The Rose of Winslow Street (10 page)

After the doctor left, Michael looked up the darkened staircase. A little light filtered from the open door of Mirela's room, but a sense of utter hopelessness settled like a millstone on Michael. For almost a year he had been forced to witness Mirela wither beneath soul-destroying despair and he had been
worthless
in stemming the tide.

But there was one thing he could do.

Dawn was still a few hours away, but this task could be handled now. With grim resolve he strode to the back of the house to get his battle-ax, then pushed through the kitchen door into the backyard. His bandaged arm throbbed with pain, but he ignored it as he vaulted the fence into his neighbor's yard. With grim resolve he strode forward, planted his boots, and began hacking away at the rosebushes that grew against his neighbor's trellis. With every blow he was striking out at the men who had violated his sister. Leaves rustled and the stems gave an ugly rasp as he tugged them free from the roots and threw them aside. Never again would their scent drift through Mirela's window and arouse memories that were best left in the past.

It took less than five minutes. There would be repercussions, but he did not care.

I
t was a warm afternoon, but a faint breeze ruffled the sycamore leaves that shaded the front lawn of Jasper and Regina's home. Libby sat on the front steps, watching Regina align herself over the croquet ball, a mallet held between her dainty hands as she planned her next move. Regina never played a game she did not intend to win, and she scrutinized the playing field with the intensity of a general scoping out a battlefield.

There were three players that afternoon: Libby, Regina, and Mrs. Sally Gallagher, her next-door neighbor from the house on Winslow Street. When she and her father first moved into Jasper's house, Libby thought it would be no more than a day or two before the sheriff could right the wrong that had been done to them. Days had stretched into weeks, and their visit was now nearing the one-month mark.

“Careful that you don't strike my ball,” Sally Gallagher said. “That is a northern ball and not likely to welcome a southern assault.” Sally's wit was as charming as a mosquito bite, but Regina still summoned a gracious smile at the quip.

Libby wondered if such comments hurt. Regina hailed from one of the most prominent families in South Carolina. Before the war her father had been a congressman and owned a tobacco plantation that spanned dozens of miles. As a child Regina played with silver tea sets and dressed her dolls in silk gowns imported from Paris. When she was twelve, the Civil War came to South Carolina, and that way of life was lost forever. The family fortune was gone, her father driven from political office, and a girl who once lived in a rose-tinted fairy tale came crashing down to a world of tilling the soil for potatoes and making soap from hog fat.

Regina's family pinned their hopes on their clever daughter. After years of meticulous budgeting, Regina's parents saved enough money to send their only child to college. Her college application had been submitted using only the initials of her first name, and she had been accepted into the same law school class as Jasper Sawyer. When the college discovered her deception, they were outraged and denied her enrollment, but not before she met and charmed Jasper. After their marriage, Regina settled in enemy territory. Libby had to admire the way Regina clung to the soft lilt of her southern accent. A less confident woman would have masked it after moving to New England, but Regina wielded her accent like the sea sirens of Greek mythology used their voices to lure sailors to their doom. Her delicate, melodic tone was so alluring that men positively melted at the sound of Regina Sawyer's voice.

“Now, Sally,” Regina said with a smile, “can I help it if you failed to anticipate upcoming moves?” Regina gave her ball a solid strike, sending it bouncing off both Libby's and Sally Gallagher's balls. A masterstroke. It would be impossible to catch up with her now.

“Well, I seem to be losing on all fronts today,” Mrs. Gallagher said. “At least I should get some satisfaction if Carleton goes to the courthouse and files that lawsuit like I told him to.”

Libby looked up. “What lawsuit?”

“We are filing a lawsuit against that barbarian who has moved into your house,” Mrs. Gallagher said with righteous indignation. “Two weeks ago he showed up in the middle of the night and destroyed every rosebush on our property. Can you imagine the nerve? A man like that simply must be stopped.”

Libby had already heard about the Gallaghers' destroyed roses, as it was impossible to go to the market and
not
hear about the latest scandal. Libby stepped onto the lawn to take her turn. She was distracted and her ball rolled ineffectively into a wicket, coming to a complete stop and costing Libby a point. Michael Dobrescu was simply so
odd.
He was brash and crude, but why couldn't she stop thinking about him? She wondered what he would look like if he got a decent haircut. She wondered how he got the scar on the side of his face. More than anything, she wondered what sort of woman appealed to him. An ultrafeminine woman like Regina, or a more down-to-earth woman? Would he be a caring and gallant husband, or the sort who ordered his wife around like a vassal?

Not that it mattered. Michael Dobrescu was completely off-limits to her and always would be. She looked up at Mrs. Gallagher. “Did he give any explanation for ruining your roses? Did he even own up to the deed?”

“Oh yes, he came over the very next day and apologized to Carleton, although they were
my
roses and I'm the one with whom he should have spoken. He said some sort of claptrap about his sister being ill and an aversion to the scent of roses. Then she should keep her window shut, that is what I say.” Mrs. Gallagher moved into position and fired off a healthy shot that moved her ball through the sixth wicket and earned her a point.

Regina casually strolled about the lawn, scrutinizing the evolving position of the croquet balls. “Do you suppose the sick sister is the ‘Lady Mirela' you mentioned?” Regina asked.

“She must be. She is the only woman in the house, and she did seem a bit frail when I saw her.”

“She is a good deal more frail now,” Mrs. Gallagher said. “Doctor Kennescott has been over to the house almost every day.” Mrs. Gallagher looked both ways, then spoke in an exaggerated whisper. “Rumor has it she tried to commit
suicide.
Can you believe it?”

The breath left Libby's body in a rush. She sank down onto the steps of the front porch, wondering what kind of agony that girl must have felt to take such a drastic measure. “What happened?”

“They say she slashed her wrists in the greenhouse,” Mrs. Gallagher said in a conspiratorial tone. “From my bedroom window I looked down into the yard, and sure enough, a big panel of the greenhouse glass was smashed in and I saw bloodstains on the ground. Shocking.” Mrs. Gallagher walked back to her ball and tapped it further along the course. “Your turn,” she said to Regina, but Libby's mind was still reeling.

Libby could only imagine how this would devastate Mr. Dobrescu. She felt dizzy and overheated. She waved her hand in front of her face to cool herself, but it did little good. Mrs. Gallagher came to sit beside her on the step.

“You must not let this distress you,” she said. “Those people are not like us, and it won't be long before the court will make them leave. You should rest assured that everyone in the neighborhood is squarely on your side,” she said firmly. “None of the grocers in Colden will sell food to them, so they must go into Bridgewater to buy their supplies. All the parents on Winslow Street have forbidden their children to play with the Dobrescu boys, which is just as well because those boys are incorrigible, picking fights with all the children on the block. Why, the Lancaster boy had a cracked rib because one of the Dobrescu boys kicked him in his side. Kicked him! Hardly the sort of people we want on our street. I can't wait to see the back of them.”

Libby was well aware of the hostile sentiment in town toward the Dobrescus. When Mr. Dobrescu walked his boys into church last week, no one sat beside them in the pew. After the service, when others were congregated on the lawn outside the church to chat and catch up on gossip, ladies pulled their skirts aside as the Dobrescus walked past.

“Is Miss Mirela faring better?” Libby asked. “Is she likely to make a full recovery?”

It was Mrs. Gallagher's turn at croquet and she rose to her feet. “I have no idea. No one I know has dared to set foot on the property, lest those two wicked children attack.”

Of course no one had paid a visit. The Dobrescus were pariahs in this town, and it was unlikely anyone had come to help them in this time of terrible need. They had eggs thrown at their house, were the target of at least two lawsuits, and now they could not even walk into the town square to buy a loaf of bread. The Dobrescus were her enemy, and now everyone in Colden had taken up her cause and was rallying behind her family to oust them from her home.

Never, never would she approve of what Michael Dobrescu had done to her family, but this could not go on. Jesus told His followers to love their enemies. Pray for their enemies.

Libby stood and straightened her shoulders. She could not love the Dobrescus, but she could take them a loaf of bread and a quart of milk. Perhaps she was the least likely person in the entire town to extend a hand of kindness to the Dobrescus, but she was going to do it.

T
his must be what it feels like to be a traitor.
Libby swallowed hard as she walked up the slate pathway to the front door of what used to be her home. Mr. Stockdale stopped trimming his bushes to stare at her, the two Masterson children quit playing kickball, and on the front porch next door, Mrs. Gallagher's rocking chair froze mid-rock. All were staring at her as she walked up the pathway, a large covered basket over her arm.

Her errand of mercy was not as private as she had hoped, but she kept her gaze fastened on the front door. She knocked and awaited an answer, feeling the stares of her neighbors boring into her back. Even the squirrel perched on a nearby rock stopped its feverish gnawing of an acorn to watch her. Wasn't there some law against aiding and abetting the enemy? They used to shoot people for that during the War.

There was no answer to her knock. A combination of early morning heat and anxiety caused a little trickle of sweat to creep down the small of her back. Libby knocked again, wondering if she would be forced to leave the basket on the front step when the fabric covering a window wavered. Had it been her imagination? But it moved again and this time the cautious face of one of the young boys stared straight at her. A moment later the front door opened a sliver, only enough to reveal one troubled eye.

“What do you want?”

The boy could stand a bit of guidance on etiquette, but he was not Libby's concern today. “I came to visit with your family,” she said cautiously. “I understand Miss Mirela has been ill. I brought some bread and a little bit of blackberry jam.” She brought a lot more than that. Given the size of the three huge men who lived there, plus the appetite of an adolescent boy, she had packed her basket with ham, cheese, apples, tea, and a quart of milk.

The door opened a bit wider, letting Andrei look her straight in the face. “Last time you came, you got mad about the roses.” The accusation in his voice was plain, but all Libby could see was the cut on the boy's lip and an ugly bruise darkening the corner of one eye. She did not know if this boy was being bullied or if he had been the instigator, but she did remember what it was like to feel like an outsider at his age. She softened her tone.

“Yes, I did,” Libby said. “But I am not angry today, and I think your family might welcome a visit. Is your father home?”

“He is sick. You can't see him.” The boy was putting up a good show of bravado, but it was impossible to miss the panic in his voice. He was afraid.

“Oh dear,” Libby said. “Things must be very bad inside, am I right?”

The boy glared at her, mistrust warring with indecision on his face. He also glanced more than once at the basket she carried. If the child was hungry, she was not about to stand on the front porch arguing with him. With a firm hand, she grasped the side of the door and pushed her way inside.

“I have milk and it is best to get it into a cool place as soon as possible, right?” So focused was she on winning Andrei's cooperation, she did not hear the danger coming from above.

“What do you want?” a voice lashed out. She whirled around to see Michael Dobrescu looming at the top of the staircase. Her hand flew to her throat and she gasped.
Is this the same man?
His bloodshot eyes were bright with fever and the way he was leaning against the upstairs wall made him look like a tree about to topple over in a good stiff wind. One arm was cradled in a sling and he used the other hand to prop himself against the railing as he descended the stairs. He winced with each painful step.

Libby clutched the handles of the basket. “I heard that Miss Mirela was feeling poorly. I brought some food.” But it was more than a bit of food she wanted to offer this family, especially now that she knew even the Dobrescu patriarch had taken ill. The Dobrescus were strangers in a foreign land that had not welcomed them, but they were still part of the human family. They had brought most of the trouble down upon themselves with their blunt and aggressive actions, but they were still people who bled when they were cut, hungered when there was no food. When their children were ridiculed, the pain rippled through the entire family. She wanted to assure them they were not alone and someday soon the darkening clouds would lift. The people of Colden had not done a very good job at that, but perhaps she was the best person to do so.

It took Mr. Dobrescu a full minute to lower himself down the stairs. When he arrived a fine sheen of perspiration covered his skin and she heard a rattle in his lungs with each breath.

“What happened to you?” she asked softly.

What a relief to see a bit of humor glimmer in his eyes. “Just a stupid flesh wound,” he said. “Didn't get it cleaned up in time and it is infected. I will live.”

But the way he was swaying on his feet made Libby not so sure. She set the basket down and grasped him by his good arm and propelled him toward the parlor.
“Men,”
she muttered under her breath. “Somehow, I think you would say that even if you had both limbs hacked off.” It was surprisingly easy to steer him toward the parlor and coax him to sit. He slumped against the padded back of the settee and spread his legs out, his enormous frame filling most of the space. She noticed that Andrei remained in the front hall and had opened her basket, rummaging through it like a hungry jackal.

She placed her hand on Michael's forehead and was nearly scorched by the raging fever.

“You are liable to burn this house down if we can't get your temperature under control. Have you seen a doctor about this?”

“Turk stitched me up.”

“Did he clean the wound? With soap and water?”

Mr. Dobrescu turned to look at her. “Soap? What is that? I don't think we have this new-fangled
soap
in Romania.” For a moment she was taken aback, and then she noticed the telltale lifting of the corner of his mouth. He must not be too deathly ill if he could joke with her. Her comment did sound terribly condescending, but he spared her the embarrassment of a reply by gesturing to her with his one good hand. “Come sit beside me.”

There was barely any space left on the settee, but she found enough room to perch on the edge. The moment she was settled he wrapped his big hand around her wrist, pulling it to his nose. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply from the back of her hand. “This is a different scent you wore than the last time you were here.”

Libby's jaw dropped. What kind of man went pawing after a woman the moment she came within arm's length? Regina had bought a bottle of fancy lotion she'd quickly tired of and given to Libby. The silkiness of the scented lotion was pure luxury, and Libby had taken delight in using it every morning that week. She ought to jerk her hand away, but the expression on Mr. Dobrescu's face was so intriguing, like a wine connoisseur sampling a fine vintage of cabernet. She was mesmerized by how tiny and fragile her hand felt when encased in his work-roughened palm.

His tension drained away and a smile floated on his perfectly sculpted lips. “Neroli blossom with a bit of white lily and jasmine,” Mr. Dobrescu said. “Very nice.”

He was wrong. The lotion was scented with orange blossoms, but she did not want to be petty and correct him. Still, it was oddly charming to watch this hulking brute try to dissect the various scents in her lotion.

Andrei came scurrying into the room carrying the jar of jam. He spoke to his father in Romanian, clutching the jar to his chest and fidgeting in excitement, but Michael held up his hand. “Say it in English.”

First Andrei glanced at her, then to Michael, his brow furrowed and lips compressed in thought. Finally he held the jar out toward her. “I do not know the English word for
this.
”

“Blackberry jam,” she supplied.

Andrei looked back to his father. “Can I have blackberry jam on the bread?”

Mr. Dobrescu nodded. “First you must thank Miss Sawyer for her kindness.”

Andrei did so, then tore off to the kitchen, summoning his younger brother to join him. That jam was going to vanish before nightfall. She smiled at the sound of kitchen drawers opening and slamming, punctuated with the excited chatter of Romanian voices as the boys indulged in what was apparently a treat for them. But when she glanced back at Michael, he looked exhausted and troubled.

“It was very thoughtful of you to bring the bread and jam,” he said. “By chance did you bring any spinach?” She blinked, not quite certain she had heard him correctly, but he repeated the question.

“No. I did not bring any spinach.”

He nodded. “I see.”

An awkward silence stretched between them. It was such a strange request that Libby knew there must be a reason for it. “Would you like me to bring you some spinach? I can stop by Olaf Gustafson's vegetable stand on the way home.”

Michael shifted on the sofa, looking as uncomfortable as a sinner in a church pew. “Normally I would not ask such a thing, but my sister requires a special diet. And not all of the shopkeepers in this town welcome our business.”

None
of the shops in town welcomed their business, if rumor was correct. “I see,” Libby said. Why should she feel guilty for what her neighbors were doing? Their actions were a show of loyalty and support, and she should feel no shame about it. Nevertheless, she doubted the local shopkeepers would deny an ailing woman the nourishment necessary to restore her health.

“I heard that your sister tried to harm herself,” she said softly. “Is it true?”

There was no flinch in his eyes, only sad acceptance. “It is true.” He looked as though he had aged ten years at the simple statement. Furrows formed along the side of his mouth and the skin around his eyes crinkled in concern. “She has been struggling for a while now, but things have gone worse for her in recent days,” he said. “I wish there was a way for me to come to her rescue, to fix what is broken inside her . . . but I find this is impossible for me to do.”

He reached into a small drawer in the sofa table. “The doctor gave me a list of food Mirela should eat for the next few weeks. She lost a great deal of blood and it is difficult for her body to manufacture more unless she is fed properly. I have been sending Joseph into neighboring towns to purchase what she needs, but it has been difficult. Milk and spinach do not last long in this heat, and we must go every day.” He dropped his gaze. “I have been too sick to help.”

He spoke the words in a low voice that radiated with shame. Libby sensed that if this man was hungry, he would rather pull up and chew on the floorboards before stooping to ask for help, but when the needs of his family came into play, he would do whatever was necessary to get them fed.

“I will be happy to go to the market for you,” she said. “Tell me what you need and I will fetch it immediately.”

The droop of his shoulders and the bob of his Adam's apple let her know how much this was costing him. “Here is the list.” Michael extended the page to her, and she had no choice but to take it. It was much longer than mere milk and spinach. It was a long list, but all of the words were utterly incomprehensible to Libby. She let her gaze travel up and down the page, pretending she was perfectly capable of understanding the words written in spindly, wavering script.

She bit her lip. Would she ever become accustomed to the embarrassment of not being able to read? It did not matter how keen her memory, how quick her grasp of mechanical details—any five-year-old child could read, while she was an utter failure. Still, she had become adept in masking her shortcoming over the years.

She looked up at Mr. Dobrescu. “Can you read English?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She pushed the piece of paper back into his hands. “Show me.” All she needed was to hear the list read a single time and it would be burned into her memory.

Mr. Dobrescu was peering at her through those disturbing eyes. Normally they were a deep stormy blue, but today they were so bloodshot they seemed almost purple. He tapped the list against his knee. “Is this some kind of test?”

She did not flinch. “Yes. It is a test to see if you can read English. Tell me what the list says.”

He pierced her with another of those probing stares, making her feel like a child whose hand was caught in the cookie jar. So long did he scrutinize her that Libby thought she might have to resort to another tactic to learn what was on the list, but finally, he picked up the list and began reading. “Spinach, potatoes, fresh parsley, milk . . .” He continued reading while Libby committed every item on the list to memory.

When he finished reading, Libby turned to look at him. “There are ten items on that list, but you only read nine,” she said.

“I did not include eggs,” Mr. Dobrescu said. “We have chickens in the yard so there is no need to purchase eggs. Did I pass your test?”

She took the note from him and folded it carefully before putting it in her pocket. “Excellent, Mr. Dobrescu. Your command of English is quite impressive for someone . . .” She stopped herself before saying something terrible.
For someone so uneducated
, she had been about to say. Why was she assuming he was uneducated? He and his men were ham-fisted brutes who seemed more comfortable in a barnyard than a drawing room, but he spoke at least two languages and could read and write, two things Libby could not master despite years of torture sitting in a schoolroom.