Baroness (26 page)

Lilly turned to see Eddie striding toward them over the uncut grass. He carried a brown sack. “Hello, Angels. Saw Marvel and the guys in town. They're drumming up business for this weekend.” He opened the sack and drew out a brown bottle, handed it to Moseby. She popped the lid with an opener she had in the stash of necessaries next to her chair and handed it to Lilly.

“Did you see Truman? He went in with Rango and Dan.”

“I saw him go into the telephone station.” Eddie sat down in the grass, pulled out another bottle, and opened it. He gestured to the tent setup down the shoreline, not unlike their own, the flaps pulled back like curtains. “They started yet?”

“I saw a few cars pull up. They won't get rolling until tonight.” Moseby shaded her eyes to look at the spectacle.

“What is it?” Lilly said.

“A revival. There's a preacher here from Minneapolis. Revs up the crowd and starts pouring out the hellfire and brimstone after the sun goes down. Sometimes we can hear him from here.” He took a drink. “They've been at it all week. The entire town empties out for it. I guess everybody needs a tune-up once in a while.”

A tune-up. She hadn't thought about God, or religion, or church since…she took another drink.
“But long ago I committed my plans to God. I trust Him, you know. And He blessed me with you. And with you, Daughter.”
Her mother's voice threaded through her.

“Whatever happens, honey, don't forget who you are. Don't forget the blessings God has bestowed upon you. Don't forget your name and where you belong.”

“Maybe I'll go.”

“You? Religious?” Eddie picked up a rock, threw it at Beck, who was wading now, waist deep in the water, edging toward a duck. The duck startled, flew away.

“I grew up attending church, it's just that I have a few questions.” Like why God had taken her father before she could meet him. And why He'd yanked her mother away just as she started to need her. And while she had the ear of the Almighty, she might add a few questions about her cousin Jack.

Most of all, what had her family done to make God abandon them? Her mother might think He'd blessed them, but Lilly saw nothing of the sort.

In fact, she was probably better off without Him in her life, just like Rennie had said.

She got up and walked over to the water, standing at the edge as Beck finally dove in.

* * * * *

The revival began just around twilight, with hymn singing and clapping. The cars pulled up to clutter the field around the lake, much like the Saturday afternoon air show. Lilly watched for a while from her window, her courage a tight ball inside her.

When the hymns finally seemed to die into silence, she slipped into her skirt and shirtwaist and walked barefoot out to the tent.

Beck and Rango—and she supposed Truman, also—had headed into town for more entertaining—and perhaps sinful—pursuits. In fact, Truman hadn't even returned from town after his phone call, and she dearly hoped she wouldn't have to sneak back into O'Grady's tonight and pry him off the bar.

She understood the darkness inside him that made him want to forget. She just hoped that flying—flying with her—had given him a hint of light.

The grasses by the lake tickled her feet so she stayed nearer the water, padding through the dark creamy sand, surprised now and again by the lap of the waves, chilly upon her dry skin.

Truman cares only about Truman. Everything he does is about him and advancing his future.

Moseby's words hung in Lilly's mind. Along with her warning.
Truman will do exactly as Truman wants. Flying is all he has, and he's not going to give it up for anything…or anyone. Just make sure you remember that before he gets you killed.

She didn't want to know how Moseby knew this. But this time, Moseby was wrong—Truman hadn't even mentioned her running away with him to start his own show. And, he'd been…mostly a gentleman.

Like last night. After the clouds blotted out the stars, he'd crawled over to where she lay wrapped in her blanket under the wing of Eddie's plane. He'd propped his head up on one elbow, traced his hand down her cheek. She'd stilled, seeing the look in his eyes. Not heat, but something tender. Then he'd kissed her, quick and fast.

He'd snuck away then, dissolving into the night, leaving her confused, at best.

No, if Moseby's warnings about Truman were true, then he would have behaved like Rennie had, right?

Moseby might have faith in his flying, but Lilly had faith in the man.

She wound her way around the cars, the lights from the tent glowing like it might be on fire under the canopy of darkness. Inside, maybe two hundred faithful—or lost—sat on long, roughhewn benches. Outside, a group of men hung onto the tent posts, their cigarette butts burning in the night. The skeptics, perhaps.

The words of the preacher, not quite hellfire yet, drew her in like a hook. She stood on the edge of the flap, watching, listening as a tall man, lean and bony, gestured from the stage. Sweat glistened off his melon head. He'd shucked off his suit jacket, rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, and held a worn Bible, which he alternately used to point with and then reprove with as he read it out loud.

“ ‘For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.' ”

Lilly slid in, sat on the end of the bench. Beside her, a farm wife held a sleeping baby on her lap, the little boy's blond curls sweaty against his skin, his lips askew.

“You know why, people? It's because when God adopts you into His family, you belong to Him. He stamps His name on you. A name that comes with His protection. And His birthright, which is eternity and the power to live with joy on this earth. It's all yours, just as if you'd always belonged. But the Good Word says that to have this, you must repent.”

He looked down at his Bible. “ ‘For to all who came to Him, He gave the right to be called a child of God.' ” He pointed across the audience. “Are you a child of God tonight? Are you standing firm in that belief, in His embrace? Or has life pushed you out of His arms?”

Caught in the passion of his words, Lilly couldn't help but scan the room, right along with him. A figure standing just outside the open flaps along the far wall caught her eye. He stood with his face only half-illumined, but she recognized it like she might recognize her own.

Truman.

“The good news is that all you have to do to belong to God, to get the Almighty to stamp His name on you, to climb into that place of steadfast love and joy, is to repent. To see that you need Him, turn around and let Him forgive you. He wants to—”

Truman turned and walked away.

Lilly listened to the preacher outline just how one might confess and the various deeds they might confess, and then slipped out into the night.

Truman strode past the cars, along the beach toward town.

She darted after him, not raising her voice, waiting until she could catch up—

He ran the heel of his hand across his face.

He wasn't…crying? She couldn't stop herself. “Truman!”

He paused, glanced back, and she was glad the darkness hid his expression, because she didn't want to see his dismay. She had the overwhelming urge to pull his head down to her shoulder. To tell him that—

What? She loved him? No, maybe just that they were a team. That he could trust her.

“What are you doing here?”

She caught up with him, until she could trace the outlines of his face, his dark blue eyes in hers, terrible with some unshed emotion.

“I was at the revival. I—I saw you there.”

He looked away. “They were making a racket. I wanted to see what it was about.”

She slid her hand onto his arm. “Truman—”

“Bunch of liars.” Truman shook his head. “That hokey about nothing being able to separate us from God's love—maybe for the preacher man. But what about the rest of us? The ones who make mistakes, and…” He held up his hand. “Forget it. Let's get out of here.” He hooked his hand around her elbow and pulled her beside him, across the gritty shore.

She caught his hand, walked with him in silence, her heart thundering.

Finally, long after they'd passed Moseby's, as the moon rose behind them, he spoke.

“My folks were religious. Loved to go to prayer meetings, and took me and my brothers to church every Sunday. My father thought we should all be farmers, like him, and my older brother stayed on the farm to help. He expected me to also, but…I couldn't.”

“You wanted to fly?”

“I wanted to live my own life. I wanted to explore the world. I left home when I was fourteen, worked on the railroad until one day we were set up in a small town doing repairs and a barnstormer flew in. I ran fuel for him all day and offered my free services if he would teach me to fly. I spent about two years with him, and then the army called. I wheedled my flying skills into a job and flew Sopwith Camels over Germany. When I came back, I thought I was a hero. I bought my own plane, and by then, I knew a few tricks and had made a bit of a name for myself.”

He stopped, let go of her hand, turned to the lake. “Then I went home.”

She stayed very still.

“I was so proud of myself. I flaunted my new plane in front of my family, then I took my brother up.”

He went silent so long, she had to say it. “Moseby told me.”

He closed his eyes.

She touched his arm.

“The thing is, my brother was scared to death, and I told him I'd take good care of him. That I wouldn't let anything happen to him.” A muscle pulled in his jaw. “And then I killed him.”

“Truman, flying is risky—”

He rounded on her. “Not for me. I knew what I was doing. It was a freak accident and—” His eyes glistened. “I destroyed my family. Sure, they forgave me, but my father died of a heart attack about six months later. Mom, she's never really recovered. I slunk out of town as soon as I was able, and I've never been back.”

“I'm so sorry, Truman.”

“This is what you gotta understand. I'm on my own now, Lilly. There's no forgiveness for me. What I do, what I make of my life is on me. I don't have God's love. And frankly, I look around this world, and I wonder if any of us do.”

His words resounded inside her, sounded too much like Rennie. Maybe everyone who tasted loss wondered the same thing.

He shook his head. “Do I need God's love? I don't know. I don't even know if I want it.” He turned to her. “What I do know is that we got something good going with us, Lilly. Something powerful and right. And I'm not just talking about flying.” He stepped up to her, put his arms around her, leaned close, and whispered into her ear, husky, his tone vibrating through her, “Marry me, Lilly. Right now. We'll put our act together and set out on our own.”

Marry him? She touched his face, his whiskers against her palm, his skin wet.

“We couldn't assemble our own show, could we?”

He touched his lips against her cheek. “Trust me, will you?”

She closed her eyes against the closeness of him, letting him pull her against himself, holding on as he lowered her onto the beach, the sand cold against her legs. “What about Montana?” she whispered.

“We'll get back there, I promise.” He ran his hand down her face, his gaze stealing her power to think. “We belong together, Lilly. You and me. Please say yes. Marry me.”

Then, he kissed her into the soft sand, weaving his fingers through hers, knitting them together under the stars.

Yes.

* * * * *

Cesar Napoli knew how to throw a birthday bash. He'd closed down Valerie's and turned the club into a wonderland of lights and music and pretty, glittering dames, chorus girls joining the ranks of their cigarette girl sisters, dressed in outfits designed to please the guests—men in Cesar's employ, and other businessmen in town. Thankfully, he'd canceled the peacocks and instead cleared the floor and put a boxing ring in the middle, dragging in prizefighters for exhibition rounds. The famed Jack Dempsey was supposed to take the ring tonight. The place reeked of sweat and cigar smoke and enough bootlegged whiskey to send Cesar to the clink for half a lifetime. Rosie wore the pale pink dress and looked like cotton candy on his arm all night, fetching him drinks, smiling at his lewd jokes, allowing him to occasionally draw her near and put his hand low, past the small of her back.

But she wore a smile, because what other choice did she have?

She refused to consider Guthrie's proposal. Move to Chicago? Become a baseball player's wife? Enter the world of domesticity? No, she was a good-time gal and tonight she sparkled. At least on the outside. Inside, she kept hearing Guthrie's voice, warm and settled into her bones.
I do need you. You're my lucky charm.

He was leaving tomorrow morning, a 6 a.m. exit from her life. Now, she sat in the crook of Cesar's arm on one of the curved sofas, watching him finish his old-fashioned. Across from him, a businessman she didn't know had pulled a cigarette girl named Nicey into his lap, tucking his arm around her while he talked, gesticulating with his drink. Behind them, more prizefighters warmed up. Soon, another round would begin and she'd have to be on her guard as Cesar mock-punched his way through the match, his fists flying wider with each round.

Not to mention that he had bets on every fight and seemed to be raking in enough green to suggest he'd rigged the entire shebang.

She couldn't follow his current conversation—something about politics or business—until, “Did you hear I'm opening a new show?” Cesar's voice rose more with each drink. She pushed away and looked at him.

“That's right, doll,” he said, his eyes obsidian, even fuzzy. He stood up, wobbled, but then found his feet. He pulled her up beside him. “C'mon.”