Unrivaled (30 page)

Charlie Clarke: a murderer.

Somewhere, something deep inside me had cracked and then crumbled when I’d realized exactly where I’d seen him before. It felt very much like dreams disappearing and hope dissolving.

No wonder I’d always had the feeling that I knew him.

I opened my hope chest and reached down to the bottom, to the layer of souvenirs that I had wrapped in newspaper when I’d come home from my travels. It didn’t take long to find what I’d been looking for: that page from the
Chicago
Tribune
I’d read in the carriage on the way home from Union Station.

Spreading it out on the floorboards, I smoothed it with my hand.

A twenty-two-year-old member of one of the South Side’s notorious athletic clubs was arrested for the murder of Micky Callahan.

Arrested for murder.

A tear dotted the newssheet. And then another and another. I gathered it up and clutched it to my bosom as I sobbed into
the page. I don’t know how long I sat there, clinging to that newspaper, weeping into its folds. But then suddenly, I began to laugh. The one person I had convinced myself was exactly like me had turned out to be a murderer. The one person I had been able to talk to. The only person who had ever looked at me as if I really could be a candymaker.

Even when the worst thing he’d been was a Clarke, Charlie had never tried to destroy my dream . . . just my father’s company.

I looked again at the face that, despite all my intentions and reason, had become so dear. And then I rolled over onto the floor, pulled my knees to my chest, and started crying all over again.

“Lucy?” My mother’s voice. A gentle touch on my shoulder.

I opened my eyes, but it seemed so dark.

“Lucy?”

As I scrambled to sitting, the newspaper dropped from my eyes and I found myself on the floor in my bedroom, my mother kneeling at my side.

I squinted against the glare of sunlight from the windows.

“What on earth . . . ?”

“I . . .” I balled the newspaper up and stashed it behind me, trying to hide the evidence of a tiny infant hope I hadn’t even known I’d possessed. Then I swept a hand across my eyes to rid them of the grit of dried tears. “I fell asleep.”

“Evidently.” She gave my face a searching glance. “I was coming to get you for our afternoon calls, but I think you might want to freshen up first.” She helped me up, but when I would have gone to the bathroom, she placed a hand on my arm. “I know the wedding is quickly approaching. It’s perfectly natural to feel a bit—”

“There’s not going to be a wedding.”

Her brows drew together. “Second thoughts aren’t unheard of—”

“Mr. Arthur broke our engagement.”

“Mr. Arthur? But—”

I felt a tear slide down my cheek.

“Oh, Lucy . . .”

I moved away as she tried to embrace me. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone.”

After she left, I crammed the newspaper down to the bottom of the chest and banged the lid down on top of it. Then I went into the bathroom to wash away the evidence of my tears.

How foolish I was being!

The best thing to do, the safest course of action, was to forget that Charlie Clarke had ever existed. That he had ever been the man at the ball or the friend at the air meet. To stay as far away from him as I possibly could. But as I’d slept, the article had imprinted itself on my tearstained cheeks. And as I looked into the mirror, Charlie Clarke’s eyes stared back at me.

We visited Mrs. John Dunnert, Mrs. Edward Dunnert, and Mrs. Hiram Dunnert—who, for reasons of family quarrels and pure spite, had their at-homes on the same afternoon. Talking to one was exhausting. Trying to carry on polite conversation with all three in succession was grueling. Especially with Charlie Clarke attempting to invade my thoughts. As we drove back up Olive Street, I asked Mother if I could walk the last few blocks home.

“From here?”

“It’s not very far.”

“By yourself?”

“I’ll be fine.”

Concern etched lines in her forehead as she reached out and touched my hand. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

I hadn’t gone ten steps when a dark green automobile swerved from its lane and screeched to a stop beside me. Charlie Clarke leaped out.

I took a step back and held my muff out, legs and tail dangling, between us. “Don’t touch me!”

He continued toward me, hands up, palms out. “I need to talk to you.”

I turned and kept walking.

It didn’t take him long to catch up. Curse fashion and its hobbled skirts! If only a streetcar would come. I’d take it all the way to Forest Park if I had to. I glanced over my shoulder, but there were none in sight.

“I just . . . I need you to understand.”

“Understand what? That you killed some poor man? I read the newspaper article, Charlie. Stay away from me.” Why had I insisted on walking home by myself?

“I didn’t kill anyone.”

“If you’ll excuse me, I need to be getting home. I’m expected. My mother’s waiting for me.”

“Lucy—” He put a hand to my arm.

I pulled away. “You can’t . . . you can’t be a liar and a murderer and a—and a
Clarke
and just talk your way into people’s hearts. And dreams. You can’t just pretend to be so kind. And caring. And . . . a perfect gentleman.” Why was I crying again? Charlie Clarke wasn’t worth my tears.

“I never killed anyone. They arrested me on the
suspicion
of having killed someone and—” He yanked his hat from his head and twisted it between his hands. “The truth of it is, I might as well have killed that man. His name was Micky Callahan,
and he’d been my friend for . . . forever. I didn’t kill him, but I was there when he died. I watched it. I watched it all, and I did nothing.”

“Why?” Why did I want so much to believe him? And when had I started to care so much?

“Why? Because it seemed like there was no other choice. I was seven years old when my father walked away one day without even saying good-bye. I tied myself to a two-penny thug because that’s the only way I knew how to make a living. I never did anything really wrong. I just . . . made it easier, I guess, for other people to.”

I didn’t know what to believe anymore. “What do you want me to say, Charlie?”

“I . . .” He gave his hat another squeeze as he shot me a doleful, searching glance. “I don’t know.”

“You want me to say that everything’s going to be fine? That—that I don’t care about what happened in Chicago? Is that what you want?” I couldn’t believe I’d thought, for one brief moment after Mr. Arthur had left, that Charlie Clarke might be . . . everything I’d ever hoped for!

“I—”

“How can any of this work out?” How could anything be fine ever again?

“I only . . . I guess I was hoping you’d understand. But now I can see I was expecting too much.” He smoothed the brim of his hat and set it on his head. “I’m sorry I wasted your time.”

When I walked away, he didn’t try to stop me.

I needed to make something. Something to take the sting out of Mr. Arthur’s elopement and the revelation of Charlie’s true nature.

I’d so badly misjudged them.
Both
of them. In the same way I’d misjudged my hazelnut chews.

And that hadn’t been the worst of it. The worst of it had been telling Mother about the broken engagement. I’d failed at making candy, and now I’d failed at making a good marriage too.

I tied on an apron and got out a pot. I wavered as I stood in front of the icebox. Caramel or fudge?

Neither.

It needed to be something chewy. Something I could sink my teeth into.

A butterscotch chew.

I took some butter from the icebox and some vanilla essence from the cupboard. I found some sugars, vinegar, and corn syrup in the pantry, and I pulled the salt cellar closer to the stove. Putting the sugars, vinegar, corn syrup, and salt in the pot along with some water, I stirred them together.

Was that—?

I paused, spoon over the pot as I glanced toward the back door. I thought I’d heard something. But . . . no. I went back to my cooking, watching the mixture bubble as I stirred, anticipating the way the ingredients would blend together. Soon there was no white sugar and no brown sugar left. There was only a soft, silky, glistening syrup. It never ceased to amaze me how they could combine with all the other ingredients to create something so different still. I added the butter and stirred for a while.

Then I measured in some vanilla and poured the candy out into a pan.

But—there it was again. A creak from the back porch.

Standing by the side of the door to keep myself from view, I drew the hem of the curtain aside and peered through the window.

There was nothing to see.

I let the curtain drop and went back to my pan, smoothing the candy out to the edges. Perhaps I’d only been imagining things. I’d probably been imagining things.

But then it came again.

I grabbed the rolling pin from a drawer and went to the door, rattling the handle. “I hear you, out there! And I’m coming out if you don’t leave.”

I wasn’t, of course, but whatever was out there didn’t have to know that.

Silence.

I stood by the door, waiting. Hearing nothing, I pushed aside the curtain once more. And then I screamed as a face pressed against the window and a hand turned the doorknob.

“It’s just me, Lucy.”

“Sam!”

“Let me in. It’s freezing out here.”

“Sam Blakely—!” I couldn’t unlock the door for the shaking of my hands.

“Just open the door, Lucy.”

“I—I can’t.” I burst into tears. I couldn’t move the bolt.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He was talking through the window at me.

“Well, you did!”

“I really didn’t mean to.”

“You never mean to do anything! You’ve always been so nice, so helpful, and so . . . so . . . here! And now, when I really need you, you’re not!” I swiped at the tears that were leaking onto my cheeks.

“Lucy. Open the door.”

“I wish I could.”

“Just . . . here.” He pulled the door toward him, pressing it against the frame. “Now try.”

I gave the bolt a shove and it slid through the casing.

He pulled the door open and stepped through.

“What were you doing out there?” I was still clutching the rolling pin.

“I didn’t realize how late it was . . . I just had to think. Away from the house.” He looked up at me, then over at the candy. “Can I?”

“It hasn’t set.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

He dipped a spoon into the pan. It came away trailing long caramel-colored strings. He scraped the candy off the spoon with his teeth and then licked at the remnants that clung to the silver. “You know, things are changing Lucy. I’m not really yours. I mean, I’m happy to help you out and everything, but I don’t belong to you.”

He couldn’t have offended me more if he’d slapped me. “I know you don’t belong to me.”

“And I don’t mean to disappoint you.”

“How could you disappoint me?”

“I just . . . came here to think. I wanted to be alone. I have some things to figure out.”

“Maybe . . . maybe I could help you.”

A flush lit his cheeks. “No. I don’t think—I mean—it’s nice of you to offer and everything, but I don’t think you’d understand.”