by Unrivaled
She was going to be stubborn, then. I dropped my hand. “If you could just be reasonable, when this is all over—”
Her eyes flew open. “When this is all over, it may well have killed my father, Charlie Clarke. Why can’t you just—be somebody else!” She pushed open the door and yanked on her bag, only to wrench the handle off. It tipped onto its side, the mouth yawning open, spilling all of its contents.
I bent to collect them. “Let me help—”
“No. Please! I don’t want your help.” She stuffed a dress back into it. Stockings. Gloves.
I held out a dress to her.
She snatched it from me. “I would thank you to keep your hands off my—my—”
Of all the irksome, unbearable, irritating women! “Your nightgown?” I felt my eyes flash as I threw it at her.
She caught it. As she shoved it into her bag, she glanced up at my face. And then her mouth dropped into an O. She dropped the bag entirely, backing away from me, up the walk toward her house.
I bent and picked it up, offering it to her.
She didn’t move to get it. In fact, all she did was retreat farther up the walk.
“Lucy?”
“Don’t—” All the color had drained from her face. “Don’t . . . don’t touch me.”
“I just wanted . . .” I offered the bag to her again.
She wrenched it from my hand. “It’s you.”
I’d always imagined her saying those words, but in all my imaginings, she’d never said them with quite that note and horror and fear.
“Are you all right?”
“You—you—” Her teeth were chattering so hard I could hardly hear what she was saying.
“I what?”
“You killed that man. That poor man. The one who—”
As I reached for her, she took one last, long look, clasped the bag to her chest, and fled toward her house.
I pulled on her doorbell, I pounded on the door, I yelled her name, but the door never opened. If only she’d give me the chance to explain.
But she didn’t. And she probably never would.
How had she found out about Micky Callahan? And how was it that I’d imagined I would never have to tell her? That I could ever hope to hide something so terrible from a woman I had come to . . . to love.
Love.
What would Lucy do with the information? Would she tell anyone else? It didn’t matter. If Lucy had found out, then it was only a matter of time before everyone else did too. And what could I say? I might as well have killed him.
Nelson drove me back home, and I stayed around to help him wax and polish Louise. It was an afternoon’s worth of work, and it gave me something useful to do.
Things hadn’t gone at all the way I’d hoped. I was supposed to pick Lucy up at the train station, let her cry on my shoulder, and then help her get over her broken heart.
Dreams were for children.
“Careful there, Mr. Charlie. You’re going to rub the shine right off the brass.”
“Sorry. I’ll just . . .”
“Why don’t you give that rag to me and go on up to the house?”
I walked up the drive as the sun was setting and saw a shadow flit around the corner of the house. It was short and small. One of the street scamps? Leaving the drive, I followed it around the back of the house. As I did, I discovered something I hadn’t counted on. The scamp was a she. I caught up to her as she was reaching for the back door and grabbed her about the arm.
“Ow!” She tried to pull her arm from my grasp.
“I’d like to know what you think you’re doing!”
As she looked up at me, the porch light fell across her face. She had that same look of fear and terror that Lucy had.
I released her and stepped back. “Jennie?”
She blinked. “Mr. Clarke!”
“What are—why are you prowling around out here?”
“I . . . was . . . it was my afternoon off.”
“And you’re just now coming back?”
Her gaze dropped toward the ground as she lifted her chin. “What I do with my time is my own business.”
Of course it was, but the way she refused to meet my eyes made me want to make it my business. She wrenched the door open and disappeared up the servants’ stairs. I retraced my steps back to the front walk, wondering whether I should be concerned.
43
Charlie Clarke: a murderer.
Somewhere, something deep inside me had cracked and then crumbled when I’d realized exactly where I’d seen him before. It felt very much like dreams disappearing and hope dissolving.
No wonder I’d always had the feeling that I knew him.
I opened my hope chest and reached down to the bottom, to the layer of souvenirs that I had wrapped in newspaper when I’d come home from my travels. It didn’t take long to find what I’d been looking for: that page from the Chicago Tribune I’d read in the carriage on the way home from Union Station.
Spreading it out on the floorboards, I smoothed it with my hand.
A twenty-two-year-old member of one of the South Side’s notorious athletic clubs was arrested for the murder of Micky Callahan.
Arrested for murder.
A tear dotted the newssheet. And then another and another. I gathered it up and clutched it to my bosom as I sobbed into the page. I don’t know how long I sat there, clinging to that newspaper, weeping into its folds. But then suddenly, I began to laugh. The one person I had convinced myself was exactly like me had turned out to be a murderer. The one person I had been able to talk to. The only person who had ever looked at me as if I really could be a candymaker.
Even when the worst thing he’d been was a Clarke, Charlie had never tried to destroy my dream . . . just my father’s company.
I looked again at the face that, despite all my intentions and reason, had become so dear. And then I rolled over onto the floor, pulled my knees to my chest, and started crying all over again.
“Lucy?” My mother’s voice. A gentle touch on my shoulder.
I opened my eyes, but it seemed so dark.
“Lucy?”
As I scrambled to sitting, the newspaper dropped from my eyes and I found myself on the floor in my bedroom, my mother kneeling at my side.
I squinted against the glare of sunlight from the windows.
“What on earth . . . ?”
“I . . .” I balled the newspaper up and stashed it behind me, trying to hide the evidence of a tiny infant hope I hadn’t even known I’d possessed. Then I swept a hand across my eyes to rid them of the grit of dried tears. “I fell asleep.”
“Evidently.” She gave my face a searching glance. “I was coming to get you for our afternoon calls, but I think you might want to freshen up first.” She helped me up, but when I would have gone to the bathroom, she placed a hand on my arm. “I know the wedding is quickly approaching. It’s perfectly natural to feel a bit—”
“There’s not going to be a wedding.”
Her brows drew together. “Second thoughts aren’t unheard of—”
“Mr. Arthur broke our engagement.”
“Mr. Arthur? But—”
I felt a tear slide down my cheek.
“Oh, Lucy . . .”
I moved away as she tried to embrace me. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone.”
After she left, I crammed the newspaper down to the bottom of the chest and banged the lid down on top of it. Then I went into the bathroom to wash away the evidence of my tears.
How foolish I was being!
The best thing to do, the safest course of action, was to forget that Charlie Clarke had ever existed. That he had ever been the man at the ball or the friend at the air meet. To stay as far away from him as I possibly could. But as I’d slept, the article had imprinted itself on my tearstained cheeks. And as I looked into the mirror, Charlie Clarke’s eyes stared back at me.
We visited Mrs. John Dunnert, Mrs. Edward Dunnert, and Mrs. Hiram Dunner
t—who, for reasons of family quarrels and pure spite, had their at-homes on the same afternoon. Talking to one was exhausting. Trying to carry on polite conversation with all three in succession was grueling. Especially with Charlie Clarke attempting to invade my thoughts. As we drove back up Olive Street, I asked Mother if I could walk the last few blocks home.
“From here?”
“It’s not very far.”
“By yourself?”
“I’ll be fine.”
Concern etched lines in her forehead as she reached out and touched my hand. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
I hadn’t gone ten steps when a dark green automobile swerved from its lane and screeched to a stop beside me. Charlie Clarke leaped out.
I took a step back and held my muff out, legs and tail dangling, between us. “Don’t touch me!”
He continued toward me, hands up, palms out. “I need to talk to you.”
I turned and kept walking.
It didn’t take him long to catch up. Curse fashion and its hobbled skirts! If only a streetcar would come. I’d take it all the way to Forest Park if I had to. I glanced over my shoulder, but there were none in sight.
“I just . . . I need you to understand.”
“Understand what? That you killed some poor man? I read the newspaper article, Charlie. Stay away from me.” Why had I insisted on walking home by myself?
“I didn’t kill anyone.”
“If you’ll excuse me, I need to be getting home. I’m expected. My mother’s waiting for me.”
“Lucy—” He put a hand to my arm.
I pulled away. “You can’t . . . you can’t be a liar and a murderer and a—and a Clarke and just talk your way into people’s hearts. And dreams. You can’t just pretend to be so kind. And caring. And . . . a perfect gentleman.” Why was I crying again? Charlie Clarke wasn’t worth my tears.
“I never killed anyone. They arrested me on the suspicion of having killed someone and—” He yanked his hat from his head and twisted it between his hands. “The truth of it is, I might as well have killed that man. His name was Micky Callahan, and he’d been my friend for . . . forever. I didn’t kill him, but I was there when he died. I watched it. I watched it all, and I did nothing.”
“Why?” Why did I want so much to believe him? And when had I started to care so much?
“Why? Because it seemed like there was no other choice. I was seven years old when my father walked away one day without even saying good-bye. I tied myself to a two-penny thug because that’s the only way I knew how to make a living. I never did anything really wrong. I just . . . made it easier, I guess, for other people to.”
I didn’t know what to believe anymore. “What do you want me to say, Charlie?”
“I . . .” He gave his hat another squeeze as he shot me a doleful, searching glance. “I don’t know.”
“You want me to say that everything’s going to be fine? That—that I don’t care about what happened in Chicago? Is that what you want?” I couldn’t believe I’d thought, for one brief moment after Mr. Arthur had left, that Charlie Clarke might be . . . everything I’d ever hoped for!
“I—”
“How can any of this work out?” How could anything be fine ever again?
“I only . . . I guess I was hoping you’d understand. But now I can see I was expecting too much.” He smoothed the brim of his hat and set it on his head. “I’m sorry I wasted your time.”
When I walked away, he didn’t try to stop me.
I needed to make something. Something to take the sting out of Mr. Arthur’s elopement and the revelation of Charlie’s true nature.
I’d so badly misjudged them. Both of them. In the same way I’d misjudged my hazelnut chews.
And that hadn’t been the worst of it. The worst of it had been telling Mother about the broken engagement. I’d failed at making candy, and now I’d failed at making a good marriage too.
I tied on an apron and got out a pot. I wavered as I stood in front of the icebox. Caramel or fudge?
Neither.
It needed to be something chewy. Something I could sink my teeth into.
A butterscotch chew.
I took some butter from the icebox and some vanilla essence from the cupboard. I found some sugars, vinegar, and corn syrup in the pantry, and I pulled the salt cellar closer to the stove. Putting the sugars, vinegar, corn syrup, and salt in the pot along with some water, I stirred them together.
Was that—?
I paused, spoon over the pot as I glanced toward the back door. I thought I’d heard something. But . . . no. I went back to my cooking, watching the mixture bubble as I stirred, anticipating the way the ingredients would blend together. Soon there was no white sugar and no brown sugar left. There was only a soft, silky, glistening syrup. It never ceased to amaze me how they could combine with all the other ingredients to create something so different still. I added the butter and stirred for a while.
Then I measured in some vanilla and poured the candy out into a pan.
But—there it was again. A creak from the back porch.
Standing by the side of the door to keep myself from view, I drew the hem of the curtain aside and peered through the window.
There was nothing to see.
I let the curtain drop and went back to my pan, smoothing the candy out to the edges. Perhaps I’d only been imagining things. I’d probably been imagining things.
But then it came again.
I grabbed the rolling pin from a drawer and went to the door, rattling the handle. “I hear you, out there! And I’m coming out if you don’t leave.”
I wasn’t, of course, but whatever was out there didn’t have to know that.
Silence.
I stood by the door, waiting. Hearing nothing, I pushed aside the curtain once more. And then I screamed as a face pressed against the window and a hand turned the doorknob.
“It’s just me, Lucy.”
“Sam!”
“Let me in. It’s freezing out here.”
“Sam Blakely—!” I couldn’t unlock the door for the shaking of my hands.
“Just open the door, Lucy.”
“I—I can’t.” I burst into tears. I couldn’t move the bolt.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He was talking through the window at me.
“Well, you did!”
“I really didn’t mean to.”
“You never mean to do anything! You’ve always been so nice, so helpful, and so . . . so . . . here! And now, when I really need you, you’re not!” I swiped at the tears that were leaking onto my cheeks.
“Lucy. Open the door.”
“I wish I could.”
“Just . . . here.” He pulled the door toward him, pressing it against the frame. “Now try.”
I gave the bolt a shove and it slid through the casing.
He pulled the door open and stepped through.
“What were you doing out there?” I was still clutching the rolling pin.
“I didn’t realize how late it was . . . I just had to think. Away from the house.” He looked up at me, then over at the candy. “Can I?”
“It hasn’t set.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
He dipped a spoon into the pan. It came away trailing long caramel-colored strings. He scraped the candy off the spoon with his teeth and then licked at the remnants that clung to the silver. “You know, things are changing Lucy. I’m not really yours. I mean, I’m happy to help you out and everything, but I don’t belong to you.”
He couldn’t have offended me more if he’d slapped me. “I know you don’t belong to me.”
“And I don’t mean to disappoint you.”
“How could you disappoint me?”
“I just . . . came here to think. I wanted to be alone. I have some things to figure out.”
“Maybe . . . maybe I could help you.”
A flush lit his cheeks. “No. I don’t think—I mea
n—it’s nice of you to offer and everything, but I don’t think you’d understand.”
Why didn’t anybody think I could understand anything?
“I have to go.” He retreated to the porch, pulling the door shut behind him.
I pushed aside the curtain and watched him walk off into the night. “What on earth . . . ?”
Mother was in her sitting room when I left the kitchen for bed. She gestured from her table as I stepped into the front hall.
“Would you like to talk about Mr. Arthur?”
“No.”
She came to me and took my hand from the banister. Clasping it in her own, she pulled me into the parlor. “I’m so sorry, Lucy.”
At least she hadn’t turned on the light. I couldn’t really make out her face and could only pray that she could not see mine.
“The things of the heart hurt so terribly.”
Things of the heart?
“You might think that you’ll never love again, but you will.”
“Love again?”
“I know it’s too soon to speak of it, but just know that things will get better. You’re so young. There’s time enough for love.”
“I’m not . . . I don’t care . . . I didn’t love him, Mother. I didn’t want him for . . . for . . . that. I wanted him for what he could do for us. How he could help us.”
She withdrew from me, looking at me as if she’d never seen me before. “You never loved him?”
“Why did you think I agreed to his proposal?”
“I thought . . . I mean . . .”
“Isn’t that what you wanted? Didn’t you want me to marry well?”
“Yes! Of course I wanted you to marry well. But I wanted you to marry well for your own benefit, not for ours. The company is finished. There’s no hope of saving it. I never wanted—” She seemed to swallow her words. Then she sighed.
“You’ve never even tried to save the company, Mother. All you want to do is sell it!”
“I know the success of the company is all you and your father ever wanted, but I’ve given up. I gave up a long time ago. Don’t make the same mistake I did. It’s not worth your soul. It’s not even worth your dreams. Candy isn’t everything, Lucy.”