The Bridegrooms (16 page)

“No.” She snatched it back. “It’s mine. I thought you…” She left the thought unfinished. The afternoon had grown uncomfortably warm, and the tiniest bit of sweat broke out on her brow. Still, she ignored it as she worked to stuff the handkerchief back into her little purse.

“Sorry there,
ma chou-chou
.” LaFortune reached up and put his hand on her knee—
her knee
—something Garrison had never dared do after nearly two years of courtship.

She should have stood right away, but there was the beginning of an odd cramp at the back of her left thigh, so instead she shifted her weight just enough to knock his hand off her skirt entirely. “Why would you possibly need something of his?”

“Well,” he said, dragging out the syllable, “I know you prone to shake it off like a lot of nothin’, but if I had a little somethin’ of his, somethin’ that showed he was gonna wake up sooner rather than later, might give me a bit of hope this afternoon.”

Having made his request, he looked up, his whole face transformed from the sly flirt to a piteous supplicant. He stood flat footed again, grasping his cap in both hands, as if any minute he would tip it out for her to toss a few coins.

Coins
.

“He had nothing, Mr. LaFortune. Just a few coins, some buttons, a key to who knows where—”

He brightened. “Any of them such would do fine!”

“Unfortunately I don’t have any of those items with me here. Now if you will excuse me, I need to find my father—”

“Wait.” He covered her hand that gripped the railing with his. “Do you think you could bring me back a little somethin’? You see, I got this feelin’ deep in the pit of me that I won’t be able to make any kind of play today without me havin’ even a nickel that come outta that man’s pocket.”

“Certainly not.” She stood now, ripping her hand from beneath his and trying to maintain a placid expression even as her legs protested the unfamiliar—and unwelcome—contortion. “I will not hand over some poor soul’s worldly goods to be your talisman.”

“Ah,
cher
, then it’s fo’ sho’ I’m to be cursed this game.” But the fringes of humor still twinkled in his eyes, and he clutched his hat to his heart before bowing deep and backing away like Romeo exiting from beneath the balcony.

Vada watched until he disappeared beneath the walkway’s overhang, then smoothed her skirt as she defiantly ignored the sidelong glances from those milling behind her. Honestly, the nerve of that man. Bad enough he had a devilish grin. Now he had to do the superstitious bidding of the devil himself?

I’m trying to avoid him, Lord. I really am. But You’re not making it any easier, throwing him in my path every time I turn around
.

Head held high, she merged with the spectators and retraced her steps to the place she’d promised to meet her father. Within a few minutes, there he was, vigorously shaking a grateful Patsy Tebeau’s hand.

“Thanks for that bit of good news there, Doc.”

“It’s the best I can offer, under the circumstances,” Doc said, clearly uncomfortable with the man’s effusion. “I will telephone you with any new developments.”

“You do that.” He let go of Doc’s hand and, spotting Vada, offered her a tip of his hat.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Tebeau.” Vada nodded, but he had already turned around and continued with his jaunty step back into the clubhouse.

“Strange breed, these fellows.” Doc took his watch from his pocket. “It’s been twenty minutes. Our ride should be at the gate shortly. Shall we?”

“Of course.”

He held out his arm, and Vada took it. She opted not to tell him about Mr. LaFortune’s strange request. After all, she didn’t want to worry her father about her brush with taboo. He might worry that she wandered off
at all. Plus she had so few moments in her life that were truly, privately her own. This was one that she would keep, even as they made their way back to the gate.

When they got to the concourse, they strolled right by a man wearing a crisp white apron over his suspenders, shouting, “Cold beeeeer! Get your cold beer! Nickel a glass!”

He stood next to his associate who filled one mug after another from the tap, handing the frothy drink to the next eager customer.

“Now, I’m not much of a drinking man,” Doc leaned toward Vada with the air of a conspirator, “but nice cold beer on a warm day like today is mighty tempting.”

“Well, why don’t you get one? Mr. Tebeau would certainly want you to.”

“Oh no.” He didn’t even hesitate as they walked past. “Sometimes when you’re faced with temptation, the best thing you can do is just keep walking.”

Vada thought of warm hazel eyes against a soft green field, not to mention a certain spot on her leg that could still feel his touch, and quickened her step in agreement.

Vada wrote down the final tally of the day’s box office take and handed the stack of bills back to Mrs. Greenville who was charged with making the bank deposit for that day.

“It seems we may have a full house after all,” the older woman said, full of unrealistic optimism.

“Let’s keep hoping,” Vada answered, her reply much more closely attuned to what the receipts suggested.

She bid Mrs. Greenville a good evening and set about tidying her desk. The pile of notes setting her agenda for the next day would thankfully leave little time for any impromptu visits to League Park. She folded them neatly, put them inside her pocketbook, and snapped it shut.

She heard the first strains of the instruments tuning up and remained rooted to her seat, willing Garrison not to come up for a visit. He rarely did, as his own office hours kept him so late he was often tuning up before he took off his hat. Besides, he might not even know she was here; she hadn’t spoken to him since yesterday.

In fact, part of her wanted to take the back stairs out to the alley and sneak home now. But she needed to see him. Not here in her office, where the proximity of the small room would surely wrangle out a confession, nor in the hallway where the narrowness might force the two to brush against each other. And she couldn’t imagine talking to him. Not yet, anyway. No, she simply needed a good safe distance where she could peer at him through a sturdy wall of music.

Once the sound coming from the stage became full enough that it seemed all the musicians had arrived, Vada took her violin out of her desk drawer and brought it to her chin. She strained to hear the notes from the auditorium one floor below and pulled the bow across the strings in an effort to match it.

There was a gap of silence where she imagined Herr Johann was tapping his baton on the stand, feverishly preparing the musicians for their first number. Vada didn’t know what to expect—he rarely played through the program—so she waited for that first sure note. Then the next and the next before she realized it was
The Pastoral
, and she sat, poised to touch her bow down at the top of the next measure.

Not surprisingly, the music downstairs came to an abrupt halt, but Vada, free from the whims of a perfectionist conductor, continued on, filling her little office with music fit for a stage. Maybe not Herr Johann’s
stage, but certainly her own. She joined in at the top of the next few inceptions of
The Pastoral
, but soon became frustrated as she was sure everybody downstairs was.

Assured that Garrison was safely tucked away in his third chair by now, she returned her violin to its case and tucked it under her arm. She took one final look around her office, then locked the door behind her.

As usual, the empty auditorium welcomed her. Something about the echoes and shadows made her feel safe—embraced by the solitude. She didn’t give the slightest glance over her shoulder at the orchestra, focusing instead on her unofficial assigned seat: center section, row five, seat six. Once there she sat down, smoothed her skirt, and looked up to see Garrison gazing straight at her.

The violinists on either side of him had their eyes fixed directly on Herr Johann, who was conducting from the tip of his toes. But Garrison stared right at her, and even from this distance she could see his blond eyebrows raise above the rims of his round glasses, questioning.

She lifted her hand and waved, hoping the darkness of the auditorium would hide the fact that her own smile was weak and forced. It must have been because Garrison smiled back, wide and warm, satisfied enough to look away and up at his conductor.

Later, when the last note had been wrangled from the amateurs, Herr Johann dismissed them with the dire warning that tomorrow night, Wednesday, would be their final rehearsal before Friday’s performance.

“Don’t you want to have a good evening’s rest before your debut?”

The men agreed heartily that they did, indeed, and they made their way backstage to gather coats and cases.

Vada waited for Garrison at the foot of the stairs leading down from the stage, staring at the rose-patterned carpet until she felt the gentle touch of his hand on the small of her back.

“May I walk you home?”

He asked her that question every evening. Sometimes she’d respond with a flirtatious threat about waiting for somebody better to come along, but tonight she simply said, “Yes,” and they headed together for the side door.

“I thought we sounded fine tonight,” Garrison said after steering her through the throng of “good nights.”

“Best you’ve ever had.” Though she couldn’t recall a note.

“Tomorrow should only need a little fine-tuning before—”

“I won’t be there tomorrow.”

“Oh?” He didn’t sound hurt or disappointed or even mildly curious, but still she felt compelled to offer an explanation. “We have our patient to tend to, you know. His name is Eli.”

“Is he awake, then?”

“No, not yet.” It occurred to her that this was the exact conversation she’d had with Mr. LaFortune just a few hours ago, and she needed a quick change of topic before allowing her mind to linger on this afternoon’s encounter.

“It’s just that Althea has to report to the telegraph office, and Hazel would have been with him all day. If I’m not home, that leaves him in Lisette’s care, and I don’t know how reliable she is—”

“Hold on!” Garrison said, chuckling. “Do I need to worry that this man is stealing you away from me?”

“Of course not.” She spoke a little more quickly, a little more loudly than the question warranted. “Why would you say that?”

“Because you seem to be in an awful hurry to get back to him.”

It was then that she realized how quickly she was walking, with Garrison trailing half a step behind her.

“I’m sorry.” She came to a full stop and held up her violin case. “I thought I’d try playing a little music for him, see if that might get through.”

“Now I am jealous.” He eased her back to walking. “You never play for me.”

“You’re not in a coma.” She looped her free arm through his and they continued, the humming of the streetlights swelling and dwindling as they passed.

As they approached the light that illuminated “their” corner, their steps slowed. By the time they reached the curbside, they were already nearly stopped. They turned toward each other, and Vada looked up, seeing the familiar planes of his face made sharper in the lamplight.

Garrison cocked one ear up toward the lamp. “Sounds like G minor tonight.”

“And a little out of tune.” She joined in the familiar banter. “Herr Johann would have a fit.”

“That streetlight would get fourth chair. At best.”

Vada forced a weak chuckle, but it died just as slowly as their steps, and here she was with Garrison again. Standing still and silent.

“Well, then, darling. Until Thursday, I guess.”

He was bending to kiss her, and where she usually would have presented her cheek, she lifted her hand and braced it against him.

“Garrison.” Her fingers curled around his lapel. “I have to know. Have you ever been—” She stopped, not only to gather her thoughts, but to step a bit to the side so when she looked up, she didn’t need to see his face framed by a halo of light. “Have you ever been…tempted?”

“Of course I have.” The warmth of his smile drew her in, making her a part of him, though there was a hint of something much more serious in his eyes.

Last week such an admission might have made her furious, but tonight, it ushered in a feeling of camaraderie, and for a moment she felt poised to offer her own confession.

“Why do you think we stop walking together at this corner?” He brought his hand up and stroked her cheek. “My beautiful girl.” He dropped one soft, lingering kiss on her lips. “There are nights when I never want to let you go. And I worry that if we were alone, in the shadows, even that close to your house, there might be a time when I simply wouldn’t.”

His voice had dropped to a huskiness that was little more than breath itself, and she still held fast to his coat, but now more as a means to bring steadiness to her legs.

“But never by anybody else? You’ve never felt yourself…drawn to…”

“Not since that morning I saw you in Moravek’s bakery.”

It wasn’t what she wanted to hear, this expression of desire. If anything, it magnified her own wandering thoughts. His eyes were searching hers now, and she knew he wanted to ask her the same question, and she knew she would die on the spot if he did. Maybe not die, but surely confess. Though, really, what was there to confess? The stray touch of an arm? A knee? Or the unsettling smile? Or that churning, craving core?