“Paris was Paris,” she said as she heard another footstep, as she looked past Oliver to the man coming up behind him, into their home. “But I belong here….”
Her words ended with a gasp.
“Hello, Lilly.” Truman pulled off his hat and looked at her with an intensity that could always unravel her just a bit.
Truman.
And he looked good. Time had been generous. His shoulders seemed broader under his faded leather jacket, and he wore a crisp white shirt and black tie, dark trousers, a spiffy rendition of the renegade flyer he’d been. He was even clean-shaven—no more raze of dark whiskers. Still, that unruly lock of black hair hung over his gray-blue eyes, and he gave her the slightest rakish smile, the one that never ceased to sweep words from her mouth.
She stood, mute, in the foyer, her gaze returning to Oliver.
“I should have done this years ago.” Oliver ran his hand along the brim of his hat, considering her, then Truman for a moment. Finally, “I’ll be in my study should you need me.”
She wasn’t sure just whom he might be talking to. Still, she had the crazy urge to lunge after him as he disappeared into his office.
She didn’t want to guess at how she looked after two weeks’ passage and a day at the Chronicle. For all she knew, she wore newsprint down her face, her hair in tangles.
“I know this is a surprise.”
She looked at him, then, trying to choose which words to start with. She managed an unladylike, “Uh…”
He smiled, too much charm in it, and she wanted to slap him. Perhaps she could find the correct words. “What are you doing here, Truman?” She shot a look at the closed door to Oliver’s office.
No, not closed. Slightly ajar. She remembered Presley’s description of him sitting in the tavern in Spain. Perhaps he had his ear pressed to the door, waiting in the wings. The thought propelled courage into her veins. “Finally, after four years, you track me down?”
“Your father came to my air show.”
She didn’t bother to correct him, because yes, Oliver was her father. Except…so he hadn’t tracked her down. Still, “I don’t understand.”
Truman set his hat on the foyer table and reached inside his jacket. “He came to inquire after these.” He pulled out a folded wad of papers. “It’s our divorce papers. I haven’t signed them.”
His words stilled her, all the way through. “You mean we’re still—”
“Married. Yes.” He curled them into a tube in his strong hands, drew in a breath, looked away from her, and it reminded her of that shaken expression after she’d climbed out onto the wing in the fog, when he’d depended on her to get them safely to ground. “I couldn’t, Lil. Not when I still loved you.”
She stared at him, his words like a flame through her.
Any time Oliver wanted to burst through the door and throw Truman’s hide from their house would be fine with her. Her entire body thrummed.
“Love me? Truman, you threw me away like an old piece of fabric, patched up your wounds with a new plane, a new air show. Let’s not forget Agnes the Sky Angel.”
He held up his hand. “Lilly—”
“Do you even know what love is, Truman? Because guess what? Love sticks around. Commits. Love doesn’t run.”
At least, that’s what Oliver—what God—had taught her.
Every word appeared as a blow on his face and he winced, looked at the ground. “I know.”
“You know? What do you know? That you betrayed me? That what you did was—”
“Unforgiveable?” He said it so softly it shouldn’t have silenced her, but she stood there as memory rushed back at her. There’s no forgiveness for me.
She turned away, her back to him, hating the answer. “No. Not unforgiveable. Nothing is unforgiveable.” She wanted to say the words— I forgive you—but they lodged in her throat.
He took a step toward her. It seemed the door to Oliver’s office had cracked open just a bit wider. “Lilly, the day we did that suicide loop, when you nearly died, I nearly died too. The thought of losing you the way I’d lost my brother—because of my stupidity, my arrogance— I couldn’t bear it. I don’t know what Oliver told you, but I begged him to take you back to New York City, away from me. I was afraid of what could happen to you, with me. I asked your father to make you forget about me.”
No wonder Oliver had delivered the divorce papers. No wonder he never spoke Truman’s name. She closed her eyes. “Then why are we still married? What are you doing here?”
Truman came up so close behind her she could smell the sky on him, the touch of the sun on his skin. If she turned, she might step right into his arms. She edged away from him.
“I’m here because nothing is right without you,” he said softly. “We belong together. Since you left, everything feels off balance.”
She rounded on him. “You have your own show—it’s everything you ever dreamed of! I’m not stupid, I know that’s why you married me. So that someday Oliver would buy you your own plane.”
He stared at her, his mouth open.
“That’s not true, Lilly.” Oliver stood at the door now, his hands in his pockets. “I accused him of the same thing, and he told me he didn’t want my money. I told him that he could have it anyway, as long as he loved you, kept you safe. That’s why he told Marvel he could buy a plane.”
“But you let me believe—”
“That was my doing,” Truman said. “I knew that you would only leave me if I betrayed you. I knew you would find out what I said to Marvel, and I…didn’t care.”
He didn’t care that he’d hurt her. “Well, it worked.”
His lips tightened into a tight line of regret. “Yeah.”
“So you came back because—”
“Did you not hear the part where I told you I am still in love with you? That nothing is right without you? That when Oliver showed up to retrieve the papers from me—the ones I’ve been holding onto for four years— I couldn’t bear not seeing you? I begged him to let me see you, and he agreed.”
“What if I didn’t want to see you?”
Truman flinched. Glanced at Oliver. Then he nodded. “Okay. I deserve that. But I’m not signing those papers until I know you really don’t want me.”
She hated the look on his face and the way he so easily stirred her heart. I want you, Truman.
But then what? Live on the road with him, flying from one air show to the next? A vagabond life until one of them died?
She couldn’t live that life. She glanced at Oliver, and he met her eyes. Not anymore.
Truman was her past. New York, the Chronicle was where she belonged now.
She turned away from him. “Sign the papers, Truman.” Then she walked up the stairs to her room and shut the door.
Chapter 16
Her courage, whatever remained of it, failed her.
Rosie stood across the street from the Price family chateau, in the shadows of the late hour, watching as a man stalked out the front door, then turned and stared up at the house as if he meant to scale the walls.
He stood there so long she could nearly feel the frustration pulsing inside him. Then, just when she thought he might be leaving, he sat on the front steps, his head in his hands, until she thought he’d stay so long she might have to find a bench and rest her swollen feet.
He finally got up, took another look at the house, and strode into the night.
She watched him go, and his stance reminded her of Guthrie when she’d turned him down so many years ago on the boardwalk.
Or, when he realized that she intended to pay Cesar every cent he demanded. She wasn’t going to run and spend her life looking over her shoulder. After having a taste of happily ever after, she intended to protect it with everything she had.
And, as the daughter of Foster and Jinx Worth, she had a considerable amount. She just needed to access it.
Which started with Lilly. Lilly had clearly returned and made amends with Oliver—Rosie
had seen her one day, looking smart in a pair of camel trousers and a crisp white shirt. She might not be on the Chronicle masthead, but she looked like a publisher.
A publisher with access to the Chronicle’s considerable funds should Bennett and Jinx turn her away. It made the prospect of facing her parents less desperate.
Rosie wanted to throw herself in her cousin’s arms. Instead, before she could stir up her courage, Oliver had returned home, the dejected young man in tow, and she’d had to wait until he left.
Now, she fought Guthrie’s voice in her head and crossed the street, striding up to the door, nearly out of breath as she pulled the bell cord.
It chimed deep in the house, and Mr. Stewart, Oliver’s butler, opened the door. He started at her appearance, despite his training. “Miss Rose. What a pleasure to see you.” His gaze dropped to her condition.
“Can I come in? I’m here to see Lilly.” She didn’t sound at all like her stomach churned, her body flimsy.
“Of course.” He opened the door wider, and she shuffled inside, aiming for the bench in the foyer.
“Rosie?”
Oliver had opened his study door. The last time she’d seen him, he’d taken a room in her mother’s house, dragging himself in long after midnight, fatigue etched on his face. Now he appeared tan and robust, looking handsome and even young in a suit. Shame that he’d lost his wife so early. Now that she knew what love felt like, that kind of blow seemed unbearable.
“I can’t believe it’s you.” Oliver walked over to her, pulling out his handkerchief. She took it, folded it neatly, and pressed it to her brow. He addressed his butler. “Father, can you fetch her a drink?”
“I’m here to see Lilly,” Rosie said.
“Of course you are.” Oliver stood aside as the butler handed her a glass of water from the side table. She drank it, surprised at how parched she’d become. She returned the glass to Mr. Stewart.
“Lilly’s upstairs,” Oliver said. “Father, can you inform—”
“I’ll go talk to her.” Rosie pushed herself up, belly first, aware that her actions had silenced both Oliver and his butler. Apparently neither had seen a pregnant woman in such close proximity. Or perhaps in public.
She placed a hand on the small of her back then waddled over to the stairway. Maybe she’d just lie down for a moment…
Lilly had taken her mother’s former room, the one overlooking Fifth Avenue. Rosie knocked on the door, and, hearing nothing, eased it open.
Time cascaded away, and in that moment Rosie flashed back to Paris, to Lilly sitting on her windowsill, her legs pulled up to herself, staring outside, perhaps seeing nothing.
“Lils?”
Then time broke away and Lilly turned, bringing the time with her. She’d aged, cut her hair short into a perfect, fashionable bob. She wore trousers, and the naïveté had dropped from her expression, leaving behind only what looked like tears.
Indeed, she’d been crying. Rosie heard it in her voice, saw it in how she wiped her cheeks as she got up. “Rosie?”
She nodded. “Hello, Lilly.”
“Rosie!” Lilly crossed the room in a moment and threw her arms around Rosie’s neck. “I thought you moved to Chicago!”
Rosie closed her eyes, pulled her cousin close, inhaling the sweet reunion. “Oh, I’ve missed you.”
Lilly pulled away, caught Rosie’s hands. “And look at you.”
“I’m one of your buffalo.”
“You’re glorious!” Her hands hovered above Rosie’s stomach until Rosie took them and pressed against the baby moving inside.
Lilly’s eyes widened. “Oh my. Does it hurt? When is your time?”
“Not for another couple of weeks. And it only hurts when I hike across town, get on a subway, or tromp through Central Park.”
Lilly stared at her, as if trying to dissect her words, then pulled her over to the sofa in front of the fire. Rosie had always liked this room, the tiny rosebud wallpaper, the elegant Queen Anne bed on a riser in the middle of the room, the dressing table with the three gilded mirrors, the connected bathroom, updated with tiny Italian ceramic tiles. The boudoir bespoke an era of luxury, the boudoir of an heiress. Probably, Rosie could climb inside that gigantic bed and sleep for a year.
But she didn’t live in this world anymore. And perhaps, if she had to choose—
“Lilly, I need your help.”
Lilly sat next to her. “Anything.”
Rosie blew out a breath. “Really? How about a hundred thousand dollars?”
Lilly eyes widened. Rosie met her eyes, nodded. “I’m in big trouble and I don’t know what else to do.”
“Tell me what happened.”
She started with Cesar, then Guthrie, her escape at the train station, Cesar’s threat, then adding in the years in Chicago, and finally Guthrie’s trade to the Giants. “He’s been throwing the games for Cesar, so Cesar can rake in bets. But it’s killing him, Lilly. Guthrie is a man of honor, and he couldn’t do it anymore. So he pitched his heart out in the last game, and now Cesar wants cash—a lot of it—or he’s going to kill Guthrie.” She ran a hand over her stomach. “Maybe even the baby. I have until tomorrow to raise the money.”
“Oh, Rosie.”
“It’s worse. Guthrie thinks we should run. But he doesn’t understand Cesar. He’ll find us. And then…” She raised her chin, refusing to let her voice, her fears, rule her. “I will do anything to protect Guthrie. I love him.”
Lilly said nothing, as if weighing her words. Then, she got up and walked to the window, staring out into the night, her reflection staring back at Rosie. “I can get the money from Oliver. But it’ll take time.”
“You sure he’ll give it to you?”
“Just as sure as I am that Bennett will give you the money you need.”
Bennett. Rosie had let that scenario into her mind too many times last night. The one where she appeared on her mother’s doorstep, pregnant and desperate—her mother’s greatest fear—and asked her stepfather— no, groveled in front of her stepfather—to give her the money to save the man she loved.
But, for Guthrie, she would do it.
And then…and then Bennett would stare at her with that cold disdain, the one that told her she wasn’t his child. He would close the door on her, leave her sobbing on the doorstep, and never spare a moment of regret.
She deserved it, probably.
“Of course Bennett will give it to you. He loves you.”
“He doesn’t love me, Lilly. I’m not his child. I’m a reminder of the years he spent away from my mother.”
Lilly came to her. “You’re the daughter of his wife. How do you know if you don’t ask? Of course I’ll get the money—if I have time. But Bennett has the resources you need.”
Rosie closed her eyes. “I don’t know what to say to them.”
“How about ‘I’m sorry’? How about ‘I love you’?” Lilly sat down beside her again. “The words I mean to say to Oliver.” Lilly took her hand. Squeezed. “I will go with you if you want me to.”
“I know,” Rosie said. She touched Lilly’s cheek. “But I think you have your own problems to chase after.”
Lilly frowned.
“I saw a handsome man storm out of your house who looked like he wanted to tear down the door and carry you away.”
“More like shove me into the cockpit of his Travel Air and barnstorm across the country.”
“What?”
Lilly held up her hand. “Nothing. He’s…well, he’s my husband.” She rolled her eyes.
“Your husband?”
“I thought we were divorced.”
“You’re divorced?”
“He never signed the papers, and he had the nerve to come back here and tell me he still loves me.”
“Lilly, what is wrong with you?” Rosie stared at her. “Don’t let him walk away.”
“Why not? He let me walk away.”
“Not if he came here to declare his love for you.” Rosie shook
her head. “What is it going to take for you to recognize love?”
Lilly drew in a long breath, her eyes clouding. “You don’t understand, Rosie.”
“What I understand is this: It’s worth fighting for. It’s worth dying for.” She got up, pressed Lilly’s cheek. “Why is it that we have such a hard time believing in our happy ending?”
Lilly cupped her hand over hers. “Because we didn’t pay for it. We don’t own it.”
“Not anymore. I’m going to make sure this happy ending belongs to me.” She leaned down and kissed Lilly on the forehead. “I love you, cousin.”
“What are you going to do?”
“What I should have done a long time ago. I’m going to talk to my parents.”
When Bennett first married her mother, Rosie believed everything the press said about him, everything Jack had accused him of as he’d packed his things and left.
She’d blamed Bennett for destroying her mother’s marriage, even for killing her father, despite the truth. Although she’d lived with her father’s abuse for years, Bennett seemed an interloper, a convenient escape for her mother’s tears.
Then she’d met Guthrie.
An escape for her tears who’d turned into the man she couldn’t live without. Perhaps she and her mother weren’t so different after all.
Rosie churned that all through her head as she took the elevator to her parents’ fifth-floor apartment. It overlooked Central Park from the west and, with sixteen rooms, managed to satisfy Jinx’s need for spaciousness. After all, she still owned their cottage in Newport, even if she had sold the chateau on Fifth Avenue.
No doorman, but she stood in the corridor like a convict waiting for someone to yell her name down the hall and send her running.
Footsteps inside responded to the ringing of the bell, and she imagined at this late hour her mother had debated answering the door herself, her tendency to send the housekeeper away at an early hour.
She prayed for it, in fact.
The door swung open, and Bennett stood in the frame.
He so strongly resembled her father that for a moment, Foster stood there, tall, forbearing, staring her down with his dark eyes. Then, Bennett smiled, a warmth in his blue eyes that she realized she’d seen before, and the memory of her father vanished.
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