Tiffany Girl (49 page)

CHAPTER

70

M
arylee’s story was picked up by newspapers all over the country. Chicago, San Francisco, St. Louis, Philadelphia, everywhere. Suddenly, Reeve had more than enough money for a down payment on the cottage.

He sat on the edge of his bed, rubbing the cat figurine with his fingers. Just today a new payment had come in from a newspaper clear over in Oregon, but he hadn’t walked over to the Gusmans’ with an offer. For as badly as he wanted that house, how could he live there with a clear conscience knowing he purchased it with dirty money? Money he’d gained by exploiting the one girl he’d ever loved?

He knew that now, knew he loved her. It didn’t matter that she’d renounced him, that she didn’t even like him. He still couldn’t bring himself to use the money. So, it had accumulated in the Wells Fargo bank. But lately he’d been weakening.

Every day, he walked to the cottage. Every day, the temptation to just get the money and buy the blasted thing had grown. He wasn’t sure he could handle having it there much longer. He needed to do something with it. Something that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with her.

Freddie Blackburn stuck his head in the door. He was one of
the few fellows with a clean-shaven face like Reeve’s. Being in his thirties, he was also one of the oldest guys at the Y. That might have been why Reeve liked him so much. He’d finished sowing his wild oats and had a more serious bent to his nature.

“You busy, Wilder?” he asked. “It’s as cold as yesterday’s potatoes outside, so the guys thought they’d put together a game of basketball down in the gym and I want you on my team. What do you say?”

Reeve smiled. Some young faculty member over at the International YMCA Training School in Massachusetts had come up with a game that could be played indoors in a relatively small space. You only needed two peach baskets and a soccer ball. The players here at their branch had to circumvent the two wooden columns right in the middle of the court that held up the gym’s roof, but other than that, it was a great game. Because it was so new, Reeve wasn’t any less competent than anyone else. “Have they cut a hole in the bottom of the baskets?”

“They have. And they’ve secured them to the track on the second floor.”

Reeve nodded. “Let me change clothes, then, and I’ll be right down.”

“Great.”

“And, Blackburn?”

Freddie leaned back to see what Reeve wanted.

“Let’s say the losing team has to play The Board Game of Old Maid.”

Blackburn grimaced. “That’ll certainly keep us motivated. So long as we’re on the same team, though, I’ll make any bet you want.”

Reeve had seen the game in a toy shop’s window and bought it. The only way he could justify it to the guys was to tell them it was to be used as a forfeit. They all hated it, of course, but every time they played, it somehow made Reeve feel connected to Flossie.

He shook his head. If anybody again asked him when he’d last connected to someone, they’d be quite surprised to learn it was while he played or watched The Board Game of Old Maid. Still, remembering a connection wasn’t the same as being connected. It was much like looking at a photograph of a moment that would never come again.

Standing, he put the figurine on his desk and quickly changed clothes.

CHAPTER

71

M
rs. Dinwiddie closed the door to her bedroom as soon as Flossie entered.

“Is something the matter?” Flossie asked. She knew the woman had been summoned unexpectedly by her attorney. Flossie had hoped it wasn’t bad news. She didn’t know what Mrs. Dinwiddie’s husband had set up to keep his widow in good standing, but the country was in shambles and suffering with the worst depression it had ever experienced. She didn’t fully understand the way stocks or the Silver Act or anything else worked, but according to Reeve’s articles, they certainly had a lot of people worried.

Mrs. Dinwiddie lowered her voice. “I went to see my lawyer today.”

Nodding, Flossie took the woman’s hand. “What did he say?”

“That a message was to be sent to you through me.”

Flossie pulled back. “What?”

“Seems an anonymous donor has paid off your debts to those of us at the boardinghouse and also to your mother.”

Flossie froze. “My debts?”

Mrs. Dinwiddie nodded.

“But, how . . . ?” She narrowed her eyes. “Wait. My father.
Do you think he went back to the racetrack? Do you think he won big?”

“It wasn’t your parents.”

Flossie crinkled her brows. “How do you know? I thought the donor was anonymous.”

“Anonymous to you, and everyone else, but not to me.”

“Then who was it?”

“I had to make a solemn oath not to tell.”

“They made you swear an oath?”

“They did.”

With a slight shake of her head, Flossie fiddled with the edge of her apron. “But no one I know would have done that. For that matter, they wouldn’t have the money to pay everything off, much less pay their lawyer and your lawyer. Unless, unless . . . surely my mother wouldn’t have said something to one of her customers?”

Mrs. Dinwiddie walked to the mirror and began to remove her hatpins.

“I played with many of their children, you know.”

“Whose children?” Mrs. Dinwiddie dropped a hatpin into the premade hole of a porcelain container, much like a pencil in a pencil holder.

“The Vanderbilt children, the Forbes children, the Roosevelt children, any of the children who accompanied their mothers to fittings. I was particularly close to George Vanderbilt, although I’d heard he’s down in North Carolina building a great chateau. Even so, if he’d heard something about my situation, he’s just the type who would do something like this.” Placing a hand on her hip, she cocked her head. “Still, it was an awful lot of trouble. Why would he go through your attorney instead of his?”

Mrs. Dinwiddie removed her hat.

“Am I right? Was it him or someone like him?”

Mrs. Dinwiddie made a locking motion over her mouth.

Sighing, Flossie picked up an empty hatbox on a side table. “
Perhaps he went through your attorney so I wouldn’t be able to guess his identity. I just don’t know how he’d even have known about you. I’m . . . I’m very confused.”

Mrs. Dinwiddie patted the back of her head. “Is my hair mussed up?”

Mind whirling, Flossie pulled out a chair. “Here, come sit and I’ll fix it.”

She worked in silence, coiling the woman’s hair as she tried to sort everything out. “Did he say when the payments would be made?”

“They already have been. I was given mine today, and the rest of the boarders will receive the remainder of theirs today as well. Your mother’s will be delivered to her home.”

“Good heavens.” When Flossie finished arranging Mrs. Dinwiddie’s hair, she rested her hands on the woman’s shoulders. “I simply can’t get over it. Nor can I imagine how Mr. Vanderbilt would have found out about my troubles. But who else could it be?”

A soft snore came from Mrs. Dinwiddie.

Flossie leaned over. The woman had dozed off.

Setting the comb down, Flossie stared at Mrs. Dinwiddie’s hat, then fingered some silk dogwood blooms on its rim. Had her father orchestrated the whole thing? Had her mother made it as part of a payment for some gowns?

But, no, Mrs. Dinwiddie said it wasn’t her parents. So who was it, then? Picking up the hat, she positioned it in the box, then placed the lid over it. Her debts had been paid. Just like that. One minute she was shackled. The next minute, free.

Heart soaring, she walked to the window. It had started snowing. The first snow of the season. Even with her debts paid, she wouldn’t quit her job. She liked living on her own too much. Still, she could look for a new job, perhaps something that would give her the weekend off so she could paint.

Paint. She’d not
only have the time to paint, but she’d once again be able to afford paints—only one color at a time, though. So she’d have to be very frugal. But it was a start, and once she had enough paints, she’d create something beautiful to give to the mysterious saint who’d set her free—if she ever found out his identity.

“God bless him, whoever he is,” she whispered.

ICE SKATING HABIT 
³⁷

“It felt magnificent to be out of her drab alpaca gowns and in a fashionable ensemble, even if the sleeves were a bit less poufy than what was now in vogue.”

CHAPTER

72