms and nudged him toward the bathroom. “Now, go.”

This time, he didn’t protest. Olive waited for the water to turn on before returning to the dinette at a sedate pace. Her mother was ladling soup into the bowls, and as Olive had hoped, the anxious lines around her mouth had softened.

“I’d almost forgotten how pretty the little roses are.”

“Me too. We could use some cheer.”