Somebody Wonderful (8 page)

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Authors: Kate Rothwell

BOOK: Somebody Wonderful
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“Mr. Carter, the reporter in Africa, was a nincompoop,” Timmy said decisively. “So you haven’t met Botty—” she began.
“You are on a lark here in New York!” Daisy interrupted with a crow of delight. “How exciting. An adventure!” She glanced all around the street at the people bustling past. “Is there a reporter with you?”
“Not just now.”
“Hoy, lady,” the cabbie shouted down from his perch at the back of the cab. “Want to keep on? My horse’ll get too cooled.”
“May I walk with you?” Timmy addressed Daisy. She was smart enough not to ask Mick. “The evening air is so pleasant and I would like to get to know you. Might I be so bold as to call you Daisy?”
“Of course!” said a thrilled Daisy before Mick could get a word in. He’d have to wait until later to tell Timmy what he thought of her current exploits. Staying with the natives, indeed.
Good God. And he’d thought the creature was a common whore. No, not entirely. He’d never thought of her as common.
Timmy touched Henry’s shoulder as he stood watching the cab with sad longing. “Henry, would you be good enough to see our purchases home? I believe you know which parcel goes to whom.”
She dug into a shiny little blue bag. New, of course. And pulled out some coins, shiny and new. “This will pay for the cab and the cabby’s tip. Be sure to get him to help you carry in everything.”
“Got it, Miss Timona. See you, Mr. Mick. Good-bye, Miss . . . um.” Henry dashed back to the cab.
According to convention, Mick was supposed to walk along with a woman on each side, but the way Daisy chattered across him as if he was some kind of post, he soon dropped back so Daisy could get better access to Miss Calverson.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked along behind, catching what he could of the women’s talk. Most of the conversation consisted of Daisy recalling facts she had read about Miss Calverson and her famous father, and her terribly fascinating, mysterious er brother who ran the business side of things and spent a great deal of time in New York. The one who taught Timmy to knee a man in the ballocks, Mick recalled.
Occasionally, Timmy corrected a “fact.” More often she tried to steer the conversation towards other topics. Mick plodded behind them as they made their way back to Daisy’s house, lost in his own confused gloom. Bad enough that Timmy had been conducting some kind of masquerade with him. Worse that he’d babbled to the woman about his life and his job. Now he saw Daisy, who’d always been so cool with him, was near to drooling all over the Timona creature. Daisy repeatedly jabbered about the honor of meeting such an illustrious traveler.
He managed to pick up one fact. Daisy had invited Miss Calverson to dinner. She seemed about to invite Miss Calverson to stay the night. Timmy interrupted to say she was all set for a place to stay, but dinner sounded divine.
“And what time would you like us to arrive for dinner tomorrow?”
“Do you mean you will bring your father?” Daisy said eagerly. “I thought you said that he was on his way to Chicago?”
“Yes, and you wouldn’t want him just now, at any rate. He is in a dreadful state about his projects. I meant only Mr. McCann and myself.”
Daisy’s adorable lips parted for a second as if she were about to speak. Then she giggled. “Michael often works so late. I suppose he could join us later.”
“I’m off at five,” he grunted. “But if you’d rather have just Miss Cooper. Er, Calverson.”
Daisy swung around and shook a playful finger at him. “Don’t be silly, Michael. I’m sure Daddy and Mother will be delighted to have you. I know we’ve been meaning to ask you for the longest time. Why don’t we say seven?”
“This would be Mr. McCann’s first meal in your home?” Timmy asked casually.
“Yes, we usually like to spend our free time away from my parents, you see,” said Daisy, with a giggle.
Timmy nodded, a slight frown on her face.
 
 
“
The
Timona Calverson?” he asked, as soon as they had waved good-bye to Daisy and Timona again refused her invitation for a quick stop in for refreshment. Fifty times Daisy must have asked, thought Mick grimly.
“You needn’t sound so unpleasant about it.”
“You’re rich.”
“My father is. And I repeat, you needn’t sound so unpleasant. I have lied to you about nothing. Not a single lie.”
He managed to dredge one up without much trouble. “Your father’s keeper?”
“If you spent an hour in my father’s company when he was traveling, you would see how accurate that description is. Mr. Blenheim is very patient with Papa.”
He wasn’t sure why he felt so annoyed, other than his disquiet about Daisy’s eager behavior. He felt like a fool, but it would be unfair to blame Timmy because he hadn’t known who she was. Nevertheless, he made no effort to hide his annoyance.
“How in hell did your father get his money?” After the words came out, he realized he was unforgivably blunt with her. He’d never use the word “hell” with any other woman.
“He was born into wealth,” she said at last. “And he buys land all over the world for some of his digs. He’s remarkunlucky with the fossils, but his workers seem to discover, um, other things. Father is always disappointed, but at least he ends up with money to buy more land and conduct more searches.”
Mick at last recalled reading something about the eccentric millionaire with the digging habit.
“Some sort of minerals or gems?” he said dully. Among other things.
“Yes.”
For the first time Mick lost his temper. He turned to face her. “What are you doing now, here, walking with me?”
Now he understood his annoyance. She was using him and his life as a diversion. He knew all about bored rich girls hunting for amusement in the slums. Some of the men on the force made good money on those rich thrill seekers. The cops led tours through bad neighborhoods for debutantes and their foolish friends itching for a taste of safe danger.
“Go on back to where you belong, girl. Leave me be.”
Timona turned pale and put a hand to her throat. His voice was low, and biting cold. He sounded as if he hated her. She had to take two full breaths before she could speak. “I don’t know exactly where it is I belong, Mr. McCann. Right now my bag is at your building.”
“You’ll collect your bag, and we’ll get your famous bloody self to a decent hotel.”
“No.”
“What do you mean ‘no’?”
“I can’t. No, please, I mean I don’t want to.” She knew she prattled like an idiot but didn’t know how to stop herself. “Why do you want me to? What does it matter to you? I know all about you from Jenny Tucker and Henry. You always are kind, and always kind to people who need help. I mean, you are used to people bothering you, what difference does one more make?”
“You don’t need help from me, and I am not used to people like you. I don’t care to be. You’re playing with the natives, Miss Calverson.”
She gave a tiny shriek of frustration. “That nonsense. That was some nitwit reporter’s idiotic interpretation of our visits to our friends. He didn’t respect the people who lived in the countries we were visiting. I did. I do, always. I care about my friends. Just the way you do.”
She must have said the right thing, for the pinched, tense look vanished from the corners of his eyes. He even smiled. But then he said, “Even if I grant you good intentions, you can’t be friends with the likes of me and Jenny. You didn’t so much as tell her your real name. You can’t be a friend with a lie like that between you.”
“Who says that? Where have you seen that written down, Mr. McCann?”
He only shook his head. “All right then. I suppose I cannot force you back to your proper place, Miss Calverson.” She felt encouraged until he added, “I don’t have the money to pay your damn passage.”
“Mick,” she pleaded. “Oh, please don’t talk to me in such a cold manner.”
He stopped and looked over at her. “I’m sorry, Miss Calverson. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings but . . .”
“Call me ‘Temmy.’ Please.”
“Don’t you mock me accent,” he said curtly, and strode on ahead. The misery returned but she was determined not to let it swamp her.
She picked up her skirts and trotted down the sidewalk after him. “I’m not making fun of you. I’m saying my name the way it sounds best to me.”
He stopped short. “Jesus,” he muttered. “I think I get it now.” He took a step away from her and gazed down at her with a horrified stare, as if she’d grown another set of eyes. “You believe you’ve, er, developed a care for me.”
She wouldn’t have put it exactly like that way, but she wasn’t going to argue about that subject. “Yes. I have.”
“No, oh, no. You only think you have, Miss Calverson. I’ve heard of such things, and seen them in my work, you know. A man is right horrible to a woman and the next man who so much as smiles at her becomes her dream rabbit.”
She laughed and put her gloved hand over her mouth. “Dream rabbit?”
He wouldn’t be distracted. “That’s what happened to you yesterday, innit? Those brutes had you, and then I picked you up, and was human to you.”
She shrugged. “Perhaps that explains why I am in love with you—it certainly sounds plausible. You are human to me.”
“Love?” He snorted the word. “People don’t truly fall in love in one day. ’Tis nothing but gratitude. I take it as an honor and a thank you. I say you are most welcome. Glad to have been of service. Now. You go to a hotel, I get back me life.” He started to walk away again.
She had to run to keep up with him. “No. Not yet.”
“What will it take to get you gone?”
“One of us must be convinced. I must believe you, or I must convince you that we belong together.”
“Together? You and me?” He made an extremely rude sound. “Impossible.”
“I don’t think so,” she said.
He stopped again, and swung around to look at her. He put his hands on his hips. He squinted at her. She could see a spark of a challenge in his blue eyes, but thank heavens, none of the frightening and cold anger.
“And if I did let you stay, Miss High-and-Mighty Calverson? What do you suppose Daisy will say to this arrangement? And how long before I can be rid of you?”
She tried not to smirk when she saw he was curious. “If it comes to that, I shall be the one to appease Daisy. How long . . . er, I think one week is not too much to ask?”
He muttered something under his breath and took off walking again, faster than before.
She rushed to catch up and stumbled as she jogged along the uneven sidewalk. He put out a hand automatically to steady her.
The moment she had her balance, he yanked his hand away and said, “What if I tell you to go to the devil?”
“Would you do that, Mick? Aren’t you the slightest bit interested in me? You were this morning.”
He blushed, but firmly replied, “That was before I knew what, er, who you are. ’Twas sex. Just sex. I made that clear.”
She frowned, confused. “Yes, maybe that can be true for you. Maybe men are different after all. I don’t know. I had never in my life felt anything resembling that. Jaysus,” she whispered, and was horrified to feel tears in her eyes.
“No. Ah no, don’t. No. I’m not agreeing to any of your daft schemes,” he yelped. “But tonight and tomorrow you can stay. And, mind you, it’s because Daisy expects you.”
She realized he had probably given in temporarily because she had grown upset. She barely cared why. As long as he agreed.
Char 7
 
Mick was too wily for her. He agreed that Timona could stay at his place, but he’d borrowed a straw mattress from the Kelly family next door.
He’d sleep on the floor.
Good. She would not sleep with him unless the Daisy question was settled. She knew that Daisy did not have a serious attachment to Mick yet, but she was not sure how he felt about the girl. In the meantime she wanted to stay as near him as possible. She could not recall wanting anything more.
She sank down on his bed and groaned with pleasure at the chance to rest. The day had seemed endless. Her shoulder and head throbbed.
Soon after their return, Mick silently grabbed some clothes from the bureau and disappeared for a long while. While he was gone, Timona got up. She looked and Botty sniffed through the parcels that Henry had brought up to Mick’s flat. Every time she reached out to pat Botty, he slipped away from her fingers. Not far, just out of reach. Henry had told her that only Mick could touch the dog.
Timona sat back on her heels to examine the clothing and objects she had bought. She wished she could throw them somewhere. They took up too much room. She was just shoving the last parcel under the bed next to his medical kit, when there was a knock at the door.
“You don’t have to knock at your own door,” she told him.
“I do indeed if I’m sharing the one room with someone, especially a female,” he said grimly.
Timona decided to let it go. She said, “I bought some tea. And some pastries.”
He slammed the door shut. The latch was broken and the door only closed properly if it was thrown shut. Still she thought he slammed it harder than need be.
“You eat ’em.” He threw himself down on the straw pallet and pulled off his unlaced boots. He was wearing loose gray trousers and a simple farmer’s smock now. Much better, Timona decided. She liked the look of the strong column of his neck against the vee of the rough-woven white shirt. And she caught sight of his clavicle and below that an interesting swirl of hair. So his front was not as smooth as his back then.
“If I made tea, would you drink it?” she asked.
“I only have the one mug.”
“I bought another cup.” She stood and inched past his pallet over to the small cookstove.
He looked up at the pretty floral teacup with its matching saucer and announced flatly, “Tonight. That is it. After tonight you can stay elsewhere.”
“Do you want tea, or not?” she asked as she fumbled with the tin of matches.
He stood up, impressively tall, even in his stocking feet. “Move over. I’ll do the tea.”
“Thank you.” She scurried back to the bed.
She watched him light the stove and set the water to boil. He peered into the parcel that held the pastries.
“Lord, woman. How many did you buy?”
“Several. For breakfast, too.”
He pulled one out and got a dollop of cream on his finger. Timona felt her stomach twist over as he gave his finger a lick. His tongue. The kisses this morning. Other men had tried to kiss her like that and she had thought it disgusting. What a fool she had been.
“You may change your mind about the pastries after that taste,” she said. “In fact I hope you will. That cream-filled sort won’t last.”
He grinned at her, sheepish. “Thank you.”
She couldn’t help grinning back, and the smile vanished from his face at once.
In silence, he found the new sack of tea. He set one of the new teacups and his old chipped mug onto the chair which he shoved between the pallet and the bed, to act as a table.
Botty stood alert at Mick’s side, ready to grab anything that fell to the ground.
Mick’s tension seemed to lighten as he made the tea; his hunched shoulders eased. Timona thought she might safely ask him a few questions.
“How many McCanns are there in your family?” She watched him. What a lovely straight back the man had. Strong.
“Six of us kids. There were seven, but a middle boy died.”
“I am sorry.”
“Ma and others said it was a blessing.”
“How could that be?” She waited for him to be offended by her unguardedly astonished tone, but he wasn’t.
“Donncha was what we called a
duine le Dia
. A child of God. Backwards, I think they say here. Oh, he was a sweet little baby though. None sweeter.”
He opened the tea pot and poured in water to warm it. After he dumped it out into the big pan, he measured tea into the pot. She was glad to see Mick knew how to make tea properly.
“You didn’t think it was a blessing when he died, did you.”
“Ah, well, I cared for him.”
“You said he was sweet—didn’t anyone else like him?”
“No, I mean I took care of him. When he was born he couldn’t properly nurse. Ma said it was God’s will the baby should die.”
Timmy wasn’t sure she was going to like this mother of his. “Did you believe that?”
“No, can’t say I believe God wants babies to die of starvation.”
“How did you take care of him?”
He poured in the water as he spoke. “Ma’s milk dried because he couldn’t nurse right, so I used the goat our neighbor had then. Cow’s milk didn’t stay in Donncha’s gut. I dribbled it into his mouth. Feeding time took hours, til he got the hang of the bottle Da and I rigged up. His cry was too quiet, so I strapped him to me when I went about the place. That way I could tell when he was hungry. Kept him warm that way, too. Da wanted to help, but he was too weak by then. Still, he could tell me what was needed.”
“How old were you when Donncha was born?”
He turned to look at her with his light ginger eyebrows raised. “You are one for questions, aren’t you?”
She blushed. “Am I bothering you? With the questions I mean.” She knew she seemed to annoy him in other ways.
“Suppose no,” he grunted.
“So, er, how old were you?”
He stopped to think. “Da was that sick. Ah, I’d say about eleven.”
An eleven-year-old fighting to save a new baby’s life. Oh, poor Mick when he lost the fight.
“Mick, I am sorry. How long did Donncha live?”
“Seven years. Influenza killed him off. He always was a delicate lad.”
Timmy almost laughed aloud. Of course Mick kept the baby alive.
The tea was eady, and he handed her the plate of pastries.
“No, Botty. You sit down, you miserable mongrel. This food is far too good for the likes of you,” he said as he broke off an end of an eclair and fed it to the dog.
She pulled out one of her new embroidered handkerchief and used it as a serviette as they ate.
She watched him eat and drink. He seemed to be avoiding looking at her. That made it easier for her to greedily admire him and manage her food at the same time. The times his eyes met hers, she found it more difficult to swallow or breathe.
His mouth was wide, his face broad but carved with signs of character. When he smiled, lines framed his eyes. She guessed he was perhaps twenty-eight, but the marks of laughter were already permanent.
He finished the eclair and leaned over. His skillful fingers slowly caressed the enthralled Botty, rubbing circles on his fur. Her stomach flip-flopped pleasurably at the thought of those hands touching her. Her gaze traveled up his arms to the strong broad shoulders. Even in the dim candlelight she could see the definition of the muscles in his shoulders and arms. But he wasn’t fat. Brawny. Wasn’t that an Irish word?
“How do you say a big brawny man in Irish?” she asked.
He gave her a disgusted look.
“Well, go on. Tell me,” she said.
“
Fear leathan laidir,
” he mumbled through a mouth full of eclair. “The word for you is
óinseach
—foolish woman.”
She grinned. “Now why are you acting so cantankerous, I wonder? Did you think I meant you when I asked for the definition of big brawny man?”
He laughed. “You been gawking at me. I thought there might be a connection.”
She laughed too. “I’ll never admit it now.”
He looked at her, serious again, forehead furrowed. “You are the strangest woman, Miss Calverson. Don’t you have any shame? No, don’t look aggrieved. I just mean, eh, don’t you even care that you seem,” He paused and picked up his mug. “Just that, you show no pride in yourself. Hell, I don’t know what I mean.”
She sighed and reached for her teacup. “So which is it, Mick? I show no shame or I show no pride?”
He shrugged. “I can’t explain.”
“I wish I was more what you want,” she said.
He put down his mug so hard it rattled the other dishes on the chair. “See now. That’s just what I mean. The nonsense you come up with, Timmy. You are a pretty woman. Smart and friendly too, from what I seen. Rich. I don’t see why on earth you’d want to change.”
“I am satisfied enough,” she said. “But you are not.”
“Timmy! You—you
óinseach
. You can’t go wishing to change yourself to fit some other person’s whims.”
“Of course I can’t change, not for whims. Oh, probably not at all.” She put down her cup and swiped at the mess on her hands with the handkerchief. She should brush her teeth but she was too tired. “I wish you wanted to be with me. That’s not a bad thing, is it?”
He just looked at her for a minute, then shook his head.
After a while he said, “Er. The food is wonderful. Thank you for it.”
“You’re welcome.”
She pulled off her new half boots and Mick made a grunt of protestn>
“Here, now. You can’t get undressed with me just sitting here.”
“Turn your back then,” said Timona and sniffed fiercely. Oh, how she hated wishing she were sweet and innocent like Daisy Graves. A regular girl. Heavens, she hadn’t felt that way since she was seventeen and enraged with the world because, after her stay with Aunt Winifred, she understood she would never be normal.
She stripped down quickly, and pulled her white cotton nightgown over her head. She had spent almost five whole minutes picking out the gown at the shop—a long decision about clothing for her.
She found her new hair brush. “You can turn around now.”
He thoughtfully eyed the folded pile of clothes on the bed next to her.
She pulled out all of the pins in her hair and began to attack her hair with her brush, until she hit a bruise near her cut.
“Ow.” She tossed the brush onto the pile of clothes. Then she flopped down on the bed and pulled a blanket over her head. The blanket was worn, but not as filthy as she had first imagined. It was faintly redolent of Mick, which comforted her.
“Miss Calverson. Timmy.”
“Yes?”
“I am sorry if I hurt your feelings.” She heard a rustle and clink as he stood up, collected the plates and put them on the small table that held the stove and pan.
She poked her head out from under the blanket, and gazed at him in astonishment. “Mick, you have nothing to apologize for.”
“You are angry with me.” He poured the rest of the hot water into the large pan.
“I am sad, I would say, and certainly not angry at you. You have been nothing but generous to me.”
He was shaking his head. “I was right. You are the strangest wom—”
“No. Don’t start that again or I shall grow angry. Mick. Leave the dishes in the pan and I will clean them up tomorrow.” He opened his mouth to protest, but she added, “I promise not to make a habit of acting as if I live here, but I know you must leave early in the morning. It makes more sense to leave them.”
They settled on their beds, and Mick blew out the candle. Timona heard him restlessly throwing the covers about, as he tried to find a comfortable place on the bed on the floor
“Will you kiss me goodnight?” she whispered.
He groaned as if in pain. “I am not going to risk such a thing as that.”
She smiled into the dark. He still wanted her. Good to start somewhere.
“Botty, will you at least give me a kiss?”
Mick snorted.
“Óinseach,
” he said without heat.
Timona yawned. It felt wonderful to be lying down, even on this bed. She pushed her head back and forth to find a comfortable place for her bruises and cut, then heaved a great sigh. She was asleep within five minutes.
 
 
Mick lay curled on his side. He listened to every squeak, rustle, and breath coming from his bed. He wondered if the Calverson creature took up with a man in every city she visited. Who would she pick out? Working men, rich men, street car conductors—the first man she met, maybe.

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