The Rose of Winslow Street (7 page)

By the time Michael buttoned his pants and turned back around, Gallagher had hoisted his leg on top of the waist-high fence. He yanked off his boot. “Snake bite from wading across the Chattahoochee River during a reconnaissance mission. Had to grab the nasty thing by its jaws to get it off me.”

Michael scrubbed his hand across his face. “Snakes,” he sighed. “Nothing worse than snakes. That one is going to be hard to beat,” he admitted.

“What about your face?” Gallagher asked

Michael ran his thumb down the ridge of the scar running across his cheek and looked away. “That came from . . . something else.”

Gallagher's one eyebrow raised in question, but when Michael did not provide more details, Gallagher simply nodded. “Fair enough.”

Gallagher did not pry, and Michael liked that about the man. “Who did you fight for?” Michael asked.

“Twentieth Regiment Infantry. First Lieutenant, 1863 to 1865. You?”

Michael shrugged, wishing his answer were so easy. “First I fought alongside the Russians, then I fought against them. Then I fought the Serbs, then the Turks. Things can be complicated in Europe.”

“I suppose so.” Gallagher reached down to tug his boot on, which took some doing with only one hand. When at last he stood, he met Michael's gaze. “I heard you shooting off a rifle yesterday morning.”

Michael nodded. “Yes. Two rabbits.”

“We don't take kindly here to hunting in the backyard. It is just not done.”

“I wasn't hunting. The rabbits came into the yard and we could use the food. It would be foolish to let them get away.”

Gallagher shrugged. “Yeah, well, my missus didn't like it. There are kids in this neighborhood, and who knows where they will be playing.”

Michael was appalled. “I am very good with a rifle and I would never shoot when a child was in range.”

His comment did not seem to have any effect on Gallagher. “Like I said, my wife didn't like it. Truth be told, I don't think it is such a good idea either. So no more shooting in the backyard. Deal?”

Michael braced his hands to lean against the fence. It was true he was not accustomed to living on a street with such close neighbors. In Romania, the nearest house to him had been a ten-minute walk, which meant he had the freedom to hunt whenever he wanted. Perhaps he could teach his boys to build traps for the rabbits so he could still get some meat on the table and not frighten Mrs. Gallagher.

He glanced over the fence into the Gallaghers' yard. There were rows of well-tended tomatoes, what looked to be parsnips and radishes, and a couple of cherry trees. Along the back fence five rosebushes were lashed to a trellis.

“Please tell your wife I will shoot no more rabbits,” he said definitively. He nodded to the back fence. “She must like roses?”

“They are something she can grow without killing.”

Michael nodded. “This greenhouse will be ready soon. I am very good with plants and will be raising a rare variety of night-blooming jasmine. This is a very valuable flower. I brought the seeds all the way from Romania. If you like, I would be happy to remove your rosebushes and provide your wife with my jasmine.”

Gallagher looked perplexed. “Why would you do that?”

“We do not like the scent of roses,” he said bluntly. Michael knew it was an odd request, but he wanted those rosebushes out of there. The days were growing warmer and the windows were usually open. The scent of roses was the last thing he wanted inside his home.

“I think that would be a tough sell with the wife,” Gallagher said as he touched the brim of his hat. “But thanks for not shooting any more rabbits.”

B
e sure you get the plans for my ventilated greenhouse,” her father said as he handed Libby up into the wagon. “It would not surprise me if the gypsies have seen the greenhouse in the backyard and even now are trying to sell my design.”

“I'll get the plans,” Libby assured him as she settled into the wagon seat beside Sheriff Barnes.

“Victory or death!” her father called after her as the wagon pulled away. She ought to be pleased he was blessing her with the ancient Spartan battle cry, but it was a bit disconcerting. Michael Dobrescu looked like he had a lot of experience with Spartan techniques of pillaging and dismemberment. Still, she had no intention of storming the house or waving a red flag in front of the Dobrescus. She was smarter than that.

When it came to physical strength, Michael Dobrescu could flick her aside as easily as a flea from his shoulder. The only way she could get the better of him was through intellect. When she last visited the house, she had flown off the handle and accomplished very little, but today she would extend an olive branch. The court would ultimately rule in her father's favor, but she needed to establish cordial relations with the Dobrescus. The court date was still a month away, which left her home vulnerable to mistreatment should she needlessly antagonize these people.

Besides, she was deeply ashamed of having called them gypsies. Words like that left scars. Slow, stupid, retarded—people had used all these words on Libby when she was the same age as the Dobrescu boys. If she had to dig the trenches and build the barricades with her own two hands, no one in Colden would call those children gypsies again.

Mr. Dobrescu was prepared for their arrival. The moment she stepped through the wrought-iron gate, the front door opened to reveal his massive form. He waited until she was in front of him before speaking.

“You have brought a list of things to remove?” he asked. His voice was guarded and reserved, but he had combed his hair and was suitably dressed, so perhaps he was trying to turn over a new leaf as well.

“Sheriff Barnes has it.” While the sheriff was securing the horse, Libby retrieved a small package from her pocket. “The last time I was here, you said your sister would like the scent of this soap. I hope you will offer it to her.”

A boyish grin split across the man's face, making him look utterly appealing. “Thank you!” he said in a booming voice. “It is very refreshing to find a soap without roses, which is what most perfumers seem to use.” The cake of soap looked ridiculously tiny in his hand, but he held it to his nose and closed his eyes in concentration. “Vanilla with just a small bit of orange blossom,” he said. Libby's eyes widened in surprise, but Mr. Dobrescu's attention was still entirely focused on the cake of soap.

“There is another scent in there. It has the tone of bergamot, but it is not.” He inhaled again. “I believe it is just a small amount of the oil of amaranth. This is a most unusual combination with vanilla, but I like it.”

It was impossible to dissect a fragrance simply by smell, and she was surprised he would try to show off by doing such a thing. “You peeked at the package,” she said.

He glanced down at the elegant French label, illustrated with a bouquet of blooms and herbs in a simple basket. His brow furrowed and he held the soap closer to scrutinize the picture. “No, this picture is wrong. I see the vanilla plant and the flowering orange blossoms. They have not drawn the amaranth, which is not surprising because it is an ugly herb. . . . But look . . . they have drawn lavender in the bouquet, and there is no lavender in this soap. Not a bit of it—I would know.”

Libby snatched the soap from his hand, staring at the drawing. He was correct in his identification of every plant depicted on the label, which she assumed were the scents distilled into the soap. She sniffed the bar, which had a bright, clean scent to it, but that was all she could really say about it.

“Are you pulling my leg?” she asked. “Can you really dissect fragrances just by a simple sniff?”

He looked befuddled. “Yes, I can tell exactly what is in almost any fragrance, but I am not pulling your leg. I have not touched your leg or any part of your body. I would not do so after the last time you were here and I treated you badly.”

He was utterly serious, and Libby had to stifle a laugh as she passed the cake of soap back to him. “I apologize.
Pulling my leg
is a figure of speech, not something to be taken literally. I was asking if you are teasing me.”

Understanding dawned in his eyes. “Ah. I see. Well, Miss Liberty Sawyer, you seem like the type of person I would like to tease were I free to do so, but I was not teasing you. I think you are a much better artist than the person who painted this soap label. He obviously wanted something pretty, but I think you would want something accurate. Am I right?”

She nodded. “You are right.”

He waved the bar of soap aloft. “You should write to these soap makers and tell them not to deceive their customers with false drawings. For one thing, any soap that blended the oils of lavender with orange blossoms, as this picture suggests, would be a very foul-smelling bar of soap. I will be curious to hear if they respond to you.”

The last thing she wished to discuss was her ability, or inability, to strike up a correspondence with a French soap maker, so she smoothly switched the topic back to him. How fascinating to see this giant battle-scarred man discussing perfumes with the authority of a college professor. “What are you? Some kind of dealer in fragrances? An owner of a perfume shop?”

He shuddered. “Heaven forbid. It would be terrible to spend all my days inside a tiny shop. I much prefer to work outside, where I can see the sun.”

It was true she could not picture Michael Dobrescu earning a living inside a shop. This man belonged on the steppes of Russia or the plains of Africa, where he could hunt mighty beasts and carry them home across his shoulders. Not that Libby was impressed by physical strength, but on some primitive level, the man standing before her was oddly fascinating. In her world of order and decorum, he was a wild, unpredictable force of nature. What would it be like to have a man like him on her side?

She needed to snap out of this nonsense. Libby straightened her collar and dragged her thoughts back to business. “The main things I will need to collect today are the rest of my father's mechanical designs. We have some traveling bags in the attic, and I would like to fill those with some clothing.”

It appeared Mr. Dobrescu was also determined to be polite. “Of course, Miss Sawyer.” His manner was so gracious, and the little bow so perfectly executed, it was almost as if he were a gentleman born of the aristocracy. “I will have Turk fetch the bags from the attic. Is there anything else we can help you with?”

How different he was today from the crude barbarian of a few days ago. Today he had been discussing
perfume
with her, for heaven's sake! “No, thank you,” she said. “I will be able to find everything I need.”

Over the next hour she went through her father's study, retrieving his tools, drawings, measuring devices, and everything of sentimental value noted on the list. Her heart squeezed when she came across the photograph taken in commemoration of Professor Sawyer's engagement to Mamie Bryant. Running her thumb along the ornate silver frame, Libby stared at the portrait of her parents, so different in temperament, age, and appearance.

Her father had been slipping into middle-aged bachelorhood when he met the young Mamie Bryant. Her mother was a shy and studious young woman, quietly dazzling the older man who'd never expected to find a wife. Stunned by his good fortune in landing Mamie, her father did whatever was necessary to appeal to his young bride. Knowing she wished to fill a house with children, he found a wonderful sprawling old house on Winslow Street in desperate need of renovation. Its dilapidated condition was the only reason he could afford the house, and the professor lavished two years of his own engineering skill and physical labor in restoring it to its showpiece condition. In the backyard, he built Mamie a greenhouse where she could indulge her love of flowering plants. Instead of a plain glass structure, the professor built his wife a spectacular gothic greenhouse, complete with white-painted arches, a gabled roof, and hand-carved spires. It was within that magical greenhouse that Libby sat at her mother's side and learned how to tend and nurture the spectacular blooms she loved so well.

Snapping out of her reverie, Libby placed the photograph in a canvas sack to take to Jasper's house. While Libby gathered belongings, Sheriff Barnes helped carry the items to the cart for her. Still, she could not find her mechanical drawings of the portable combustion engine her father was in the process of perfecting. She had sketched the engine from the front and back and had made two separate cutaway drawings of the internal views. Libby was almost certain she had left them in the drawer beside the drafting table, but she checked twice and the drawings were not there. Neither were they in the hallway closet where drawings of machines her father had abandoned were typically relegated.

She dreaded returning to Jasper's house without those drawings. Was it possible one of the Dobrescus had simply moved them? She needed to speak with Mr. Dobrescu, but did not want the sheriff there to needlessly antagonize the man. She asked the sheriff to wait in the parlor while she stepped outside in search of Mr. Dobrescu.

She found him in the front yard with his children. He was standing at full height with his arms outstretched while both boys, armed with short, blunt sticks, appeared to be trying to attack him. As soon as the smaller boy worked up the nerve to lunge forward, Mr. Dobrescu dropped to his knees and charged the boy. With a ferocious growl he tackled the boy, whose tiny body disappeared beneath a hundred pounds of pure muscle. Surely the boy's slender bones would break with such rough handling!

Her hand flew to her throat. “Oh my heavens!”

All three of them were laughing as they looked up at her. “Papa is a bear!” Luke's childlike voice came from beneath Mr. Dobrescu. “We are going to kill him!”

“Not unless you are faster on your feet, boy. You also need to make more noise on your approach. That will let the bear know you mean business.”

“What on earth are you teaching them?” Libby asked.

“How to survive a bear assault,” Mr. Dobrescu said as he rolled off the child and stood to his full height. “This is an important skill for all boys to master.”

Libby leaned her hip against the front porch railing. “Don't tell me you have ever had to fight off a bear armed only with a stick, because I won't believe it.”

His teeth flashed white in a face that was streaked with dirt and sweat. “I have never fought a bear,” he acknowledged as he brushed the grass from his pants. “But it is a good thing for a man to know, yes? I would not pull your leg over this.” Did he just wink at her? She must have imagined it because he went directly back to hauling the younger boy off the ground.

Libby drew her breath in surprise when the familiar shape of her cat appeared from beneath the juniper bush and sauntered toward the boy.

“Ivan!” she said excitedly. She squatted on the ground and beckoned, ridiculously glad to see her surly cat once again.

The ungrateful beast looked at her for about a second before he turned his attention back to Luke, curling around the boy's ankles in unabashed delight. Her eyes widened.

“Have you been drugging that cat?” Only a healthy dose of catnip could cause Ivan the Terrible to curl up to anyone.

“He likes me,” Luke said. “Yesterday he brought me a dead frog and put it on my lap.”

Well
that
sounded a little more like her infamous cat. Although, knowing Ivan, the gift of the dead frog might truly have been a gesture of affection.

“Is there something you need help with?” Mr. Dobrescu asked.

Libby turned her attention from her unfaithful cat. “Yes,” she said, trying to parse her words to ask after the missing drawings without implying he had stolen them. “My father had a few designs that are not where I thought I would find them. Have you moved any of those drawings? They are all ink drawings on white paper, mostly of machinery.”

Mr. Dobrescu was still breathing heavily from wrestling with his boys, but his entire attention was focused on her. Even when Luke plopped down and began tugging on his leg, the man just aimlessly stroked the boy's hair as he watched her. Finally, he spoke. “I have moved no drawings,” he said. “Other than the first day when we hung your picture, we have moved none of the drawings or paintings.”

“Oh.” She glanced around, looking at the boys, who were lolling in the yard. A terrible thought struck her. All children loved to draw, didn't they? And if they saw paper with a nice blank side on the back, waiting to be scribbled upon. . . . Libby knew what
she
would have done with such paper when she was their age. She cleared her throat. “And your children?” she began hesitantly. She knew this man could be ferocious in defending his children, but she needed to know. “Is it possible your boys might have moved them? Or drawn in some of the blank spots?”