The Rose of Winslow Street (32 page)

M
odern ventilation!” Libby's father declared with pride. “Now that we have one less fireplace, we will need to design the house to take advantage of the heat from the kitchen.” Her father proceeded to outline his plan for piping heat away from the kitchen and into the upstairs bedrooms during the frigid New England winters.

Libby sketched as he described his vision. “Will we do the labor ourselves again?” she asked. Strangely, she hoped he would want to. Never had the two of them gotten along so well as during their work tearing down the chimney and repairing the house.

“Of course!” her father said, and Libby breathed a sigh of relief. It would give her something to distract her from thoughts of Michael, whose letters had stopped coming and, even by the most generous accounting, was more than a month overdue. Getting a decent heating system installed into the house was enough of a challenge to keep her brain diverted. Besides, it was September and getting chilly at night.

Was Michael sleeping outside under the stars? Wouldn't that be terribly cold for the children? She ought to quit worrying about them. If there was one thing for which Michael Dobrescu could be counted on, it was that he would provide for his family. Perhaps that was where his dependability ended, but she need not fear that Luke or Andrei would be suffering in the cold.

Libby heard a knock on the door, and her heart surged. Her father moved to stand, but she beat him to it. “I'll get it,” she said, proud of how she kept the excitement from her voice. It could be anyone, but they were not expecting visitors and it would be like Michael to show up with no warning. She tidied a strand of hair and adjusted the line of her vest. She wished she was wearing anything other than her “man's suit.” Something a little more feminine, which was what Michael seemed to appreciate, but it would have to do.

She flung open the door to see Jasper. “Oh, it's you.”

“Good afternoon, Libby,” he said with remarkable grace, given her disappointed greeting. There was no sign of Regina, for Father was still likely to go into a rage when he saw his treacherous daughter-in-law. “I brought you a treat,” Jasper said, just as Tillie jumped out from where she had been hiding behind a potted juniper bush.

“It's me!” Tillie said with her arms flung wide, offering herself up like a little morsel of ambrosia. Libby scooped up Tillie and hugged her tightly. “A treat indeed,” Libby murmured.

Jasper looked mildly uncomfortable as he stepped into the foyer and adjusted his tie. “I brought more paperwork for Father to sign,” he said quietly.

For several weeks, Jasper had been gathering together all the licenses Regina had sold and was making arrangements to redirect the revenue into Professor Sawyer's name. Regina had been clever in diverting the money into various accounts, so reconstructing exactly how much the Professor's inventions had earned was impossible. They would never recover the massive amount of money Regina had already spent on her lavish way of living, but Libby believed Jasper was genuine in his desire to correct the fraud.

More importantly, her father believed it as well.

Libby was ashamed at the sense of triumph she felt when Jasper was knocked from his pedestal in his father's esteem. Did she really believe Father would love her more if he was disappointed in Jasper? It certainly had not been the case, and she felt small and petty for handling it as roughly as she had. In any event, her father now believed that Jasper knew nothing of Regina's duplicity, and this allowed him to make peace with his son.

“Where is the cold Romanian?” Tillie asked.

Libby paused at the curious comment. “Who called him that?” Libby asked.

“Mommy. She said you wanted to marry him, but he got cold feet. He should put some shoes on.”

Libby found it fascinating that such an innocent statement could bring such a grinding halt to a conversation. Libby turned her prettiest smile on Jasper, who had the decency to look embarrassed. “Just out of curiosity,” she asked pleasantly, “are you ever tempted to set your wife's hair on fire?”

Jasper leaned down to kiss Tillie on the forehead to smother his laughter. “On occasion,” he said as he picked up his leather case and headed to the study. Libby sat Tillie down in the parlor, where she could fashion the little girl's hair into French braids.

She wished her misery over Michael could have remained her own private torment, but it had become the season-long entertainment for the entire town. The story of medieval treasures hidden in the professor's chimney had dazzled the people of Colden, who were now eager to learn more about Michael Dobrescu and the mysterious Lady Mirela. Although they had once assumed Michael's attentions to Libby were a ploy to secure the house on Winslow Street, now they knew he was some sort of European aristocrat, and the entire population of Colden was curious to know if he would return for her as promised. It was mortifying, but people continued to call her the duchess. It was the end of September, but according to all the students in Mr. Carlyle's math class, the projected rate of speed should have had the Dobrescus back in town five weeks earlier. Roger Kraft's team had thoughtfully continued to move their tacks eastward on the classroom map. They now had Michael pegged a hundred miles into the Atlantic Ocean, somewhere south of Greenland.

She parted Tillie's hair in a straight line and began the age-old process of weaving the silky strands into a tidy braid. No matter how strong her pangs of loneliness, at least she would always have Tillie's unabashed love and devotion.

She tied a ribbon into the bottom of the first braid. “When we are finished here, how would you like to go out to the greenhouse and see the little jasmine babies?”

“Babies?” Tillie asked with delight.

“
Jasmine
babies,” Libby said. “They are bright green and almost three inches tall. But these are very special jasmine plants. They have been designed to bloom at night and smell prettier than any other type of jasmine in the world.” Michael had told her how many decades the old duke had worked to refine this unique cultivar, breeding and cross-pollinating the jasmine until this exquisite plant was produced. The jasmine seeds were the first thing Michael had planted after he renovated the greenhouse last summer. All summer long, Libby had been nurturing those seedlings, preparing fertilizer and adjusting the greenhouse panels to maintain a precise temperature. Over the past few months, she had carted hundreds of gallons of water to feed the thirsty seedlings. It had given her a sense of maternal satisfaction to take care of these tiny green shoots for Michael. Someday these plants would bloom and create more of the precious jasmine oil he prized so highly.

Libby's mouth thinned as she tied off Tillie's second braid. Michael might not return to Colden for her, but she was certain he would one day return for those jasmine plants.

And he would have to deal with her if he wanted them back.

T
he windmills were as magnificent as Libby remembered. As soon as their cart reached the edge of the miller's property, her father pulled the brake to let her and Tillie scramble down for a better view. Libby leaned over to ensure Tillie's cloak was properly fastened against the chilly October wind, then shaded her eyes as she looked up at her father in the driver's bench.

“Aren't you coming?” she asked softly. The whole point of bringing her father to see the windmills was to help him come to terms with the release of his technology. He was still roiling with resentment over Regina's betrayal, but Libby hoped this trip would help. If her father could learn to take pride in his accomplishments, rather than dwelling on their flaws, he would surely sleep easier at night. It was impossible to look at those powerful, majestic windmills and not stand in awe. Seeing them ought to help ease his feelings of betrayal, and if that happened, perhaps it would help mend the family rift.

Her father's face was a mass of conflicting emotions. There was pride, but it was mixed with uncertainty and anxiety. Sure enough, he was staring at the distinctive wind shaft in the center of the sail. It was his dissatisfaction with the design of that single piece of technology that had caused him to scrap the entire windmill project eight years ago. Libby knew he was castigating himself for the inadequacy of the wind shaft, frantically wishing there was something he could do to correct the tiny flaw only he could see.

“You go on ahead with Tillie,” her father finally said.

Libby nodded and folded Tillie's small hand into her palm and walked toward the first windmill, whose grand sails were slowly turning in the stiff breeze. Her boots crunched on the oyster shell path as she savored the crisp air blowing from the estuary. The last time she had been there, she had walked hand-in-hand with Michael. It had been the first day he'd kissed her. For those thrilling few hours, Libby had felt like she had a companion as she walked side-by-side with a man she adored.

Michael was probably never going to come back. He was two months overdue, and his letters had stopped coming a month ago. At first she thought perhaps weather had caused a delay. Or a broken axle wheel or a washed-out bridge or maybe even inaccurate maps. But she needed to quit fooling herself. Michael was a strong and confident man who knew how to travel and how to contact her if he wanted to. Before he left Colden, Michael inquired about the price of farmland in Kentucky and Massachusetts. That really should have been her first clue about his intentions.

She had been a brief, glorious summer romance for Michael, but Libby could not hold that against him. For a few exhilarating months, she had been dazzled by a man who was every hero from a fairy tale, with a bighearted laugh that could shake the rafters. He was a man who could slay dragons as easily as he could wipe a runny nose or raise a fine crop of Gallica roses. Michael showed her what a family should be and what loyalty meant. Most importantly, he taught her that she was worthy of love, and that it was time to start demanding it from her father and maybe even from a suitor in the future.

Perhaps she was no match for fine Kentucky bottomland, but that didn't mean Libby intended to disappear into a life of miserable spinsterhood. Not anymore. Michael was gone, but she would build a brilliant life without him. She had Tillie and someday she might even have a family of her own. And as her gaze wandered over the splendid sight of the windmills, slowly creaking and turning in the breeze, Libby felt a surge of pride that not even her paintings had been able to provide.

A gust of wind lifted the flat-brimmed hat from Tillie's head and sent it sailing across the scrub grass. “Whoopsie!” Libby laughed as she hiked her skirts and chased after the straw hat. She was breathless by the time she caught it and brought it back to Tillie. She knelt down to fasten the satin ribbons beneath Tillie's chin.

“You see how strong the wind is?” she asked Tillie. “The wind makes those sails turn and moves the great big millstones inside the tower. That's how we get our flour and cornmeal. Wasn't Grandpa clever in how he designed these pretty windmills?”

Tillie craned her neck to look up at the windmill that towered over them, holding up her little arms to feel the stiff breeze. “It's like magic!” she said.

Libby gazed at the slowly turning sails, the tightly stretched fabric a stark white against the vivid blue sky. It
was
like magic. And she had played a part in helping make these windmills happen. Plenty of other artists had the skill to capture the design, but she was the one who had worked patiently alongside her difficult father, year after year, to translate his dreams into a format builders could see and implement. Long after she was dead and gone from this world, these windmills would still be there turning in the wind.

The sound of footsteps crunching on the oyster-shell path signaled her father's arrival. The expression on his face convinced her she had been right to bring him here. He was looking at the windmills with hesitant pride. “They are beautiful, Papa,” she said softly.

“They are like castles!” Tillie said. Not that Tillie had ever seen a castle, but her enthusiasm coaxed a smile from the professor.

He swallowed hard and cleared his throat. “I suppose they look okay,” he conceded. But his look of pleasure was unmistakable, and Libby was certain this day was the best gift she had ever given her father.

Libby got the picnic basket out of the wagon and spread a blanket on the scrub grass, far enough away from the windmills so they could admire their splendor as they turned in the wind. Tillie brought a few rocks she had found to anchor the corners of the blanket down. It was a simple meal, just some bread and cheese with a few pickled cherries and walnuts. The only delicacy was a honey cake she'd made with Tillie the day before. The secret was in beating the honey into the butter until it was as light as air. She and Tillie had taken turns until they were exhausted, but it was worth it to see the delight on Tillie's face as the mixture expanded under their labor. The little girl recounted each step of the cake-making process for the professor, who had the grace to appear suitably impressed.

“Aunt Libby can make anything,” Tillie said as she laid a slice of cheese atop her bread. “Not like Mommy. When Mommy made blackberry jam, it was so bad Daddy said it tasted like cough medicine and we had to throw it away.”

At the mention of blackberry jam, Libby's thoughts soared back to the summer, when she'd lavished the treat on the Dobrescu boys. With each jar she brought them, Michael had looked at her with gratitude shining in eyes that were bluer than the cloudless autumn sky.

Libby straightened and brushed away a strand of grass that had blown onto their blanket. Would there ever come a time when memories of Michael did not creep out of nowhere with a rush of bittersweet longing?

She turned her attention to Tillie. “The cranberry harvest will be in soon,” she said. “Would you like to come over and we can make cranberry preserves? It is not all that different than making jam.”

Tillie was enthusiastic, as Libby knew she would be. How fortunate she was to have this sweet girl in her life. Libby would do her best to count every blessing she had, rather than mourn the loss of something that would never be.

Autumn descended on Colden. The leaves turned vibrant shades of gold, scarlet, and orange. They dried, withered, and began to swirl away in the October wind. The fields surrounding Colden had been harvested of their cranberries, and throughout the town, Libby could smell the scent of simmering cranberry preserves. She finished the drawings for an improved heating system for the house and worked with her father to complete it before the New England winter. It had taken ten days to install, and now the only remaining task was to repair the roof, which had been opened to accommodate the new ventilation pipe.

Libby was proud of how perfectly she had measured, cut, and installed the flat sheets of copper flashing around her father's cleverly designed exhaust pipe, even though the installation meant she had spent the better part of two days climbing on the roof. Dressed in a sturdy pea coat and a pair of boy's trousers, she felt better about doing the installation herself rather than letting her seventy-year-old father handle the task. Ivan the Terrible generally scrambled up on the roof with her. There was no stopping the cat from clawing his way up the silver maple next to their house and springing onto the roof. It was pathetic how much she enjoyed his company. Every hour or so she took a break, nibbling from a basket of peanuts and staring up at the slow-moving clouds overhead as she lay on the roof.

The only task left was to repair the roof tiles. A dozen tiles were needed to cover the small area of exposed roofing. Each tile had a small hole drilled along the top rim, and nailing them into place would be an easy task. She was just about to begin nailing the first tile into the roof deck when a commotion came from the far end of Winslow Street.

“He's coming, Libby. He's coming back!”

Libby looked down the street toward the noise, but a screen of orange and yellow maple leaves blocked her vision. Ivan froze, swiveled his head around, then scrambled down the nearest tree. The moment his paws touched the ground, he bolted like a shot down the street. That cat never liked anyone, with the possible exception of Luke Dobrescu.

Libby's breath caught, but she refused to get her hopes up. She had given up waiting for Michael's return and wasn't going to go chasing down the street like a foolish jilted woman. Mr. Carlyle's math class had given up on Michael's return and divided the cranberry candies among the entire class. “The candy will never survive if we have to wait into the next decade for the man to get here,” he had joked.

Mr. Stockdale from across the street must have heard the commotion, because he came outside to see what was going on. He looked up at Libby and gestured down the street. “He's coming!” the old man said, then ambled down the street, but Libby still could not see past the screen of trees to be certain it was actually Michael.

Now she could hear the clopping of horse hooves and the rolling of wagon wheels. Could he really be coming back? She shouldn't let herself hope, but her heart was racing and it was hard to draw a full breath of air. Michael had told her he was coming back, so why had she been so foolish as to doubt him? He was the most loyal, honest man in the world.

If it was really Michael, should she climb down the ladder? Head down the street and greet him like everyone else seemed to be doing? That would make her look pathetic, ready to pounce on her man. She should not reward him for being a full two months late. She grabbed the hammer and a roof tile. Lining it flush against the neighboring tile, she placed the nail through the hole and began tapping it in. It was far better to continue going about her day as if nailing this piece of tile were the most fascinating task in the world. Like placing the final strokes of paint on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. The finishing touches of the Magna Carta.

The breeze carried snatches of voices and laughter. The group was too far away to decipher the words, but one voice stood out among the others. She would recognize Michael Dobrescu's booming laughter if she was blindfolded and at the bottom of the sea. If she wasn't on the top of the house, she would be jumping for joy. Instead, she carefully set the hammer down and angled her body so that she was sitting on the roof, arms resting across her bent knees as she waited for him. Couldn't he at least have written a letter to let her know he was coming back?

Pants. She would be wearing pants when Michael finally returned for her, but there was no help for it.

When the wagon finally cleared the trees and drew up in front of the house, it was swarmed by people from the neighborhood. Right away she saw him on the seat of the wagon, looking toward the house in anticipation. How could she have forgotten how magnificent he was? As always, he was in desperate need of a haircut and his clothes could use a good washing,
but those shoulders.
Ivan the Terrible was cradled in Luke's arms and Andrei was making eyes at one of the neighborhood girls. When she looked back at Michael, he was staring up at her with murder in his eyes.