The Bridegrooms (32 page)

“Oh!” He quickly crossed himself and, hands folded, said, “Thank You, Lord!” before crossing himself again.

“You really are a nice boy, aren’t you, Kenny?” She cracked two eggs in a bowl and began whisking them with a fork.

“I try to be, ma’am.”

“Then stop calling me ‘ma’am.’ I’m not quite six years older than you.”

“I’m sorry, ma’—, sorry.”

“So with that settled, tell me why I don’t need to worry about my sister. My
baby
sister, just seventeen years old.”

“I can hardly explain it.” He had one of those smiles rarely seen on men, full lipped and wide, with corners that actually turned up. His dark hair curled around his head, and his eyebrows danced with expression. “The first time I saw her, it’s like the rest of the world just disappeared for a second. I mean, I’ve devoted my whole life to playing baseball, even though my parents hate that I do it, but the moment I saw her face, I didn’t even remember being on a field. I feel bad for the consequences, but my mother always said the good Lord works all to the good.”

Vada listened, adding a splash of milk to the eggs and melting butter in the pan before pouring the scrambled mass in, creating a satisfying sizzle.

“This might seem unusual, but Lisette’s really not the one I’m worried about.”

“How’s that?”

“I’m not sure quite how to put this, but you should know that Lissy has had—shall we say—several suitors. I’m afraid you might be one of her more passing fancies. And on the other side of it, well, she’s not always, er…kind.”

“I know. The first real conversation we had, all she did was tell me about all those other guys who took her dancing and bought her stuff.”

“That doesn’t bother you?”

“No, not really. I’m confident I can give her more than they ever could.”

Vada turned away from the stove and gave him a leveling glare. “As a baseball player? No offense, Kenny, but I have some insight into the salary you fellows make.”

“I don’t exactly mean that. I mean love. I love your sister, Miss Allenhouse.”

She turned back, scraping the wooden spatula along the edges of the pan. “Isn’t it a bit soon to be talking of love?”

“It’s never too soon for love. It comes across you in a moment. Hits you right between the eyes.” At that, he smacked his forehead with the heel of his palm, then cringed. “Oh, sorry. Horrible analogy.”

She couldn’t help it; she laughed, and he did too.

The kettle started to make the sounds of boiling, just as the eggs made their final fluffy transformation. She filled the pot and dropped in a packed tea ball before scooping the eggs on a plate. She put the plate, the pot, and a sturdy cup onto a tray and Kenny, ever the gentleman, offered to carry it upstairs.

“No, I have another errand for you.” She set the tray down on the
table and ran upstairs, returning with her pocketbook. It took a little digging, but she finally found the small business card with Dave’s address carefully printed on the back.

“Go to this address, and knock on the door until somebody answers. Ask to speak to Mr. Dave Voyant, and when you see him, tell him that his story just woke up and seems ready to talk.”

Kenny looked confused. “It’s one o’clock in the morning.”

“Tell him I’m a woman who keeps her promises.”

When she got back upstairs, Vada found her door closed but not latched, so she combined a knock and a nudge before walking in with the tray.

He was wearing pajamas—her father’s, she believed, the very pair she’d given him for Christmas two years ago. They billowed about his spare frame, but the pale blue stripes seemed to bring a little life to his face. Althea sat in her customary chair, though it was now turned to fully face the bed. Their hands were clasped, causing Vada’s heart to leap to her throat when she noticed that his fingers were intertwined with Althea’s, rather than lying limp and heavy at his side.

She hesitated, not sure exactly what to say to a man brought back from the brink of death, finally settling on, “Hello.”

“Hello.”

“I’m Vada. I’ve brought you something to eat.”

“I am Eli. Eli Prochazka, and I am very grateful because I am very hungry.”

His voice was pleasant, perhaps softer than usual because of his weakness, with the faintest Czech accent hugging the corners of his words. He seemed instantly friendly, as if the days spent sleeping under their roof allowed him to bypass the formalities of introduction. Eli was already a fixture; now he was simply one who spoke.

“Well then, I hope you enjoy this.”

He was already sitting straight up in the bed, well-propped with pillows. By the time Vada made it to the side of the bed, he had dropped Althea’s hand in preparation for the tray soon to be set on his lap.

“It looks delicious.”

“Just scrambled eggs. And tea.” She turned to Althea. “And be careful. The tea is hot.”

He picked up the fork, but it became immediately evident that he lacked the strength, or perhaps just the powers of concentration, to manage feeding himself. Althea took the fork from him, separated a bite of egg, and speared it onto the fork’s tines. After a sheepish grin, Eli opened his mouth, allowing Althea to feed him like a child.

But there was nothing childlike about the atmosphere in the room. Vada felt every bit the voyeur, and she backed out, determined to stay away until she was invited back.

It seemed impossible to imagine that half the night remained for sleeping, yet Hazel was already well on her way there when Vada came back to their shared bed.

“Aren’t they adorable?” Hazel whispered.

“Who? Althea and Eli?”

“They already look like an old married couple. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to have a man look at me that way.”

“Scoot over.” Vada crawled in. “Did you learn any more about him?”

“I helped Doc a little bit, not really cleaning him up, but just helping, you know…and Doc told him what happened at the ballpark and that he’s been here unconscious for four days—”

“But did you learn anything about him?”

“He’s lived here since he was fifteen. Then he went back to his home country for a while and just came back.”

“Did he mention Katrina? Anything that might explain the letter?”

“No, but Althea was in the room part of the time, and he kept looking over at her. Like he didn’t want to talk in front of her. Anyway, he says he rents a room down on Harper Street and that he’s trying to save money to finish his last years of school. Engineering.”

“My goodness! You managed to find out quite a bit.”

“Doc kept asking him questions, I think to keep him alert and to check his memory.”

“Did Doc ask how he knew about the poetry?”

“No. But he didn’t have to. It was in his eyes.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was like he read those poems before he ever opened them.”

Vada lay there, awake, desperate to sleep. The clock downstairs chimed three o’clock. Her body didn’t know what to do, though her eyes burned and her mind begged for respite. Every time she felt the first faint tugs of sleep, she’d hear Eli’s voice, sweet and low, coming from across the hall.

Sleep. Sleep. Sleep
.

Maybe, if she could shut everything out, sleep now, and stay there through dawn, through breakfast,
she
might wake up in love.

Or, at least, in love enough.

Suddenly, she had to know what it felt like to be in the path of that much passion. Not the lust she’d felt in the throes of LaFortune’s embrace, but true, pure desire. She slid out of bed and crept over to Hazel’s desk. After a modicum of searching, Vada found the letter Hazel had been reading the last time Vada had fallen into any true, restful slumber. And, certainly, Hazel wouldn’t mind. She’d read most of the letter to Vada herself.

Positioning her body so the page could be illuminated by the streetlight, Vada allowed the words written in the precise, strong hand to tell their story—of Barth’s longing, his love, and finally his urgent promise. By the time she came to the signature—
With all the love I dare send right now
—her own heart was racing by proxy.

Maybe she and Garrison had it all wrong. Too much talking, too much familiarity. Maybe if they spent hours in silence, or sent letters, or threw caution to the wind to be together—no matter what the hour. Maybe…

She wished she had moonlight—pure, natural, God-given moonlight—rather than the eerie saffron glow of the streetlight. Somehow, that might lend the touch of romance this moment needed. Might make her feel like more of a tragic heroine rather than the woman who simply couldn’t sleep. Not with this matter so unsettled.

The top drawer of Hazel’s desk protested as she pulled it, but she didn’t have to open it far to find what she wanted. One sheet of thick, good paper. One envelope and a pen—one of those new-fashioned ones with the ink stored in the barrel. She drew her hand through three empty circles before touching its nub to the paper and writing,
Dearest Garrison…

Pausing, she thought of those words written to Eli. The acknowledgment of childish promises, the sincere desire for his happiness. If only she spoke the language, she could copy it verbatim. As it was, she imagined she was Katrina, wishing that sweet, loving boy to find a woman worthy of him.

Mere moments and a few lines later, she signed her name to that same sentiment and was practically asleep before the ink dried.

“And the music stands have all arrived?”

“Yes, Herr Johann.”

“And they are assembled on the stage?”

“Not yet, but they will be in time for the final rehearsal.”

“And you have warned the ushers not to seat late arrivers?”

“They know not to open a door until they hear applause.”

“And the—”

Thankfully the bell at the delivery door rang, giving Vada a chance to squirm away from Herr Johann’s barrage of questions. She’d been in her office since eight o’clock that morning, keeping herself busy by bundling programs to distribute at the ushers’ stations and running the Bissel over the lobby carpet. That’s where she’d been when the conductor caught her, and she’d been running around behind him ever since.

But it was better than being at home. With Lisette and Kenny mooning over each other at breakfast and Eli making his way downstairs supported by Althea’s birdlike shoulder, the atmosphere had just been stifling. Not to mention Molly’s drilling Eli about his religious convictions. It was good of her to come on a Friday—her usual day off—to help tend to the young man, but once the excitement of the early morning summons had worn off, she’d become insufferable. At one point she’d even pulled Vada aside, claiming they might be lookin’ at a double weddin’ in the summer.

“O’course not you and your young man,” she’d said. “But that’ll come in its time.” She then took Vada in her arms, in what could only be a gesture of sympathy, before going back to her hash.

Yes, mindless chores at the theater were just the thing for rescue.

Now the ringing at the delivery door provided rescue yet again, and she excused herself from Herr Johann and ran downstairs to answer it.

The dark, stocky man on the other side wore a starched white shirt and a bright green apron. Behind him, parked in the alley, stood a patient mule with petunias laced through his bridle. He was hitched to a small, white cart with the name
Flore di Dante
painted in elegant script.

“Flowers.” He held out a small ledger book for Vada to sign.

“How lovely!” Once she’d signed for the delivery, Vada propped the door open, and he walked in with two enormous sprays of carnations. She instructed the delivery man to follow her to the main lobby and set the flowers on the long, narrow refreshment bar. “Is there a card?”

“Look for yourself. I got more.”

She followed him back to the door, and he came from the cart carrying four long boxes tied with peach ribbon.

“Sign.”

“Who are these for?”

“Lady, I just bring ’em. The cards? They’s up to you.”

Such unpleasantness hardly warranted a dime tip, but she fished one out of the coin bag in her skirt pocket anyway before taking the boxes out of his arms.

“Buon giorno.”
He touched the dime to his head in salute.

“Good day to you too,” she replied, struggling to unprop the door with her hip.

She managed to carry the boxes over to the counter and untied the ribbon on the first. Inside, nestled among the white tissue paper, were a
dozen long-stemmed red roses. The fragrance brought her back to the intoxicating room at the Hollenden Hotel, and for the briefest flutter of her heart, she wondered if these had been sent by Louis LaFortune.

“Stop it, Vada. Lord, forgive my weakness.”

Lifting the top layer of tissue, she found the tiny pink envelope addressed to
My Darling Vada from…G. W
.

Garrison Walker. She thought of her own envelope, now sitting in the darkness of her pocketbook, with its passionless, dismissive letter within. Her hands trembled as she picked up this tiny one, opened the unsealed flap, and pulled out the miniscule card.