Circled Heart (11 page)

“Allen, it’s a magnificent building! Did you have a role in its design?”

The Lancer Building stood in white splendor, the setting sun reflected in its rows of windows, the exterior design pristine and starkly beautiful. There wasn’t a curlicue to be seen, nothing ornamental, no extra aesthetic anywhere, a simple and elegant geometric. Once inside, the abundance of white marble and the central foyer surrounded with clerestory windows filled the first floor with light and prompted my exclamation.

“A slight influence but nothing more,” Allen replied. “Mr. Lancer asked my opinion about one or two details, but it’s really his success. Speaking of the man in charge, let me introduce you.”

Frederick Lancer, of the Lancer and Marlborough architectural firm, stood a few feet away in smiling conversation with a group of admirers. He turned to greet Allen and after our introduction asked, “How do you like your friend’s building, Miss Swan?”

I looked at Allen in surprise before responding, “He said he had little to do with this wonderful structure.”

“Allen is too modest. The windows, the color, the clean perpendicular exterior lines, even the tile outlining the wall mural were all Allen’s contribution. He’s a talented young man.” Mr. Lancer gave Allen’s shoulder a friendly pat before he moved away to another group of people.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Allen? You don’t have to be modest around me.” He shrugged, clearly embarrassed by the attention.

“I wasn’t being modest. The details Mr. Lancer described are basically cosmetic and fairly undemanding. I won’t be satisfied until the whole building is mine, top to bottom and inside to out. Now come with me to the buffet table. I know you well enough, Johanna, to realize that small frame hides a healthy appetite.” He successfully distracted me from further conversation about his vocation, but I hadn’t missed the passion in his voice when he spoke about his desire for the whole building. I detected that fervent side of Allen only when he spoke of his work, but on those few occasions I thought him at his most attractive, a man with a clear enthusiasm and love for his vocation. That passionate Allen slipped through infrequently, but when I caught a glimpse of him, I thought he would be a man easy to love. I recognized in his expression the same fire I’d seen in my father’s eyes when he spoke of his work, so for me such inner fervor struck a responsive chord deep inside.

As we filled our plates from the lavish buffet tables and found a place to sit, I heard a band strike up. After a moment, Allen pointedly looked down at my foot, the toe of which was tapping to the rhythm of the music.

“I can never keep up with you, Johanna, and I’m just letting you know in advance that I haven’t mastered ragtime or the one-step.”

“You don’t expect me to sit those out, do you? You know I love the dance floor.”

“I do know that but don’t worry. There are enough gentlemen here this evening that I’m sure I can find you a willing partner for the dances at which I’m inept.”

“Not this one, Allen. It’s a plain old two-step.” I stood, pulling him up by one hand. “Come on. You can’t palm me off on unsuspecting strangers that easily.” He let me steer him to the dance floor, which was set up in the middle of the marble foyer, then, smiling, took me in his arms.

“You win, but I warn you. I’m a plain man who builds buildings, Johanna. It’s my hands that have the skill, not my feet.” Allen was not falsely modest; he really wasn’t a very good dancer, but he was good-natured about it and able to poke fun at himself.

“Vernon Castle is the only man I can think of who could keep up with you on the dance floor,” Allen told me later in the evening. As the music of a tango began, he took my hand and brought me back to our table. “This one is out of my league entirely. Let’s sit down and I’ll bring you something to drink. It’s warm and you must be thirsty.”

I watched him move through the crowd that had gathered in size through the evening and which now comprised many of Chicago’s most important business men, movers and shakers all. Men who brought energy to the city. Capitalists and monopolists and entrepreneurs circulating enough money in the Lancer Building that evening to buy and sell a dozen Chicagos.

As Allen disappeared into the crowd, I spied the familiar face and figure of Drew Gallagher across the room. He walked slowly with his female companion, the same stunning brunette I’d seen him with before, her hand tucked proprietarily under his arm. There was something so very stylish about Gallagher, a distinctive, casual elegance of well-tailored black and gleaming hair. When Allen returned with two glasses of lemonade, I asked him about Drew Gallagher.

“I knew his brother, or knew of him, but I couldn’t pick Drew Gallagher out of a crowd. I’ve never met him. I do know that Wright was the consulting architect in the design of Douglas Gallagher’s house and that Mr. Lancer was also involved.”

“So that house is connected to your firm?”

Allen turned to look at me curiously. “Have you seen the house, Johanna?”

“Yes. I’ve even been inside it.”

“How on earth—?”

“It’s a long story, Allen, but the house was beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it. Everything about it appeared airy and open and lit from within. What a wonderful accomplishment!”

“Mr. Lancer said that Douglas Gallagher was a man who knew exactly what he wanted and went first class all the way.”

I remembered watching Douglas Gallagher on board the Titanic our first evening out and thinking the same thing about him. He’d seemed the embodiment of first class in everything, not just his accommodations but also in his expectations of service and even in the way he interacted with other passengers. I thought Drew had a similar inclination when it came to style and quality. The woman who accompanied him was a good example, but in some ways he was also his brother’s antithesis. Where Douglas had appeared dark and intense and powerful, Drew cultivated a nonchalant and careless air, one that said he found the world around him interesting only for its ability to amuse.

“I want you to enjoy the evening, Johanna, so banish that pensive look from your face. You’re too serious.” Allen took my hand and pulled me up from my chair. “I hear a waltz and that’s one step I’ve mastered. Are your feet up to the risk?” I laughed at that.

“You’re too hard on yourself,” I told him, but we both knew he had a realistic grasp of his dancing capabilities. “I love the waltz and would be perfectly happy if that’s all the band played all night.”

“Liar.” We had crowded onto the dance floor so that I was pressed against him and had to look up at his face. A very nice face, really, with well-shaped features and clear eyes that were just then smiling into mine. I liked Allen Goldwyn very much at that moment.

“A little,” I admitted, “but the company is worth a dozen tangos.”

We danced the rest of the song without speaking, comfortable with each other and each other’s steps. Later in the evening, Mr. Lancer came in search of Allen, begged my pardon for “borrowing” him a while, and left me sitting alone in a chair against the wall. As I watched the ebb and flow of people, Drew Gallagher sat down next to me.

“Miss Swan,” he said by way of greeting.

I turned sideways to face him. “You are speaking to me after all. What a relief!”

“I’m not a man to hold a grudge.”

“I wonder about that but never mind. Tell me about Yvesta. She hasn’t returned so I have to believe the arrangement is working out.”

“Yvesta is invaluable. I don’t know how I ever managed without her.”

“Really?”

“Really.” His words caused a palpable relief that must have showed on my face. “You weren’t truly worried about her, were you?” he inquired.

“Not exactly, not that she would come to any harm, I mean. But I feared that if it didn’t work out, you’d hold it against the Anchorage, and I’d never be able to come begging for help at your doorstep again.”

“Surely you jest, Miss Swan. We both know you wouldn’t stop at my doorstep. You’d walk inside as if you owned the place.” I tried to swallow a laugh.

“For a man who doesn’t hold a grudge, you have a hard time forgetting my lapse in etiquette.”

“It’s just that there are so many lapses, Miss Swan,” he murmured in return, “that forgiving and forgetting is taking longer than I anticipated.” I couldn’t swallow the laugh that time.

“Ouch. I suppose I deserved that.” The band suddenly picked up tempo, and Drew Gallagher stood and held out his hand.

“I think you’ve been sitting out most of these rags all evening, Miss Swan. Join me?” I took a quick look past him, didn’t see Allen anywhere in sight, and stood, too.

“I’d love to but won’t your companion mind?”

“In the mystery that is woman, she left to freshen up and knowing her as I do, she will be gone for some time. Even if that weren’t the case, it wouldn’t matter. We have an understanding.”

He had my hand and was leading me—pulling me, almost—along to the dance floor so that I had to wait until we stood facing each other to ask, “What kind of understanding?”

“Viola and I find mutual use in each other, Miss Swan, and please don’t delve into that any further or even a progressive woman like yourself will find herself blushing. We enjoy each other’s company without any commitment of faithfulness on either side.”

“And that suits you?” We started the steps so there was just time for his brief response before the syncopations of the music took over.

“Perfectly.” Drew Gallagher was the best dancing partner I ever had in my life, bar none, at any time and at any place. He made movement seem effortless, remained quick and light on his feet, never missed a step, never lost tempo, and always maintained a sincere appreciation for the music.

When the dance was over, I exclaimed, “What fun that was! You’re very good, Mr. Gallagher, and you’re not even out of breath!”

He gave me his unaffected, crooked grin, the one without pretense or affectation. “It was fun, wasn’t it? And I return the compliment, Miss Swan. It’s a shame your companion makes you sit all these out.”

“He doesn’t make me,” I replied protectively. “He’s a working man and hasn’t had time to become as proficient in the recreational arts as you.”

The band started up again, a new dance named the Half and Half in an odd time signature that forced me to give all my attention to the music.

Not so for my partner, though, because despite the quick steps he parroted, “Ouch. I suppose I deserved that,” and flashed me a quick, charming grin. I couldn’t help but grin in return but had no time for more talk because I had to concentrate on the music and the steps. Allen wasn’t the only person who hadn’t had time to become proficient in the recreational arts.

When the dance ended, Drew Gallagher, not at all winded by the frantic pace of the Half and Half, looked over my shoulder and commented, “I see your young man on the sidelines but stay for one more dance. It’s sedate and will give your pulse a chance to return to normal. You wouldn’t want to return to your table breathless and with your hair all out of place.” Involuntarily I put up a hand.

“My hair is always out of place, I’m afraid. I cut it because I got tired of fussing with it, but short or long, the curls refuse to be tamed. My mother had beautiful hair, but apparently that trait skips a generation.”

He pulled himself away from me as we danced and examined me critically. “Don’t change anything about your hair. It may not be fashionable, but it suits you and is very becoming.”

I gave a small, unladylike hoot. “About as becoming as this shade of lavender.”

“I agree with you there,” he said calmly. “It isn’t your best color.”

“Lavender is a lovely color and very popular,” I replied contrarily, a touch of defensiveness creeping into my tone.

“Not right for you, though.” Because I held precisely the same opinion, I couldn’t fault him for stating the obvious.

“I know,” I responded with a slight sigh. “Unfortunately, I’ve yet to find any color that’s becoming.”

“Stay away from pallid pastels and stick with the warm dramatic, Miss Swan. Those are the colors that will do you justice.”

“Dramatic? What does that mean?” He was holding me closely enough that he could talk quietly and I could still hear.

“Black, crimson, deep green, cream, gold or—if you can find it—the unusual amber that’s in your eyes. Any of those would suit.” I was quiet, picturing the colors as he spoke, digesting how they would look on me. When the music ended and the band took a break, Drew Gallagher and I walked back together to where Allen stood.

“You know,” I said, thoughtfully, “you may be right.”

“I am right. I may be woefully inadequate when it comes to business, but I know women and women’s fashions. You may trust me on that issue.” I didn’t respond to his comment but found it a telling remark.

After I introduced the two men, Drew Gallagher remarked lightly, “A pleasure, Mr. Goldwyn. Your firm does good work.” He glanced over Allen’s shoulder. “I see I am being summoned from across the room.” Taking my hand briefly in his, he smiled. “Miss Swan, if you promise another Yvesta, you may come begging at my door whenever you like.” Allen and I both watched him as he walked away to meet the brunette beauty who waited for him.

“What exactly did he mean by that, Johanna?” I didn’t want to explain the details, not at that time or at that place and not to Allen, so I only shrugged.

“He once helped at the Anchorage and I believe he just offered to help again.”

“Drew Gallagher? If rumor serves true, there’s probably more than one woman who found herself at the Anchorage because of him.” At my frown, Allen had the grace to look sheepish. “That was uncalled for and petty. I’m sorry. Forgive me?”

I felt unaccountably annoyed at his words, but I had practically said the same thing to Gallagher’s face so how could I criticize Allen?

“There’s nothing to forgive. I’ve heard the rumors, too.” I took Allen’s arm and led him back onto the dance floor. “I know you can handle this one,” I assured him smiling and went easily into his arms to the strains of “Moonlight Bay.”

It is the mystery of the unknown

That fascinates us; we are children still,

Wayward and wistful; with one hand we cling

To the familiar things we call our own,

And with the other, resolute of will,

Grope in the dark for what the day will bring.

Chapter Six

The next day Jennie and Aunt Kitty stopped by the house long enough to show off the dress Jennie would wear for her nineteenth birthday party.

“It’s beautiful,” I said with sincere admiration, “and it suits you, Jennie. All those flounces are so graceful and the rose catching the scarf at the front matches the color you have in your cheeks. You’ll look like peaches and cream.”

Jennie, for all her loveliness, was not vain and answered simply, “That was kind of you, Johanna. I wanted something a little more mature, but Mother said I was still the ingénue, her word”—Jennie gave a little grimace —“and I must stay in pastels and lace for another year.”

“Don’t rush things, Jennie,” said her mother, overhearing the remark. “Nineteen is still young and you’ll have plenty of time to indulge your flair for the inappropriate after you’re married. Let your husband worry about you then.” But Aunt Kitty spoke indulgently, obviously proud of her daughter and enjoying the stir Jennie’s appearance caused whenever she went out.

“I may not marry, Mother. I may find a career and live on my own or travel and see the world.” I looked at Jennie with surprise, catching an edge to her voice I had never noticed before. Aunt Kitty either did not hear the same sharp inflection or chose to ignore it.

“Of course, you’ll marry. One Johanna in the family is plenty.”

Grandmother said, “Kitty,” with a touch of rebuke, and my aunt colored slightly.

“I didn’t mean anything unkind. We’re proud of Johanna with her intelligence and her independence. I only meant that Jennie isn’t cut from the same cloth.”

I stayed quiet through the exchange but reached to squeeze Jennie’s hand. “She’s right, you know,” I told her. “You’re the beauty I’ll never be and there’s nothing wrong with matrimony. My parents had a wonderful marriage. If I could find a man who would make me as happy as my father made my mother, I’d marry him in an instant.” Because I seldom spoke of my parents or of marriage, my comments were greeted by a surprised silence.

“Mother has my husband picked out already.” Jennie glanced at her mother and then looked away, a disguised expression on her face I could not read, scorn or anger or perhaps she just teased. It was impossible to tell. I used to be able to read my cousin easily, but recently she’d developed a way of speaking and looking that masked her true feelings. I found the masquerade a troubling and unwelcome change from the fresh-faced girl I had watched grow up into a lovely young woman.

“Really? Who?” I turned innocent eyes to my aunt.

“Jennie is just being fanciful. I’ve done nothing of the sort.”

“Carl Milford,” supplied Jennie. “You met him at your party.”

“Yes, I remember.” I pictured him immediately, handsome and dark and too sure of himself. “Why Mr. Milford?”

“He’s heir to a ship-building fortune. Mother fancies the beginning of a dynasty.”

“Jennie.” My aunt spoke as sharply as I’d ever heard her address her daughter, and no wonder. Jennie’s tone had been uncharacteristically malicious and contemptuous.

Grandmother intervened to ask, “What night have you decided on for the party, Kitty?” The rancorous moment passed.

“The last Saturday in June.”

“We’re contemplating a dance band, Johanna,” said Jennie, back to her mischievous self. “I know how you love to dance. Didn’t you enjoy yourself last night?”

“I did, but how did you know about my evening?”

Jennie gave a graceful shrug. “You should know by now that there are no secrets in this family,” but looking at her I thought for the first time that if there were secrets, they rested in my cousin. How odd to think of Jennie as anything other than ingenuous and innocent. Perhaps she was neither of those things. I’d been away for two years and a person could change a great deal over such a time.

“Johanna, the way you’re staring at me, I must have grown a third eye,” Jennie laughed, rising. “Come along, Mother. I think we’ve outstayed our welcome.”

Walking to the door, I said quietly, “You know I’m here if you ever want to talk to me about anything, Jennie. I care about you, and I have no ulterior motives.”

“I know that, Johanna” she responded just as seriously, “but you’re the only one who doesn’t have a plan for my future. Not that anyone’s bothered to ask me what I want.” Then she and her mother were down the walk and into the waiting automobile.

I looked back at Grandmother. “Jennie’s grown up, hasn’t she? I didn’t realize the change until just now.”

“Jennie’s grown older,” countered Grandmother, ever enigmatic, “but I’m not sure she’s grown up all that much.” When I asked her what exactly she meant, she didn’t answer. Instead, she added, “I’m a little tired, Johanna. I believe I’ll lie down for a while.” At that moment Grandmother looked all her age and then some, and I felt a pang of concern.

“Aren’t you feeling well?”

“Only tired, Johanna,” she repeated with a faint smile and climbed the stairs to her room. Watching her walk away, I realized with a real shock how she’d aged. Her step was less firm and it appeared that going up the stairs was more of an effort for her than she cared to admit. Much later I would remember that afternoon: the changes I’d noticed in Jennie and Grandmother and my unexpected realization that people you thought you knew could transform into strangers right before your eyes.

Two new women arrived at the Anchorage the following week, one ill and the other pregnant. At the end of that same week Betsy, who’d been so affected by Flora’s death, gave birth to a healthy daughter in an easy delivery.

When I stopped in to admire the new addition, Betsy said, “I’m glad to see you, Johanna. I was thinking of coming to find you only I ran out of time. Little Flora keeps me busier than I expected.”

“Flora?”

“Yes. It didn’t seem right that someone should live and die and be forgotten just like that. Now she’s got a namesake.”

“That was kind of you, Betsy.”

“I liked Flora. I know she was difficult and acted tough as nails, but she wasn’t. She was just a scared girl is all.”

“I liked her, too, Betsy, and I think you’re right about her.” After a pause, I asked, “Why were you coming to find me?” Her face brightened.

“We thought you could help us.”

“We?”

“Etta and me. We’ve had an idea.” I sat down on the edge of her small bed and listened as the words tumbled out. “Etta don’t have any plans for getting married. Well, she couldn’t, could she, even if she wanted to, since she’s got a husband already, even if he don’t want nothing to do with her and little George? Anyway, we’ve been talking. We can’t stay at the Anchorage forever, but what will we do now that we’ve got the babes? We thought and thought and then Etta said her and me should join our resources. That’s how she put it: join our resources. Neither of us has a place to go and no family to take us in, so she said why don’t we find a room somewhere and one of us work and the other stay home with the babies just like a real family? I’m younger and stronger, and I don’t mind work. I did plenty of that on the farm. Etta’s more used to a baby around—her George is almost six months old—so we decided I’d be the one to do the work and she’d stay home, at least to start with. What do you think, Johanna? Why wouldn’t it work?”

“No reason I can think of,” I responded with a smile. Betsy’s enthusiasm was infectious. “What can I do to help?”

“You found Yvesta a place. I thought maybe you could do the same for me. I’m smart and strong and I don’t complain, Johanna. I’ll work hard.”

“I know you will,” I told her, “and I believe I might be able to help you.” Drew Gallagher had come unbidden to mind even before Betsy had finished sharing her plan. I’d enjoyed sharing part of my evening with him recently and now that we were once more on speaking terms, I felt no qualms about sending him another letter asking again for his help.

Gallagher responded, not with a visit this time but with a note of his own, sent to my attention at the Anchorage. The message was short: We can discuss your request over dinner this Saturday. I’ll pick you up at eight. That was all. He had a surprisingly neat and plain signature, no curlicues, no bold strokes, every letter legible. I was conscious of a pleasant feeling of expectation—he was an attractive, intelligent man, even if he enjoyed playing the dilettante—and decided lavender would not do for Saturday evening. The time was perfect for something more dramatic. Besides, I wanted something from Drew Gallagher so it wouldn’t hurt for him to see that I had taken his advice. As enlightened as he apparently was, his male ego would still appreciate the fact that I had listened to him and followed his suggestion, which might make soliciting his help that much easier.

Saturday morning Grandmother was not up for breakfast, an occurrence so rare that I went upstairs to her room. I knocked and called her name, then went inside when I heard her voice. She was out of bed and dressed but propped in a cushioned divan in her room, her feet stretched out in front of her.

“Are you ill?” I asked, without even a good morning. Worry always made me abrupt.

“I’m not ill, Johanna, but I am, for whatever reason, exhausted. I asked May to bring my tea and toast up here this morning.”

“You never have breakfast in your room,” I accused. “You’ve always said food belongs downstairs.”

“Rules were made to be broken. You of all people should understand that. I’m fine, only tired, so take that look of outrage off your face and go back downstairs and finish your own breakfast.” Tired or not, she never lost the tone in her voice that made one think she’d been born to royalty.

“I’m not outraged, I’m worried. This isn’t like you. Have you seen Dr. Truman lately?”

“Just last week.”

“And?”

“And he agrees that when I’m tired, I should rest.” That she was being evasive and would not share any details of the conversation made me even more uneasy.

“There’s something you’re not telling me, Grandmother, and I don’t appreciate being kept in the dark. I am a nurse, you know. I might be able to help.”

“Johanna, there are many things I don’t tell you, and I can’t believe that comes as any surprise to you. We are both adults. If there is something I feel you should know, be assured I’ll share it. Now please go finish your breakfast. I hear Mayville on the steps and you’re standing in her way.” May, carrying a tray, walked past me and gave me a sideways look that told me she was as concerned as I about Grandmother’s uncharacteristic behavior.

As May fussed with the tray, Grandmother said, “I saw a box delivered from the Emporium on the hall table yesterday, Johanna. It’s not like you to purchase anything from so fashionable an establishment. Did you break down and order something new for Jennie’s party?” I resisted the impulse to tell her I’d share with her when she did the same with me and shook my head.

“No, it’s for another occasion. I can’t imagine I could wear black to Jennie’s party without being chastised by Aunt Kitty.”

“Black?” My grandmother tilted her head just a little to examine me. “I’ve often thought black might be just the color for you.”

“You never said anything.”

“You never asked.” She lifted a cup of steaming tea to her lips and our conversation was at an end.

Grandmother was right, of course. Drew Gallagher, too. That night I slid the black silk dress over my head and was amazed by my reflection. The sheen of the soft silk caught the light and instead of robbing my face of color seemed to darken my eyes and hair and turn my complexion to cream. I went closer to the mirror, literally open-mouthed. For a moment my mother had stood there, golden-eyed and beautiful, and although I was not the beauty my mother had been, I no longer looked the part of a plain daughter. Gallagher’s word of choice—dramatic—was entirely appropriate and perfectly descriptive. Under the guidance of a very skilled sales woman at the Emporium, I selected a straight and simple under dress in black, gleaming silk, topped with an over blouse of black on black textured silk. The high-necked blouse draped elegantly at the throat and fastened at the shoulder with a simple pearl brooch that had been my mother’s. I twirled slowly in front of the mirror, small matching pearls dangling from my ears, pleased with the result. Originally, I had wanted something unselfish from Drew Gallagher: assistance for the Anchorage and its inhabitants. Now I wanted something else besides, something personal and just for me. I wanted to see a look in his eyes that told me he thought I was attractive. Tonight I looked and felt as remarkable as he had once described me, and I was determined to have that comment repeat itself in the expression on his face.

I heard the downstairs knocker, took a final look at my reflection, grabbed my bag, and turned to surprise May standing in the doorway of my bedroom. Her eyes widened.

“Miss Johanna, you look more like your mother than I ever thought.”

Suddenly shy, I asked, “Really, May? She didn’t have all these curls, did she? I only remember her with her hair pulled back and the pictures don’t show her with the kind of curls I inherited.”

“No, your mother’s hair was dark and straight and thick. Your father had the curls.”

I stared. “I don’t recall that.”

“I think the curls embarrassed him, so he always kept his hair cut short, but I remember the first time your mother brought him home. He had the most beautiful curls I’d ever seen on a man.” Seemingly embarrassed by her nostalgia, she changed the subject and announced briskly, “Mr. Gallagher’s downstairs.” I slid past her as she stood in the doorway and stopped to give her a quick, uncharacteristic kiss on the cheek.

“Thank you, May.” I reached the head of the stairs when she said my name in a low voice, and I turned to look back at her. “Yes?”

“You be careful with that one downstairs. He’s the kind of man to break your heart if you let him.”