Noon at Tiffany's (49 page)

Turning her back to him, she set sail for shore, where Edward pulled them in and helped Clara out of the dinghy.

“You need to go to the cabin,” he said without looking at her. “Everyone is gathered there.”

She waited until he met her gaze. The raw misery she found there sent her hurrying over the sand, her skirts pulled up to her knees.

July 14, 1904

Dear Family,

I couldn’t bring myself to write earlier, but as Philip says, bad news doesn’t spoil.

George died last Friday morning after a prolonged epileptic seizure. It’s impossible to imagine all that life and energy has gone out. Yet, I can’t help but be thankful it’s over. His only pleasures in life consisted of working hard, eating, and being in the city among his friends. Over this last year, this hateful illness has kept him from these things. At times he reminded me of a bird beating itself against the bars of a cage.

The memorial was held in Danielson, but I could not rise to the task. Henry is inconsolable and will see no one. Everyone else is about as low as I have ever seen them. Dudley weeps unashamed, and even Alice’s kind ministrations do not soothe him.

However, there was a little reprieve from the sorrow, when three days after George died, a cardinal appeared and perched on the back of George’s favorite canvas chair. All day, he flew between chair and kitchen window, chattering and whistling at us for attention. I put out bits of suet and peanuts, but he would have nothing to do with them. Nonetheless, last night he ate a slice of blueberry pie that Alice forgot to take inside. We found him this morning perched on the edge of the outdoor table looking stunned, his belly swollen.

I shouted when the obvious dawned on me: “My God, Alice, it’s George!”

We spent the next three hours talking to it as if it
were
George. He seemed to enjoy the attention and chirped back at us in George’s excited way. We’ve not seen him since, but I feel so much better now about George’s passing.

All my love, Clara

P.S. Mr. Booth read us Philip’s new story, ‘Bird or Devil,’ in the August
Scribner’s.
It’s wonderful, rather like its author.

P.P.S. The cabin’s owner has agreed to cover the expense of materials for the construction of a screened-in sitting porch at the back of her cabin. The men have decided to wait until mid-September to build, so as not to interfere with our activities while we’re in the thick of the season.

September 17, 1904, 12:45 p.m.

Storming about her kitchen, Miss Owens alternated between bouts of tears and fury, while the kitchen maids nimbly scurried around her with trays of dirty dishes.

“I’ll kill the man with my own bare hands! He’s trying to ruin me!” She clasped her head. “How could he have done this to me? I’m the best customer he’s got, and he gives me spoiled sausages to poison my tenants?”

She grabbed Clara by the arm. “Thank God you didn’t eat any of the vile stuff. But poor Miss Alice and Miss Griffin, both of them so small and sensitive.”

Clara jumped out of the way of a housemaid rushing by with large bottles of Coke Syrup. “Tell me what I can do to help.”

Miss Owens handed her a bottle of the elixir. “Make sure Alice and Miss Griffin take their Coke Syrup. Doctor Sherman swears by it for food poisoning.”

Upstairs, Miss Griffin and Alice lay side by side on Miss Griffin’s couch. Alice, looking white and fragile, raised her head and waved.

“How are you?” Clara whispered, handing her a small glass of the syrup.

Miss Griffin groaned and tossed onto her side.

“I’m faring better than most. I only ate a small bite and thought it tasted funny, so left the rest on my plate. Mr. Yorke and Mr. Bainbridge got the worst of it.”

Alice sipped the potion and made a face. “This is almost as bad as the sausage.”

“Miss Owens is on the warpath,” Clara laughed. “She’s vowing to kill the butcher with one of his own knives.”

Alice sat up, careful not to disturb the gently snoring Miss Griffin. “Better yet, she should force him to eat one of his deadly sausages. I was so looking forward to getting over to Point Pleasant today to help with the sitting porch, but I suppose next weekend will be—” A look of alarm crossed her face. “Oh no! What about the wood and screening? Mr. Yorke is supposed to meet the delivery at the Point Pleasant docks at four today! We’ve already arranged for the cart.”

Miss Griffin bolted upright and scrambled over Alice. At the door she collided with Philip Allen, bounced off, and continued running for the bathroom both hands held tightly over her mouth.

“I’ll meet the delivery,” Philip said from the doorway, his eyes locking on Clara’s. “Clara can come with me. I’ll need her help putting the wood in the shed.”

“Is that wise?” Alice asked. “What about Dudley or Edward? Can’t one of them go instead?”

Clara shook her head. “Dudley is with Mr. McBride in Boston for the Fall Art Show, and Edward is having to work all day. Everyone else has either fallen victim to the evil sausages, or is out of town.”

Alice looked from Clara to Philip. “But you can’t go there, just the two of you alone. What I mean is, Clara can’t—shouldn’t be doing heavy work. You’ll strain yourself. You should wait until the other men can help.”

“You apparently have never seen me move an eight-foot by four-foot leaded window by myself. Mr. Briggs is convinced Fannie kidnapped me from the Amazons.” Clara got to her feet, careful not to look at Philip. “Don’t worry about us. We’ll be fine.”

“But you can’t just go off without the rest of us.”

Clara pushed Philip into the hallway ahead of her. “Of course I can. Don’t be such a ninny. Get some sleep and drink the rest of your medicine. I’ll check on you when I return tomorrow night.”

6:40 p.m.

Edward had never felt so tired in his life. Rows of numbers still swam before his eyes, as he put up his bicycle and entered the boardinghouse. The bookkeeping had been especially complicated, and for once, he fully understood what Clara meant when she complained about her eyes feeling like they might fall out after a hard day at Tiffany’s.

“Ah, there you are, Mr. Booth,” Miss Owens said, bustling through the dining room door with a tray of teacups and plates of dry toast. “I’m so glad you weren’t one of those struck down this morning.”

“Struck down?” He relieved her of the heavy tray. “Was there another runaway streetcar?”

“The breakfast sausage was bad. About half the boarders were taken ill. We’ve been running up and down stairs with Coke Syrup all day. We’re encouraging those who can stomach it to take some hot tea and a little toast, but there are others who still can’t hold down the Coke Syrup. However, for those of you who escaped, dinner will be clear soup, chicken
croquettes, mushrooms and French peas, and apple turnovers for dessert.”

“Exactly who succumbed to this bad sausage?” Edward asked, moving toward the stairs.

Miss Owens put a finger to her chin and thought for a moment. “The casualties from your group were Alice, Miss Griffin, Mr. Yorke, Mr. Bainbridge, and Miss Nye.”

He smiled to himself. Wasn’t it just like Clara to be the one left standing after the battle? “I’ll go up and see what I can do to help,” he said, moving up the stairs. “Where shall I land this tray?”

“Take it to the servants in Clara’s room. They’ve made their headquarters there. It makes it easier to tend to the ones who still need immediate assistance to and from the bathrooms.”

Edward chuckled. “I’ve always said Clara would make a good nurse. I’m sure she’s got everything set up and running better than one of Nightingale’s infirmaries.”

“I am sure she would,” Miss Owens said, “… if she were here.”

He felt a pinprick of apprehension at the base of his skull. “Not here? Don’t tell me she’s still at Tiffany’s? I’ll go and drag her back here for dinner. It isn’t healthy for her to miss so many of your lovely meals.”

“She isn’t at Tiffany’s,” Miss Owens said. “She and Mr. Allen went to Point Pleasant to take delivery of the supplies for the sitting-in porch. They planned on having their dinner up there and coming home in the morning. They—”

He didn’t wait to hear the rest, because he was already up the stairs and walking as fast as the teacups would allow without breaking. In Clara’s room, he gave the tray to the house servants and glanced around. The corner that was home to Clara’s valise was empty.

He stepped across the hall to Miss Griffin’s room, where Alice sat crocheting, and peered in. “Excuse me, Alice, but do you know where—”

At the sound of his voice, Alice looked up, her expression a mixture of worry and relief. “Go!” she said, as if any further explanation was unnecessary.

“When did they—?”

“They were to receive the lumber delivery at four, and then take the cart to the cabin.” She glanced at the mantle clock. “The last ferry leaves in fifteen minutes. You’ll have to hurry.”

8:10 p.m.

To look at her leisurely sketching the man playing the mandolin, no one would have suspected she was hardly able to think a clear thought. For her, the day was a series of moments when their hands touched and their eyes met. They said little over dinner, their meals going uneaten, as if they were preparing for a long swim.

When the winds picked up, Philip cleaned out the fireplace and built a fire that would have been more appropriate for a winter blizzard than an autumn squall.

She studied her sketch, wishing she could have a photograph of them as they were now—radiant in love. She was surprised at her lack of shame, though she justified it by telling herself it was the dawning of a new age; the rigid rules that once governed women’s social behavior were now a thing of the past. Women were no longer required to deny themselves the pleasures that were once the private domain of men.

Philip’s mandolin went silent, and his chair scraped back. He came to stand behind her, letting his hand caress the back of her neck as he leaned over to kiss her temple.

A jolt of sensual pleasure shot through her. Mirrored in his face she saw her own longing. His eyes never left hers, as he pulled her out of her chair and kissed her as if he meant to devour her.

She left his mouth long enough to shake her hair free of pins and combs, letting it fall in waves around her shoulders. He buried his face in her neck, his hands traveling over her shoulders and breasts to her waist.

Her desire emerged as a soft moan while they moved together in their sensual dance.

8:34 p.m.

A mile from the cabin, his lamp spit once, flickered, and then plunged him into darkness. Edward cursed himself for not packing extra oil, but in his blind panic to get to the ferry, he hadn’t been thinking. As it was, he’d arrived at the dock just as the gangway was being hauled up. It was strictly by chance that the captain heard his shouts, and recognizing him as a regular passenger, allowed him to board.

The wind howled as it came off the water, announcing the imminent
arrival of a storm. Shifting his rucksack onto his back, he lowered himself closer to the handlebars and averted his face to shield his eyes from the wind.

He caught sight of someone in the distance trudging along the footpath. Through the dark he could just make out the figure of a woman built tall and slender like Clara, pushing against the wind. He peddled faster, until he thought his leg muscles would tear apart. When he was fifteen yards away, he slowed, not wanting to scare her. “Hello! Who goes there on a night like this?”

The woman spun around so fast she nearly lost her balance. “Why, Mr. Booth!” Mrs. Palmié flattened her hat to her head. “What on earth are you doing out in this weather at a this time of night?”

Struck by equal measures of disappointment and renewed urgency, Edward cast about for an adequate answer. “I caught the last ferry. Thought I’d get an early start tomorrow on the new porch.” His laugh was forced and hollow. “Clara and Philip are probably thinking I fell overboard.”

Mrs. Palmié raised her voice over the wind. “They joined us at the house for dinner, though between them they hardly ate a mouthful. I invited them to accompany me to my sister’s for the evening, but the poor things were tired from unloading the cart. They missed a good evening. My sister can be most entertaining when she gets to talking about—”

“You’ll have to forgive me for not offering to escort you home, Mrs. Palmié, but I have to hurry before the rain comes. The blueprints for the porch are in my rucksack, and it’s important they stay dry. Besides, I don’t want to worry Clara and Mr. Allen. I’m already hours late.”

Mrs. Palmié waved him on. “Oh don’t you worry about me. I’ve walked this path a thousand times in much worse weather than this. I’m like the cows at milking time: I always find my way back to the barn.”

Needing no further urging, Edward made so quick a start, the bicycle slid out from under him.

8:38 p.m.

Lost in him, she had no awareness of the storm raging on around them. She raised her hand to his face to tell him she loved him, when the window above the couch blew open, showering them with cold rain.

Philip scrambled to his feet, pulling her up with him. As he secured the window, there came a crash from upstairs. She rushed up the stairs and
padded quickly through the puddle that had formed beneath the windows. Happy to see none of the glass had been broken, she was fastening the locks when she noticed the shed door banging in the wind.

Hurrying downstairs, she stuck her head into the front room. “I’m going to close the shed door. It’s blown open, and the tools and wood are getting wet.”

“They’ll be fine,” he said, drawing her into an embrace. “It’s wood. It’s meant to withstand the elements.” He kissed her, leading her back to the couch. “I’ll wipe the tools down in the morning with kerosene.”

Clara broke away. “We have to change into dry clothes anyway, so I may as well get entirely soaked first.” Before he could stop her, she was out the door and sprinting across the yard, her wind-whipped skirts tangling around her ankles. As she worked to secure the rusted hasp, a sensual memory of Philip’s soft mouth made her take in a sharp breath.