Asher. Was he a gift from the grave? “When can we meet him?”
Rose gasped. “Ivy, please take this seriously. This is our house. Ours. Father’s mind must have been compromised.” She sat forward, appealing to Mr. Lawrence. “Can you provide proof? How do we know some swindler didn’t concoct this scheme? Where is this first wife? How do we know this man is father’s son?”
“If you’ll sift through the file, you’ll find the necessary documents,” Mr. Lawrence said. “I looked them over closely this morning. I think they’ll settle any question of legitimacy.” He touched the open file with his finger. “Please remember that seeing things in black and white can be a shock,” he added, his voice a touch softer. I knew he wasn’t warning me. It was Rose who’d gone still.
I began sifting through the memos from the bank, threatening letters from the state assessor’s office and countless hastily scribbled notes in my father’s handwriting. Asher’s name appeared periodically, with no other information than his birth date. April 29. Mine was May 1. Had father thought about him when I came into the world? He must have. I felt a constricting of my chest. Was it a pang of loss or anger or sadness? I shook it off.
“And Asher’s mother?” I asked as I continued rummaging through the paperwork. “What of her?”
“Deceased,” Mr. Lawrence said, frowning. “There are no other known relatives.”
I’d almost exhausted the file when I spotted our brother. As large as a letter, it took a minute to register as a photograph. “It’s him, Rose.”
The photograph had been enlarged and cropped, and I stared into his extraordinarily light eyes. They were Rose’s eyes. In fact, he was the male embodiment of Rose— aquiline nose, lean frame, full mouth. He was in shirtsleeves, arms crossed, the thickness of his forearms hinting at manual labor. The half smile cocking his mouth was a brash challenge hidden under a thin layer of civility. A metal plate lay tucked behind his left shoulder. It was stamped with two words: EMPIRE HOUSE.
“He could be your twin,” I said, trying not to sound as disappointed as I felt. I’d sat across from Rose at thousands of family meals. Though good-looking, Asher’s features were as exotic as a jar of strawberry jam. I thought at the very least he’d look like an outsider, different, like me. “He is definitely an Adams,” I admitted. “No one can deny it.”
“He’s still a stranger,” Rose said in a choked voice. “If he wasn’t, he would be here, wouldn’t he?”
Mr. Lawrence sighed. “There lies the problem. Asher John Adams seems to have vanished from the face of the earth. It appears your father had very little contact with his son over the years, no more than a handful of terse phone calls. When your father wished to finally speak to his son in person, he learned Asher Adams has no known address in New York City or the whole Eastern seaboard, for that matter.”
I didn’t like that. Was Rose right? Had my father been swindled? No. He could be flighty, but he was too intelligent for that, too sharp-minded. “Yet, something in those conversations convinced my father to make Asher manager of his estate,” I said. “He could have given it to Rose or me, or even you.”
“I’m not the eldest anymore,” Rose said. “But I am here, and he isn’t.” Her posture regained its straight line. “Could the problem be solved that easily? If we can’t find him, everything stays as it is?”
Mr. Lawrence looked pained, indecision clouding his hazel eyes. I stared at him, mercilessly, as he waged debate within himself. How he must tip his hand in the courtroom! I began to wonder why father picked this man. Then it hit me, his fee was probably right next door to nothing. I glanced down at the bank notices. “There are further financial complications,” I said evenly. “Could you explain what those are?”
He nodded. “The mortgage and property taxes are in severe arrears. If the heir does not make claim on the house and bring the tax bill to date, the home will be sold and the bank and state will see its money.”
“Did my father leave any funds in his accounts?” Rose asked, though we both knew the answer to that one.
Mr. Lawrence paused. “I’m sorry, but not very much at all.”
My mind reeled, the implications of this development still unclear. “What if Mr. Asher John Adams can’t be found? What happens then?”
“If he doesn’t come forward within a year, the house will revert to the bank,” Mr. Lawrence explained, his tone regaining a professional aloofness. “The bank will pay the property taxes and sell the home as soon as they can get the stake in the ground.”
We were silent a moment as we considered that image.
“What if we could raise the funds?” Rose said, growing desperate. “Could we pay the bank in installments?
Mr. Lawrence looked away. “I’m afraid you’d need Mr. Asher to approve that route, Miss Adams.” He pitied us. I hated pity. It was a thin veil hiding the firm belief that a similar fate could not possibly happen to him. “Your father was in the process of finding Mr. Adams when he passed on. He’d begun searching in New York City, but hadn’t gotten any further.”
“Could we hire one of those private detectives?” Rose asked. “That seems the logical route.”
“Of course,” Mr. Lawrence agreed. “However, there is the matter of the fee. Pinkerton charges a thirty-dollar per diem, expenses not included. New York is not an inexpensive town.”
Rose slumped in her chair. “I see.”
“I’ll go,” I volunteered.
Mr. Lawrence cleared his throat. “I don’t think it wise to go alone, but if you went together, you might find Mr. Adams quickly and we can get this sorted out.”
Rose stood and tugged at her shirtwaist irritably, displacing her black silk belt. “We’re supposed to pick up and go to that awful city and allow a stranger to make decisions about our future?” she said, shaking her head. “I can’t, Ivy.”
“Can’t what?”
“Allow any of this,” she said, rising. “I know you’re not accustomed to it, but listen to me for a minute. If we continue to let our life fall away, piece by piece, we’ll be left with nothing.” Her eyes filled and brimmed over, but she didn’t brush at her cheeks. Tears had already replaced our home as Rose’s most constant companion. “There must be something we can do to keep the house. I can get a job, two even. We have a year, don’t we?” Rose asserted, her voice gaining authority. “You just said it.”
“Most men don’t make that sum in a year’s time,” Mr. Lawrence said gently.
“But we’re women, Mr. Lawrence,” I interrupted. “Unless you hadn’t noticed.”
He reddened, and I decided to take advantage of his discomfort. “I can’t shake the feeling we’re not getting the whole story,” I said. “Is that true, Your Honor?”
He looked away. “I’m not a judge.”
“You’re sure acting like one. Why not tell us everything?”
“Ivy.” Mr. Lawrence met my eyes. All the wavering had disappeared from his, and now they bored into me, direct and clear as a midsummer’s sky. “I don’t enjoy bringing bad news. I hope you understand that. Any decent person would be concerned about the sheer number of revelations it’s become my responsibility to impart.”
“Revelations aren’t meant to be experienced piecemeal. I assure you very little shocks me. Please continue.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, and he glanced quickly at Rose. “Bankers are not patient men. Eviction proceedings have begun. I paid a visit the other night to tell your father of the bank’s decision. I’ll never forgive myself for adding to his misery.”
“It’s not your fault,” Rose said automatically, but something tore inside her, a messy, ragged break. She covered her face with her hands and really let go.
Mr. Lawrence looked as helpless as I felt. I knew I should comfort her, but I hesitated. And as I crouched down, she lifted her head, and
I knew I was too late. There was something new in her eyes, a coldness that frightened me a little. “I’m going with you to New York.”
“You haven’t been past Albany,” I said to my sister, but not unkindly.
“Neither have you.” She sniffed.
“I’ve been to the city a thousand times in my mind. That counts for something.” I was meant for Manhattan; Rose was not. The city would find a thousand ways to hurt her, one sucker punch at a time. I picked up the photograph of Asher. “Look at how he’s standing, like the devil himself. Let me go first and see what we’re getting mixed up with.”
Rose snatched the photo and held it at eye level, as though she was speaking directly to him. “This man is my brother,” she said, her voice steely. “It can’t be denied. He won’t take the house, not after seeing me.”
“Is it that important to you, to keep the house?” It was a roof over our heads, nothing more. A prison, even. Rose was already too old to be living at home, and I was determined not to follow in her footsteps.
“Yes,” Rose said. “I’ve built my entire life around this house. It’s all I have, and we both know it.”
I couldn’t argue with that. Rose needed something tangible to prove her worth in the world; I had what was in my head. My father had given that to me, and only me. Guilt wasn’t something I experienced often, but I could recognize it. “We’ll find Asher,” I promised, taking the photograph from her hands. I held it up to Mr. Lawrence. “Where did you get this?”
“According to your father, the photograph was sent to your house approximately eighteen months ago,” he explained, obviously relieved I’d asked a question he could answer. “No return address. Empire House is a boarding hotel for women, so either he knew someone who lived there or the spot was chosen at random.”
“It’s a start,” I said, growing excited at the prospect of traveling to the city. Empire House sounded grand. I pictured ladies in their finery, sipping gin rickeys on the sly and admiring each other’s diamonds. “We’ll send a telegram to let them know we’re on our way.”
Mr. Lawrence reached into his suit coat pocket and extracted a white card. “My address. Please write to let me know you’ve arrived safely and keep me apprised of whatever you find. I’ll see what I can do from here.”
We both knew that was nothing much. I added his card to the folder and tucked it under my arm. “We’ll keep in touch,” I said as he took my hand. “Thank you.” When it was Rose’s chance to say goodbye, Mr. Lawrence returned to his valise. He lifted a small framed drawing from it, an India ink rendition of a single rose. “Your father admired this when he visited my office, Miss Adams,” he said, handing it to my sister. “I’d like you to have it.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Rose said in a small voice.
Perhaps I’d misjudged Mr. Lawrence, I thought as I watched Rose hug the frame to her bosom. Given his closing argument, he was probably quite good in the courtroom.
“I suppose we can’t blame him,” Rose said after he left. “He does seem a decent sort of person.”
“For a solicitor,” I muttered. We stood there in silence, neither of us moving. I had no idea what Rose was thinking, but I had only one thought: let’s get started. I gestured toward the drawing. “Should we put his gift on our wall, even if we only own it for another few hours?”
She smiled bitterly at my choice of words. “All right.”
Father frequently changed the paintings on the walls in his study, leaving a hodgepodge of bare nails and crooked frames as a result. Though I admired his work, the sheer volume made careful scrutiny impossible. As I scanned his makeshift collage, looking for the perfect spot to hang Mr. Lawrence’s drawing, my eye fell on a small painting I was certain had been gathering dust for years. It featured a woman holding a wiggling toddler. Blonde and pretty, she stood on a stoop in front of an imposing brownstone, a copper plaque half-hidden by the child’s flailing arms.
“Rose, bring that photograph of Asher over here.”
She did, and I held it next to the painting. The door, the plaque—it was Empire House.
Rose squinted at the two. “I suppose I should send that telegram right away.”
CHAPTER 3
Rose
WE RECEIVED AN answer from Empire House two days after Ivy sent the telegram. She’d come running up the driveway and into the kitchen, bringing the spring morning behind her like a trail of hope. I was pressing her dresses in the kitchen, where I’d set up an orderly “Packing Station” so that we wouldn’t bring too much or too little. We could only bring the most necessary items, and the rest of our things would be sold lock, stock and barrel with the house if I did not succeed in New York City. Choosing what to take and what to leave behind was more of a chore than I’d anticipated, and soon I wanted to bring nothing at all.
“You haven’t had your toast, Ivy.”
“Who cares about toast! We’ve gotten our rooms, Rose! Listen...
“‘Dear Ms. Adams,’” began Ivy, reading me the letter and pacing back and forth with excitement.
“Did you want tea, Ivy?”
“No...I don’t want tea. Would you listen?”
I nodded.
“‘Dear Ms. Adams,’” she began again.
“‘Though it is not our usual rule to lease space to young women we have not already met and interviewed, it seems you are in luck. We’ve had a recent vacancy here at Empire House, making room for you and your sister. Please be advised that the accommodations are modest at best. If you do not arrive within the week, we cannot assure the room will be available. Please send a telegram on the day of your arrival, so we may prepare. Note, as well, that if we deem you unsuitable, you will be denied occupancy. Please send us your arrival date, and we will have a driver waiting for you at the station.
Nell Horatio Neville (Proprietor of Empire House)’”
“Not very warm, is it?” I said, misting a cotton nightdress with water.
“It is the city, Rose. I swear, you are so...so...”
“What?” I asked.
“Pedestrian...”
Then she ran off again. She’d been spinning in circles since Father’s funeral. I had, too, only my circles were in my head, while Ivy seemed to be walking on a cloud.
I was worried.
I put the hot iron back onto the stove and sat at my kitchen table folding father’s shirts. I was going to give them to Mr. Lawrence, but I wanted them to be tidy. It was the proper thing to do.
I knew Ivy was devastated by our father’s death. We both were. But when Lawrence gave us the news...the unspeakable news about Asher, Ivy seemed to forget all her sorrow. Part of me was glad that she had a diversion. Glad that her dreams of living in The City were coming true. I knew that eventually she’d fall back into grieving, but her excitement set me free to take care of my own sorrows.
I’d lost my father, my house and my future. It was a quiet loss, one that no one seemed to notice.
I wasn’t going to New York City to throw myself into Asher’s arms. I was going to New York City to find a stranger, make a great deal of money and get him to sign my house back over to me.
I knew the resemblance could make the difference in allowing him to accept us. Ivy didn’t seem to be at all worried that, once found, Asher might not want to have anything to do with us. I feared her romantic, theatrical view of life was clouding her view of reality. Our father had raised us...not him. Was it not fair to assume he might want to avoid being found at all? That he might resent us? I didn’t mention this to my sister. In truth, as Ivy hid from our father’s death inside a bubble of expectation and hope, I hid from it by convincing myself I’d slipped into a new narrative. I couldn’t help but think we’d been thrust into a Dickens or Austen novel almost overnight. It kept me separate...it kept me curious instead of dead insi
de. When we found him—if we found him—he would not be able to turn his back on me. No good character can walk away from another who could be their very twin. It’s the denouement of all great mysteries.
Father always said that “Everyone has an inner narcissist....” I would be his conscience, and Asher would sign my house over to me. If you understand a bit of human nature, and don’t overestimate people, getting what you want is simple enough. I knew I could get the house back if we found him. The question was, how would we find him?
I picked up one of father’s shirts and held it against my face.
“I don’t want to believe you did any of this on purpose. I want to believe you thought you were protecting us somehow. But from what? Oh, Papa!”
I wanted him so badly at that moment. I wanted him to come into the garden and have tea and toast. I wanted to tell him of the horrible dream I’d had. Nothing seemed real.
It occurred to me that grief is like a tunnel. You enter it without a choice because you must get to the other side. The darkness of it plays tricks on you, and sometimes you can even forget where you are or what your purpose is. I believe that people, now and again, get lost or stuck in that tunnel and never find their way out.
I had no intention of doing that. I’d leave myself notes in my pockets saying, “Father is dead,” if I had to.
Empire Girls Page 3