It Happened at the Fair (30 page)

What is Cullen looking for?

He took so long to answer, she wasn’t sure he understood the question.

Finally, he lifted his hip and withdrew the answer sheet from his pocket. “Investors.”

Whom did Della meet at Jastrow’s demonstration?

“At what?”

Jas-trow’s. Dem-on-stra-tion.

“Still didn’t get it.”

“Try the last word.” De. Mon. Stra—

“Demonstration.”

She nodded.

He gave her a sheepish look. “I’ve forgotten the question.”

Finished with their tasks, the restaurant staff retreated to the kitchen, leaving them alone in the corner, partially hidden by topsy-turvy chairs.

Whom did Della meet at Jastrow’s demonstration?

He looked at his list. “Helen Keller?”

“Yes.”

Cullen rubbed his jaw. “I still can’t figure out how Miss Keller uses her hand to ‘hear’ what you’re saying.” He splayed a hand across his own cheek and throat, his brows furrowed in confusion.

“I’ll show you.” Sitting up, she untied her hat, removed the pin securing it, then placed them both on the chair beside her. “She places her hand like . . .” She tried to arrange her hand on her own throat the way Helen did, but couldn’t twist herself about. “Here, like this.”

Reaching over, she took his hand, startled again at how much bigger it was than hers. And rougher. And warmer. “Put your thumb on my throat, directly atop the larynx.”

She positioned his thumb, then maneuvered his index finger. “The first finger goes right over the lips.”

She rested his finger across her mouth, then sucked in a breath. Sensations ricocheted through her body. Her gaze snapped to his.

His eyes turned dark, unreadable. “And the other fingers?”

She swallowed. “The third finger lies against the nostril.” With each word, her lips caught against his callused finger. She positioned his middle one. “The rest of the hand relaxes against the cheek.”

He bent his elbow at an awkward angle.

“It’s easier if you sit a little closer—more side by side.”

After a slight hesitation, he removed his hand and scooted over. Placing his left arm against the table in front of her, he leaned in, then rested his right hand against her larynx, lips, nose, and cheek. Mint from his hair tonic filled her.

“Now what?” His words were barely above a whisper.

“Well . . .” She cleared her throat. “You use your thumb to feel the hard consonants, like g. Guh.”

His eyes brightened. “I feel it.”

“And k. Kuh.”

He made tiny circular motions with his thumb.

Grabbing his thumb, she held it still. “Don’t move it around. Just hold steady.”

“All right.” He crooked his index finger, brushing it back and forth across her lips. “And what are these used for?”

Every nerve she had was at attention, some at the most startling places. “Those, um, those are for sounds like b, v, and puh.”

“Bee, vee, puh.” His breath fluttered across her eyelashes. “I definitely feel them.”

She started to moisten her lips, then immediately pulled back. Good heavens. “The third finger is, um, um . . .”

“For the nose?” His voice teased.

“Correct. The nasal sounds. You know, nnn or mmm.”

“Mmmmmmmmmm.”

She swallowed. “The first word she learned was it.”

“You used your lips for that one.” But he wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at her lips, much like the statue of the bobcat she passed on her way to the Children’s Building—as if it were going to spring at any second.

“Yes,” she managed. “Miss Sullivan made the ih sound, then the tuh. Helen put the two together and formed the word.”

“What was her first sentence?” His breath ruffled her hair.

She shivered. “Her what?”

“Sentence. Helen’s first sentence.”

Her eyes drifted closed. “I.”

“I,” he repeated.

“Am.”

“Am.”

“Not.”

“Not.”

“Dumb.”

“Dumb.”

“Now.”

“Now.”

The silence between them stretched. Clinks from the kitchen along with muffled German voices drifted into their sanctuary.

He drew his fingers together so that they moved across her cheek.

Her pulse hammered. Her chest tightened.

The door to the kitchen slammed.

She opened her eyes.

He looked toward the sound.

“Ve are closed for zee night. Time to go.”

Nodding, he turned his attention back to her, his gaze traveling over her hair, eyes, nose, cheeks, and lips.

Her mouth parted.

“Time to go,” he said, scooting back. He stood, then pulled out her chair, his knuckles barely grazing her.

After a charged moment, she rose as well.

CHAPTER

31

Staring at his bedroom ceiling, Cullen wiggled a foot free of the covers. A far-off train whistle disrupted the quiet but not his thoughts.

His control was at the breaking point. He’d come so close to kissing her. He threw an arm over his eyes. What had happened exactly? Why had it spiraled so out of control?

Touching her while learning about Helen Keller had been the spark that ignited the fuse, of course, but why tonight? Why not before? It wasn’t as if he’d never been tempted.

It didn’t take him long to sort out the reason. Other than the obvious, Della’s continued, unquestioning belief in his work had moved him. Deeply.

It was the one thing Wanda hadn’t understood, even when they were children. She’d teased him about it then, but the year she put up her hair was the year he moved to Boston, and she’d been livid.

When he returned, everyone, including Wanda, assumed it was for her. But the truth was, if that piano factory hadn’t burned down, he’d never have returned. He would still be there now.

But it had burned, and he had moved back. For good. And that was that. He was a farmer, just like his dad, his granddad, and his great-granddad. With that came Wanda. He’d never pictured it any other way.

Until now.

He sighed. Was he making excuses for his attraction to Della? Trying to justify his thoughts and urges?

Maybe. But the fact remained, misplaced or not, Della saw something in him that Wanda never had. The same thing his father did. The same thing his mother had.

Rolling onto his side, he burrowed a hand beneath his pillow and clasped the letter underneath it. With great tenderness, he removed it from its coveted place and laid it on his night table.

Tonight, he was going to give himself permission to dream about whatever and whomever he wanted. Just this once.

ADMINISTRATION BUILDING

“Cullen glanced at the Administration Building directly across from him, then squinted against the brightness of its golden dome. Inside resided the directive power of the exposition, and from what he’d read, no expense had been spared to make it glitter, dazzle, and intimidate.”

CHAPTER

32

Descending the wide steps of Machinery Hall, Cullen glanced at the Administration Building directly across from him, then squinted against the brightness of its golden dome. Inside resided the directive power of the exposition, and from what he’d read, no expense had been spared to make it glitter, dazzle, and intimidate.

ADMINISTRATION BUILDING

Cullen had difficulty reconciling that with the economic perils facing the country, for this edifice, more than any other structure on the grounds, gave no apologies for its grandiose opulence. Through it, foreigners would plainly see America didn’t need kings or nobility when it had railroad barons, oil tycoons, and a director-general who had the power to approve or disapprove every activity on the fairgrounds—including Cullen’s fire demonstration. He tried not to let all the trappings cow him.

Talk and laughter reached his ears as visitors moved from building to building, crossing bridges, admiring sculptures, and stopping at concessionaires. A few feet away, a farmer in a rusty black suit and collarless shirt placed a hand atop his broad-brimmed hat and bent back his head, a dazed expression on his face as he tried to take in the frescos and groups of statuary.

Cullen wondered what his dad would have thought had he been the one standing there. Passing the man, Cullen pushed through the south entrance. If the exterior was grandiose, the interior was downright ostentatious. Neither gold leaf nor gold dollars had been spared in the decorating of it. Crossing the rotunda, he headed toward the northeast corner of the building, his boots clicking against the stone floor. Gilded, frescoed walls rose like mercury in a thermometer, then sloped in, meeting around a center skylight that looked like a giant cyclopean eye. At every turn, gilded moldings, gilt slates, and gilded letters served as a backdrop for innumerable sculptures and paintings.

He skirted a miniature rendition of Washington D.C.’s Treasury House made solely with Columbian Exposition half-dollars.

RENDITION OF US TREASURY MADE WITH SOUVENIR COINS

A guard at the bottom of a curved mahogany staircase stopped him. “Do you have a permit?”

Cullen handed him his appointment card. “I’m to see Mr. Davis at noon.”

As if confirming his statement, the replicated Liberty Bell began to toll the midday hour. Its bell was composed of gold and silver heirlooms contributed by people from all over the world.