Twisted River

by Kelsey Gietl

  Without reply, Maggie closed the door.

  “Maggie,” Reuben called. “For once, can’t we be civilized?”

  Another gruff voice laughed. “Man, Reuben, she is one fine lass. Seriously, how did you let her pick him over you?”

  “Shut up, Lee.” Reuben knocked on the door again. “Maggie, please? I only need five minutes.”

  “Who’s with you?”

  “Stanley Leonard, Mrs. Frye,” called the second voice. He gave a great laugh as though the entire situation were merely a lark. “You’re quite the curiosity to me, ma’am, what with all the grousing over you Reuben does.”

  “Blimey, Lee, this is your idea of helping?”

  “I’ve been trying to convince him to see this other girl,” Stanley continued. “Except he’s stuck on you, you see. So please, won’t you give him five minutes and he’ll leave you alone? On my honor, ma’am.”

  And what was that worth? she wondered.

  With a deep exhale sure to be the beginnings of regret, Maggie inched the door open to see a stout young man with dark curls tucked beneath his flat cap and a jubilant smile directed at her. The stranger—Stanley Leonard—stepped forward with a tip of his hat, and behind him, Reuben huffed impatiently. “Please, ma’am?” Mr. Leonard asked. Won’t you help out my old boy here?”

  “Old boy?” Reuben shoved the door open, backing Maggie into the foyer, and turned to slam the door in his friend’s face. Ignoring Stanley’s colorful expletives from the other side, he flipped the lock and rounded on her. “Your husband’s not home yet, is he?” The tone of the word husband fell off his lips like profanity.

  Maggie felt all the heat of her fight with Henry reignite. “Who told you I was married? It was Tena, wasn’t it?”

  “Your sister wouldn’t give you away.” His lip curled. “Mr. Frye came to see me at the paper. Bloomin’ asked me to write your blasted marriage announcement.”

  “He did?”

  Reuben clenched her shoulders, spinning to trap her between his body and the door. He pressed a finger in her face. “I’m here to ask you one simple question, Maggie. Why did you marry him?”

  The firmness of the door pressed against her back, its sharp handle dug into her hip, and with a harsh realization, she understood that she had been in this situation before. Over a year ago, her mother backed her against their home’s front door while she screamed in Maggie’s face, demanding to know why her daughter chose to defile herself with Reuben. Maggie hadn’t done anything of the sort, but her mother wouldn’t believe her then, and judging by the rabid look in Reuben’s eyes, he wouldn’t believe her now.

  She straightened up and squeezed the door handle at her side. “I love him.”

  “No, you don’t. Agrh!” Reuben slapped his hand on the wall beside her shoulder. “That’s not even what I’m asking.” He gestured back towards the stairs. “Why did you marry him? Why Hugo Frye of all people? For all I know about you, he’s so not your ideal man.”

  “I do not have an ideal man.”

  “You do too. It’s me. It’s Halverson. It’s that Derby fellow you snagged in London. It’s attractive men with clever comebacks and arrogant attitudes.” He adjusted his satchel, gripping it with the same fervor he always did when he would rather punch something, but she was the only one in close range. “Frye’s slight and oddly stocky and far more subdued than anyone else you’ve shown interest in. You enjoy a fine banter more than anyone I know. Where’s the enjoyment in a man who doesn’t fight back?”

  “Perhaps I’d rather not argue so much anymore.” At his snort, Maggie drew her teeth across her bottom lip. “What do you care? You had your chance with me.”

  “I know. Only-four-days-ago,” Reuben ground out, fading scars standing out against knuckles now white upon his satchel strap. “Hugo Frye’s a gentleman, Maggie. Don’t toy with him like you did to me.”

  “Sometimes people change.”

  Reuben shook his head. “Not you. You’re the amazing and voluptuous Maggie Archer. You’re proud of who you are. Too proud. If Hugo can abide you in spite of your shrewish ways, well then God help him.”

  “So you don’t love me anymore, easy as that? Your song was very different a few months ago.”

  “As you said, people change.”

  “Not you. You’re the tortured and misunderstood Reuben Radford. As much as you think I hold onto who I am, so do you. Although I will agree, you’ve changed quite a bit since we were together.” Maggie eyed the last lingering scar under his jawline, the one that wouldn’t seem to let them forget that fateful night on the Höllenfeuer. “Why do you really find such issue with my marrying Mr. Frye?”

  “He’s not the right man for you.”

  “Rubbish. Who would be in your opinion? You?”

  “Of course not. I never wanted—”

  She pressed a hand to silence his lips and was shocked when he didn’t push her away. “This was your choice, Reuben. You sent me away. I would have stayed. I would have married you.” She stepped back, smoothing her dress taut so the now gentle swelling of her abdomen was obvious. His sight locked onto her middle, eyes widening as he took in the truth of her quiet whisper, “This baby could have been yours.”

  Stunned, Reuben reached a shaking hand towards her stomach, fingers brushing short when she stepped again out of his reach. He stared at her, lips parted, temporarily without words. “My, Reuben,” Maggie smirked as she released the fabric to once again obscure her pregnancy. She unbolted the door. “It appears occasionally I do tell the truth.” She swung the door open to Stanley’s face inches from her own. “Mr. Leonard, please escort your friend home.”

  Reuben shook his head. “You may have been forthright about this, Maggie, but remember. One day Hugo will see you for what you are—‘an infinite and endless liar, an hourly promise breaker, and the owner of no one good quality.’”

  Stanley stepped forward. “That’s harsh, Reuben.”

  “I’m only quoting Shakespeare. You know the play, All’s Well that Ends Well? But I doubt her marriage will.”

  Maggie pointed out the door. “Confound you and your literature, Reuben. Both of you out of my house.”

  “With pleasure. ‘More of your conversation would infect my brain.’” He smirked. “Open a book once in a while, Maggie, and you might even figure out which piece that one’s from.” He stalked past her and the door slammed before he even stepped off the porch.

  FIFTEEN

  The burn of Reuben’s insults sliding through her nerves, Maggie’s feet remained plastered to the floor in the foyer, unable to move her towards the stairs.

  Could it really be only four days since she last stood here proposing marriage to a desperate man while his landlord threatened to break down the door? Mr. Frye’s cozy living room with its comfortable worn furniture and breathtaking photographs now ridiculed her as the woman who didn’t belong and would never be respected, perhaps not by anyone. She feared the jury was still twelve moons out on that decision.

  Mr. Frye didn’t want this marriage any more than she did. She probably wasn’t his type any more than he wasn’t hers. Reuben had been correct on that account. In any other situation, she never would have sought Hugo out in a crowded room, much less pursued a relationship with him, business or otherwise. Back in Fontaine, he would have blended into the wallpaper to her like her sister blended in to all the other gentlemen that chased after Maggie. Then again, back in Fontaine, she and Hugo’s opposite social standings would have never even offered a chance to cross paths, much less marry.

  She twisted the wall switch, the lamps snuffing out in a blink, and made her way to the kitchen, desperate for some warm tea to calm her nerves and her ever irritated stomach. Water trickled into the copper kettle while she took in the view from the lone window, the last rays of daylight making way for starlit skies over the Mississippi River. In the morning, the sun would rise above its muddy embankment and up the thirty-foot cliff face at the edge of the Fryes’ property. A
round the river’s bend, the edge of the city lay illuminated, gas lamps and electric lights twinkling through the ever-present haze of smokestacks and the chug of river ferries. Somewhere within rose the chimney of the house where Tena resided, a woman who would hold onto her pride rather than attend her own sister’s wedding.

  The gall of Reuben to berate her with his opinions on her life choices, as though he had authority to pass judgment. She prayed she would never see him again. Her baby’s creator or not, if she had her way she never would.

  She halted the stream of tap water when the entry door knocked shut. Heavy footfalls followed, a man’s steps by the sound of it, at an intense pace towards the kitchen. Only one man could be so determined, the one she had just tossed from her home and not bothered to lock the door.

  Maggie brought the kettle onto the burner and called, “You’re truly going to walk back in here like you own the place?”

  “I do own the place.”

  Tripping over her own breath, she found Hugo’s inquiring stare observing her from the doorway. With a quirk of his brow, he set her traveling case on the kitchen chair, draped his jacket over it, and edged past her to retrieve a mug from the cabinet. Filling it with coffee from that morning’s pot of now-cold brew, he drank several gulps and stared into the murky liquid rather than at her. “Were you expecting someone else?”

  “Absolutely not.” Certain her face betrayed her lie, Maggie began opening cabinets in a mad search for tea leaves, slamming one hard when she remembered she would find none. “I forgot you’re a coffee only household.”

  “Not anymore.” Setting his mug on the counter, he twisted around to retrieve an unlabeled tin box from the counter identical in size and shape to the one pasted with Folgers Coffee. Upon opening it, the deep scent of black tea emerged, swirling through her sinuses and finally calming her nerves. She stole the tin from his outstretched hand and placed the box directly under her nose to inhale with delight.

  “You bought me tea?” she breathed. Excessive warmth spread to her cheeks, even more so than she felt at him depositing her in a taxi minutes after their wedding.

  She glared at him through her lashes. “One kind gesture does not cancel an ill one. Do you honestly believe it appropriate to shove me in a taxi—”

  “I’ll carry your case upstairs,” he interrupted. He drained his coffee mug, then set it in the sink before picking up her traveling case and slinging his jacket over his arm.

  “Excuse me?” Maggie spat back. “We’re in the midst of a conversation, business partner.”

  Hugo nodded, tossing the barest of glances back over his shoulder on the way to the door, and continued speaking as though they were holding an entirely different conversation. “Good idea; finish your tea, and I’ll check on the children. Come up to bed when you’re ready.”

  “Bed?” she yelled at his retreating back. “Not while we’re still arguing, Mr. Frye!” Torn between the luscious scent of tea and walloping Mr. Frye into next Tuesday, she looked longingly at the tin box, cursed ... twice, damped the stove fire, and sped up the stairs after him.

  Reuben’s words were a bitter pill to swallow. You enjoy a fine banter more than anyone I know. Where’s the enjoyment in a man who doesn’t fight back?

  Blast that confounded man, she thought. He was right about all of it.

  Stumbling up the last two stairs, she emerged in a darkened hallway lined with three closed doors and a fourth narrower one she assumed led to the attic. A stream of light shone from only one. Slapping it open, she first noticed the full sized bed situated in the center of the room covered with a red and blue quilt and several pillows stacked at the head. While Hugo wasn’t there, his jacket lay crumpled at the bed’s foot. Antique furniture pieces stood at either side of the single window: a sparse writing desk and a mahogany mirrored dresser topped with coins, wallet, and pocket watch. A wardrobe with brown loafers tossed beside it completed the only room in the house that, so far as she could tell, contained no photographs. The lack of photographs in the bedroom of a photographer unnerved her far less however than her traveling case waiting for her.

  She inspected every corner before opening the wardrobe and each dresser drawer. Every one contained a man’s clothing. Dread simmered an inch below the surface, waiting for her to release it into all-out panic.

  What she wouldn’t give to tie that man down and bestow upon him a piece of her mind and a generous slap. This wasn’t a real marriage. Even her parents had been afforded the luxury of separate sleeping quarters.

  A tiny mop of crimson hair peered around the doorway, Molly’s eyes drooping as much as Maggie’s were wide. “Miss Margaret?” the little girl asked sleepily. “Is Daddy home yet?”

  “Right here, sweet girl.” Strong arms hoisted the child up, burying her close to her father’s chest as he kissed her brow. He looked to Maggie from the shadows of the doorway, only his eyes reflecting the light from the bedroom. “You found your belongings then?”

  She nodded. “Yes, but you can’t honestly expect—”

  Hugo whisked the little girl out of sight before Maggie finished speaking. “Come on, Molly, let’s get you tucked in.”

  “Two stories?”

  “Oh, very well. Two stories.”

  Maggie dropped onto the writing desk chair, completely worn from the day. After Henry then Reuben and now Hugo, she couldn’t take much more masculine aggravation tonight.

  But honestly, to share a bed with Hugo Frye? She may have made a commitment, but she would be hung if she spent seven years sharing intimacies with a man she could never be attracted to.

  Perhaps his intentions are innocent, she thought. But when had she ever met a man whose were?

  Blast it all! She hadn’t agreed to this, and her pregnancy-addled brain hadn’t thought to even discuss it. If she had, she would have insisted they write conjugal visits, or lack thereof, into their contract. This was a business deal; sleeping together was a complete conflict of interest.

  Yanking open one desk drawer then another, she pilfered a half-sharpened pencil and absolutely no parchment. What fool doesn’t store paper in his writing desk? she wondered. Apparently the kind of half-wit I married.

  But just when she thought she might have to pen their contract amendment straight onto the wallpaper, Hugo entered. His eyebrows raised when he noticed her hand poised upon the wall.

  “What are you doing?” he asked as he closed the door.

  “Nothing.” Merely defacing your property. Her entire face burned as she lowered her hand. “There isn’t any parchment in your writing desk.”

  “The desk was my mother’s. I think the last letter written there was during the McKinley administration.” He unbuttoned and slid out of his vest, loosening his tie to undo the top button of his wrinkled Oxford. He dropped the entire lot onto the desk chair. Without sparing her so much as a second glance, he made for the bed in only his undershirt and slacks.

  Maggie froze. “Wait, shouldn’t we discuss this?”

  Hugo tugged off his shoes, tossing them towards the wardrobe. “Discuss what?”

  Mouth agape, she dropped the pencil onto the desk and finally managed to regain her bearings. “Surely you’re not that simple. If you wanted to avoid a row before, you probably shouldn’t now expect honors you’re not the least bit privy to.”

  “All I want tonight is sleep.” With a grunt, he tugged a rather large drawer out from under the bed frame. Or rather, as it appeared she saw that it wasn’t a drawer at all, but a sliding trundle bed, already made with freshly starched sheets and a pretty blue checkered quilt. He stole one of the bed pillows and turned those sad green eyes on her. The deep-seated pain within them played on memories of her father’s own troubled stare the day he sent her off to London, containing all the emotions he would never tell.

  “You can trust me, Miss Margaret,” said Hugo, “to be true to my word. We’re business partners, and that’s all I ever want to be.” Laying down on the trundle bed, he pulled t
he blankets over himself and closed his eyes. “Good night, Mrs. Frye. Please don’t write on my wall.”

  Too stunned to reply and too relieved to think anymore on it, Maggie turned down the lamp, and despite her sore breasts aching against her corset and frustration still aching in her brain, she slid fully clothed into the bed and a terribly restless sleep.

  SIXTEEN

  Reuben tossed his hurried article on Smithson’s desk and left Stanley in the near-empty newsroom, his thoughts as mangled as the dead man’s face on Third Street. Kneading the back of his neck, he slung off his satchel and unlatched the front door of the Vine home.

  “Good evenin’ Mr. Radford,” came the usual greeting of the Mid-Mississippi’s typists from the living room.

  “Evening, ladies,” he replied without any of his usual flirtation as he shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on the rack beside the door.

  As Stanley so kindly reminded Reuben, he had gone out with Hazel’s friends the last four nights in a row, first to dinner and drinks at the Nightingale, then to a concert, then a showing at the nickelodeon, and finally to Jonathan Earhart’s for triple rounds of euchre and gin rummy until nearly midnight. Compounded by a hectic workweek and the blow Maggie Archer dealt this evening, he could have already slept straight until Sunday. Another night of revelry would only remove him from much sought time to wallow in self-pity and depredation.

  In a flounce of emerald taffeta and bouncing coppery curls, Hazel met him in the doorway. “Reuben,” she cried. Her rouged cheeks flushed even brighter with her excitement. “Rosalea’s invited us all out dancin’!”

  “Correction,” Rosalea spoke up, her satin-trimmed body draped across the sofa as though she owned it. “Earhart invited us. I’m simply along for the ride, and his ride is ever so lovely.”

  “Must you flaunt it, Rose,” Luella moaned with a pinch to her friend’s cheek, “that your man is the only one of us with a motorcar?”