Tiffany Girl (21 page)

The rest of the family at 438 had retired to their rooms for some quiet time before supper, but Flossie could not sit still. So she’d changed, then built up a fire in the parlor while she waited for him.

She glanced at the mantel clock. Usually she found the
tick-tock
of clocks a comforting and soothing sound. Today, however, it offered no such solace. Only reassurance from Mr. Wilder would give her relief. Reassurance that the boy was going to be all right and that Mr. Wilder didn’t loathe the sight of her—though she knew he didn’t. Still, she felt it would be good for him to say so. That way, he’d know it, too.

It was another hour and a half before the door finally opened.
She whirled around. Mr. Wilder stepped inside, his shoulders slumped, his face grave. Her throat closed.
Oh, no. Oh, no. Please tell me the boy will be all right.

He hung his hat on the hall tree, his dark-blond curls more pronounced than usual. Peeling off his gloves, he stuffed them into his coat and closed his eyes in what looked to be exhaustion. Without opening them, he unbuttoned his coat, but instead of removing it, he simply stood with head down, arms at his sides.

Her heart squeezed for him. She took a step forward. He lifted his head. Their eyes connected, hers pleading for understanding, his hardening.

“The boy’s finger?” she asked, barely able to voice the words.

His lips tightened. “Still intact, but if infection sets in . . .”

She swallowed. “I owe you an apology. It was my fault—
is
my fault.”

“And that’s supposed to make everything okay? Just like that?”

“Well, it . . .” She looked around in confusion. It wouldn’t heal the boy’s finger, of course, but she’d hoped an apology would smooth things over between him and her.

His eyes thunderous, he whipped off his coat and crammed it onto a hook, followed by his scarf. “Did I not make myself perfectly clear on the ice, Miss Jayne?”

She clutched her hands. “You did, but you didn’t mean it. You know you didn’t.”

Narrowing his eyes, he jutted out his jaw. “Oh, I meant it, Miss Jayne. I meant it. And I expect you to honor it. And so there is no confusion, I’m not interested in speaking to you. Not now. Not at dinner. Not even in the hallway. I’ll let you know if and when that changes.”

She shook her head. “Please, I said I was sorry and I am, truly, I am. I’d give anything to—”

Spinning, he stormed down the hall, never allowing her to finish.

Reeve slammed his door, anger whooshing through him all over again. He could not believe she had the nerve to tell him what he meant and what he didn’t mean. Or maybe he could believe it, for it was typical of a New Woman. Typical of her.

He’d planned to fall straight into bed and escape for an hour or two in sleep, but there was no chance of that now, not with the rage she’d roused up. Once again, Miss Jayne had interfered with his plans.

Loosening his tie, he whipped it free, wadded it up, and threw it against the wall. It slithered to the bed. He kicked off his shoes. Next came his jacket, his shirt, his trousers, all of them damp. Plopping down into his desk chair, he ripped off his soaked stockings and held his toes, trying to warm them.

His heater had run out of fuel since he’d not returned in time to fill it, so his room was freezing. He couldn’t go into the parlor to warm up, not with her in there. Shivering, he crawled under the covers and curled up. Not to sleep, but to try and get warm.

You’re dying to get out there
, she’d said.
Don’t worry, I’ll be right beside you the whole time
, she’d said.
Thou doth protest too much,
she’d said.

His anger rose even further. He’d told her no politely. Then firmly. Then outright. Still, she’d insisted.
I am not leaving this pond until you have at least made an attempt
.

He flipped onto his back. Not only was she a New Woman, she was exactly the kind of boarder who gave boardinghouses bad names. The kind journalists and novelists loved to satirize. He flung an arm over his eyes. Maybe he should write a novel. He could populate it with a condescending singing master, a disreputable bachelor, a mismatched married couple, and a nosy New Woman whose main goal in life was to wear trousers. It’d be the
easiest money he’d ever make. Probably even run in the front section and earn him a huge wage.

Possibilities ran through his mind. He’d name her Merrily. No, Marylee. Wait, Marylee Merrily. That was it. She’d be bossy, nosy, and impossibly sure of herself. She’d drive her fellow boarders to the brink of insanity. She’d bring calamity down onto the entire household, then be summarily tossed out onto her very delectable backside.

His chest rose and fell. His mind continued to churn. Finally, he tossed aside the covers, pulled on dry trousers and shirtsleeves, fueled his heater, then sat at his desk with a fresh piece of paper.

MRS. GUSMAN 
¹⁵

“Mrs. Gusman tapped the spoon against the side of the pot, then turned back around.”

CHAPTER

25

R
eeve’s childhood home was for sale. He stared at the Brooklyn address printed in all capital letters.
85 GEORGIA AVENUE.
He’d lived in many places throughout his life. He’d spent his youth at his grandparents’ house in Princeton Junction, a year at his stepmother’s house in Seattle, a couple of years in a college dormitory, and the rest of his days in a smattering of boardinghouses. But of all the places he’d lived, he’d only had one home, and now it was for sale.

He tried to recall everything he could about it. His most vivid memories were of the front parlor where his mother had been laid out. They’d pushed back all the furniture and brought in the kitchen table for her coffin. When the funeral was over and the table returned to its proper place, Reeve had refused to eat at it. Instead of making him, his father had taken their plates out to the front porch steps.

Reeve reread the advertisement. It didn’t have a price listed. He was a saver, though. Once he’d finally paid off college, the only thing he ever bought was books, and only then on rare occasions.

The cat jumped up onto the windowsill, then down into the room. Leaning toward the floor, Reeve wiggled his fingers.

“Hello there, little lady. Where have you been? I saved some fish for you.”

Tail up, ears perked, she pranced to him. He slipped a hand inside his jacket pocket and removed a few bits of fish meat wrapped in three handkerchiefs. She ate her offering right from his hand, then curled up at his feet and began grooming her whiskers.

“I bet you’d like a home, too, wouldn’t you, girl?”

After one more glance at the ad, he pushed it to the side and began to work on his article, but his gaze drifted back to the newspaper.
85 GEORGIA AVENUE.
Even from here the words jumped out.

He turned the newspaper over. He put it under his chair. He stuffed it in the desk’s drawer. But his mind would not leave it be.

He couldn’t afford a house. At least, he didn’t think he could. But what if the sellers were in a desperate situation? What if they were selling it cheap? What if somebody else got to it before he did?

Expelling a breath, he tore out the ad, pushed in his chair, and gave the cat a pat. “Don’t wait up for me, girl. I’ll probably be late.”

Reeve approached the cottage-like house, paint peeling from its sidings. He remembered it as being a lot bigger. A row of shrubs plucked bare by winter’s hand flanked its facade. Beneath a covered door stoop, a worn white rocker had icicles dripping from its arms.

He stared at the steps he’d sat on with his father and tried to picture eating their meager meals. Had his father even known how to cook? He must have, for they’d eaten something. Reeve had no recollection of whether it was any good or not. Either way, it had been summer then. Now it would be too cold to eat outside.

The front door opened. A woman with a faded but clean blue gown stood at the threshold, a baby on her hip and a boy old enough to start school clinging to her skirt.

“Can I help you?” she
asked. He wondered how long she’d lived there. Was it her childhood home, too? Had she grown up within its walls, then married and birthed her own babies right there in his parents’ room?

He held up the newspaper clipping. “I’m Reeve Wilder and I was hoping to speak to your husband about the house.”

The baby grabbed a chunk of his mother’s blond hair and yanked. Without even acknowledging the pain, she clasped his hand and unfurled his fingers. “He’s not here.”

“I see. Do you know when he’ll be back?”

She glanced up the street, black rings shadowing her eyes. “Won’t matter. He won’t be in much shape to talk when he does get home.”

Reeve took a moment to absorb the implications. Maybe the house was cursed. Maybe no one had ever found happiness there. Maybe he was better off without it. He gave himself a mental shake. He didn’t believe in curses, and the happiest moments of his entire life had been spent inside that house.

“Clive’s asking eight-hundred ninety-nine for the house,” the woman said.