The Bridegrooms (26 page)

For that, she needed a hat.

A quick check into her pocketbook showed her to be carrying nearly six dollars within the lining. She’d had plans for that money—a boutonniere for Garrison to wear at the concert tomorrow night, and maybe, if he didn’t think it too bold, a quick late supper at a restaurant after. But she had more stashed away in a single rolled black stocking in the top drawer of her bureau.

When she came to the street where she should have headed north to the Hollenden Hotel, she continued moving forward. A few blocks more, and she was at The Arcade.

She was infused with energy the minute she walked between the entrance towers. The long, narrow building, four stories of balconies looking down on the open floor—all of it illuminated by a full-length vaulted glass ceiling—hummed with life. Men and women bustled within its wood-and-steel frame like so many bees in a hive, popping in and out of the little shops that lined the walls.

Along with the jolt of energy came a pang of guilt, for this was truly one of Lisette’s favorite places to be, and right now Vada heard the last of her angry words echoing in her head, piercing through the hundreds of partial conversations around her. The sisters had spent countless hours here, sometimes zipping from store to store looking for the perfect birthday gift for Doc, sometimes simply strolling, barely acknowledging the offered wares.

This morning she was on a mission. She bounded up the first flight of stairs at the far end, then took the second set to the left. Four shops down was a small, familiar hat shop, cleverly named
Deux Mesdames Chapeaux
, though there was only one owner, and she was far from French. The proprietress was actually a middle-aged woman from Kentucky named Elmira Capstone who would suffer each customer exactly
ten minutes before sending her away either completely satisfied or empty headed.

There was one woman in the shop ahead of Vada, so she strolled about, looking at the various styles perched on the smooth wooden forms, trying to decide what she wanted before falling into Mrs. Capstone’s capable hands.

“I simply cannot decide between the green and the blue.” The customer was a young woman, probably Althea’s age, holding out two nearly identical boater-style hats, one of dark green straw, the other navy blue. The crown of each was festooned with silk flowers, the green sporting the addition of a tiny, bright-eyed red bird.

Mrs. Capstone took a step back and surveyed first the green hat, then the woman, then the blue, then the woman, and said, “Take the blue, or buy nothing at all.”

Minutes later it was Vada’s turn. She offered her hand to Mrs. Capstone and wished her a good morning.

“Good morning. Aren’t you one of the Allenhouse girls?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Vada felt like she’d somehow stumbled back into school.

“And are you looking for anything special today?”

“Just something…” She had no idea how to ask for a hat that would erase the ravages of a sleepless night, so she simply stared straight into Mrs. Capstone’s eyes and said, “…something that will go with this dress.”

“And will you be wearing the hat out today?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Mrs. Capstone pointed to an upholstered bench along the window that looked out into The Arcade. “Then sit. I’ll be right with you.”

She obeyed, leaning against the cushioned back and allowing herself to close her eyes for just a moment…

“Miss Allenhouse!”

Vada scrambled to her feet, a bit disoriented, and blinked several times before the woman in front of her had any meaning.

“Are you all right, Miss Allenhouse?”

“Yes, I—” She interrupted herself with an enormous yawn. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“So I gathered. Here.” Mrs. Capstone thrust forward a beautiful piece—midnight blue felt, the brim, with an alluring iridescent quality, lifted up along one side creating a flattering angle. Shooting up from the crown was an array of peacock feathers. The feathers gave a much-needed shot of bold color to counteract the rather dull color of the fabric of her dress, while the hat itself perfectly matched the piping.

Vada followed Mrs. Capstone’s pointing finger to the straight-backed chair in front of an oval free-standing mirror and sat down. Her reflection in the artificial light of the store was even more depressing than what she’d seen outside, and somehow plopping a shock of peacock feathers did nothing to brighten it.

“I’m not sure this is exactly—”

“Just wait.”

Then Mrs. Capstone did the most amazing thing. Working her fingers along the brim of the hat, she showed the iridescent quality of the brim to be the result of a layer of fine, gray silk netting that, when not wrapped around the brim, created a lovely, encompassing veil that could be cinched and tied just below her left ear.

“What do you think now?”

“Oh, it’s perfect.” And it was. Her face was now a beautiful, mysterious blur. “I, um, didn’t see a price.”

Of course, that’s because Mrs. Capstone never advertised her prices on any of her merchandise. She crouched down behind Vada and connected
their gazes in the mirror. Then, as if some kind of sideshow medium, she squinted her eyes, thought for a minute, and said, “Four dollars and twenty-five cents.”

Thrilled but suspicious, Vada turned in her seat. “You can’t be serious.”

“You will buy this hat for four-twenty-five, or you will buy nothing from me today.”

Minutes later, another woman was in the chair, and Vada, renewed, walked out of the shop. The stunning headpiece garnered more than one admiring glance from the women she passed, though to be true, some of their whispered comments might be due to the eccentricity of wearing such a veil in this setting.

Despite the generous light allowed in through The Arcade’s glass ceiling, the sheer gray fabric proved to be cumbersome—as did a few low-level plants—so she decided to brave baring her face a little while longer and folded the veil back up over the hat’s brim.

Any time she and her sisters came shopping here, the tradition was that whatever shop was officially declared the “last” of that outing, they would walk the entire circumference of that level before taking the stairs to the bottom level.

Perhaps it was a matter of stalling before heading out on such an unpleasant errand, or perhaps it was a feeling of guilt for her outburst this morning. Or for her behavior the night before. Whatever the motivation, she’d paid such a surprisingly reasonable price for her hat she felt she could splurge on a little something for each of her sisters.

So, as she made her way along the second-floor balcony, Vada stopped at her favorite stationers and bought a box of pretty letter paper for Hazel and a box of pretty painted pencils for Lisette. For Althea she found a beautiful tiny notebook with gold-winged cherubs painted on the cover. Nothing seemed appropriate for Doc, but she reasoned she’d
done him no wrong, and an unexpected gift would bring more questions than anything.

Satisfied, she took her paper-wrapped bundle and listlessly strolled the rest of the second story before heading out to the street. Once there, she paused long enough to bring down the veil before fixing her steps toward the Hollenden Hotel.

Although she had no way of knowing precisely, it must have been after noon when she walked into the lobby. The lunch hour. The sheer gray netting made it more difficult for her eyes to adjust to the dark, rich interior of the lobby; still, she made her way to the restaurant without mishap.

Bad enough that she hadn’t planned exactly what she was going to say when she came face-to-veil with Mr. Triplehorn; there was one other confrontation she hadn’t planned on. The minute she saw the large podium outside the double doors leading into the dining room, she remembered the stubby maître d’ who seemed so smugly satisfied to escort her and her little party out of here three days ago. And there he was.

All the weight of anxiety she’d carried all day settled in her shoes, and by the time she arrived at the podium, her feet were too heavy to pick her up and run her away. But it was too late to turn back as his face had already folded into a broad smile.

“Are you meeting somebody for lunch, mademoiselle?” The cordial reception indicated a total lack of recognition on his part, as he stretched
mademoiselle
into five syllables, much different from LaFortune’s compact
mam’zelle
.

“Do you know if Mr. Triplehorn is luncheoning in the dining room today?”

Either her voice or the mention of Triplehorn’s name brought a spark of recognition, but still, he consulted the enormous book on the podium
before responding, “I’m so sorry, mademoiselle.
Monsieur
Triplehorn has not made an appearance since breakfast. Perhaps,” he laid one finger to the side of his nose and raised an eyebrow, “mademoiselle will be visiting him in his room?”

Ordinarily, Vada would have delivered a gasp along with an injurious retort, but the hat and the veil elevated her above the moment, and she simply inclined her head. “I don’t believe so, thank you.”

She turned slowly and glided back to the lobby, counting on her pace and posture to blend her in with the other hotel guests milling about on the marble floor.

At the far end of the room was a long counter made of highly polished maple, armed with a regiment of uniformed bellboys in perfect formation along its front. Now it was just a matter of handing one of them a note to be delivered to Mr. Triplehorn’s room and keeping the courage needed to wait at the bottom of the wide, carpeted staircase for his arrival.

Taking a deep breath, she approached the first boy on the line, a lad of no more than fourteen with a smattering of blemishes underscored by the chinstrap of his bell cap. She cleared her throat, getting no response. “Excuse me, boy?”

He said nothing. She maneuvered her body directly in front of his, bending down to meet his eyes, craning her neck with each attempt at his avoidance.

Finally, she opened the clasp of her handbag, and before she could reach in for a dime, he clicked his heels together and delivered a crisp, “Help you with something, ma’am?”

“Yes.” Her fingers pinched the coin within her purse. “I need you to deliver a message to Mr. Triplehorn.”

“You mean a note?” His voice cracked with the question.

“No, just a… If you’ll please tell him Miss Allenhouse, Miss Vada Allenhouse is downstairs to speak with him.”

He fished a square of paper and a pencil out of his pocket and wrote a reasonable spelling of both names. “And what room is Mr.”—he consulted his note—“Triplehorn in?”

“I don’t know. He’s not quite expecting me.”

“Are you a guest in this hotel?”

She was more appreciative than ever of the veil to hide her blush. “No.”

He clicked his heels again and returned the paper to his pocket. “Then you’ll have to request your message be sent from the front desk.” Still standing ramrod straight, he jerked his head back, as if she could possibly miss the massive redwood counter behind him.

“Thank you,” she said, backing away. At least he had the decency not to extend his hand for a tip, but she held out the dime anyway, which he took, looking her in the eyes for the first time and giving a curt nod.

Vada took just two steps toward the desk before turning back. Asking help from a bellboy was one thing, but approaching the stuffy, stiff-buttoned clerk behind the counter was quite another.

The lobby was full of lush green plants of varying shades and sizes, many of which grew tall in stone planters surrounded by round, plush sofas. The nearest one called to her, and the moment the back of her knees touched it, she collapsed in the velvet cushions.

She should leave now. No one would be the wiser. She could explain her day’s absence with her new purchases. Just a few more minutes here to collect her strength and gather her resolve.

Safe behind her veil, she allowed her gaze to roam openly, observing the hotel’s patrons, wondering about the wealth and power behind each. Which unassuming man was actually a state senator? Which woman was
the wife of a financier? Whenever she allowed herself to plan a future with Garrison, she envisioned the life of a successful attorney, possibly a future politician, and they would stay in places like this—or better, maybe in New York or Washington. But now, even as she sat within the possibility, that life never seemed so far away. She was no more deserving of being his wife than he was eager to make her so.

She was just about to get up and leave when she saw him. Along with her breath, that tight feeling in her skull went away, filling her with an unsettling relief. Not to mention curiosity.

What was Louis LaFortune doing here?

Dressed as she’d never seen him before, he wore a rich brown suit with just a hint of green thread running through it. His starched white collar stood out against his tanned face and neck; the tie twisted into a perfect bow. Most men would wear a bowler hat with such a suit, but his head was bare, the reddish curls disciplined with a part above his left temple and shining with tonic. All of these details became clear as LaFortune settled within two feet of her before he sat not two cushions away.

He didn’t speak, and neither did she. Though he hadn’t made a move toward her, she felt inexplicably trapped. Slowly, she scooted to the edge of the cushion, stood, and attempted a nonchalant stroll toward the front entrance.

“I thought that was you,
mam’zelle
.”

She could have kept walking, just left him to sit and wonder about this mistaken identity, but the thought of him following her, creating some sort of scene, seemed infinitely worse. So she stopped.

“How did you know it was me?”

She hadn’t turned around, but the next thing she knew, LaFortune was right behind her, one hand on her shoulder, speaking down the back of her neck.

“I wasn’t sure until you started to walk away. That walk,
cher
, I would know it anywhere.”

“What are you doing here?”

“You told me last night of your intentions. I didn’t think a woman such as you should be in such a situation alone.”

“I’m fine.” She took one step, but his grip on her shoulder held her back. “Let me go.”