Ambrosia

by Rosanne Kohake

  “Tell them all I’m just fine,” Lily insisted. “Just a touch of the croup is all. I’ll be sure and visit them all in a few weeks. “

  “I’ll tell them,” Ambrosia nodded.

  The items began appearing in the newspapers in late May. The Herald, the World, and the Times each carried a small article announcing the contract recently made between Galbraith Distribution Company and Rambert Carriage Paints. Mr. Galbraith was quoted as saying that the paints were of superior quality, with a finish as fine as porcelain. New management, the articles went on to say, was to be commended for taking Rambert Paints from “near bankruptcy” to “stability.” “In the tradition of James Rambert, the company’s founder,’’ one paper remarked, “both quality and reliability have been restored.”

  Aaron gulped down a shot of whiskey, rubbed his eyes, and reread the article for the fifteenth time. With a snarl he crumpled the paper and threw it across the room. It was impossible, and yet there it was in black and white.

  Like a cat his stepbrother had landed on his feet somehow, even after all the debts Aaron had left him, even after all the carriage painters in town who would never consider using Rambert Carriage Paints again. Drayton didn’t need any of them now, with the Galbraith contract. And there was little doubt that he would be successful, very successful, just as his father had been.

  Aaron rose and paced his room nervously, refilling his glass and draining it again and again. He had a splitting headache; he’d had it for days. And he hadn’t been able to sleep well since someone had mentioned the news about his stepbrother’s company. Somehow Aaron knew that Drayton’s good fortune was responsible for his own bad luck. Hadn’t James Rambert always said that for one person to win, another had to lose?

  He placed his empty glass on the table and dropped to the edge of his bed, his elbows resting on his knees, his head in his hands. The past months had been like a nightmare. He had moved into this modest room at a private gentleman’s club after Drayton forced him to leave the house, and the gambling had gotten worse. At first he had won, making enough money to get by without touching the stocks that were his security, his future. But suddenly he had begun to lose, and he was unable to keep himself from losing more and more and more, from cashing in his stocks to finance his debts. Something inside him would not let him stop, even when he knew he must. The next hand would see his luck change, or the next, or the next. But his luck had not changed. He had continued to lose. Thousands and thousands of dollars. He had cashed in nearly all of his railroad stocks, had even sold his mother’s jewelry. He needed to win or he would soon be left with nothing. He could hardly believe that he had lost so much, that in less than a year’s time he had come to this threshold of desperation. I’ve put enough money in stocks to last me for the rest of my life, he had boasted to Drayton. Nothing you do can ever hurt me. He glared at the newspaper, realizing now that he had been very wrong.

  In order for one person to win, another must lose... James Rambert’s voice rang loud and taunting in Aaron’s twisted mind. He glared at the crumpled paper that lay on the floor, knowing that his bad luck was Drayton’s fault. From the very beginning their fates had been intertwined, Aaron thought, one dependent on the other. When one prospered, the other failed. Time and again it had happened and Aaron was sure it was happening again. Drayton had claimed the inheritance that ought to have been his, and now Aaron had nothing, and Drayton had everything. And it would remain that way unless...

  Aaron’s dark eyes clouded as they fixed on the paper. Unless he could destroy Drayton’s luck. He would do it, he resolved. And like the fires he set years before, no one would ever guess that it had been Aaron Rambert.

  Chapter 47

  The June morning was clear and warm as the sun peeked over the horizon. All was quiet as Drayton slowed his horse to a halt at the warehouse and crisply dismounted. He tethered the animal at the post, since he would only be stopping here for a short time this morning to make a quick check of inventory and scheduled deliveries before he rode to the factories. It was important that everything proceed smoothly now that the initial order had been placed by Galbraith. Drayton wanted to be absolutely sure that the order was filled promptly and correctly. For a week now the factories had been running at full capacity, and the warehouse inventory was swelling accordingly.

  Drayton grasped the padlock in his hand and inserted the key to unlock the warehouse door. But from the moment the lock fell free, he sensed that something was very wrong. He eased open the door, hesitating before he stepped inside. The smell of thinners and pigments was so much stronger than usual. It stung his nostrils as the air swept briskly by him. Someone had left a window open, or a door, he thought anxiously as he hurriedly entered the building. He stopped short. The warehouse was a shambles. Everyone of the neat rows of carefully inventoried cans had been pushed over with such force that hideous puddles of color covered the floor.

  Nausea twisted his stomach as he stepped slowly, carefully through the mess that was his warehouse. The paints were ruined. Thousands of dollars lost in a single night.

  With deliberate calm he traced a path to the office, and again the sight there stopped him. Both inner and outer offices had been ransacked, files overturned, papers ripped and crumpled, strewn everywhere.

  Methodically Drayton began to search about for clues. A window just to the side of the loading dock had offered a means of entry. It still stood open. It had been locked the night before, Drayton had checked it himself, and the small pane of glass had not been broken. Footprints, scores of them tracking paint throughout the warehouse, appeared to be from a single pair of boots. Drayton studied them for several moments. A single pair. He could think of only one person who would want this business to fail badly enough to do something like this. And something Warren Pierce had said months before made him that much more certain. When the will was read, he went into a rage. Threw things around this office like a spoiled child having a tantrum.

  “Well, you don’t have any proof,” Matt repeated for the twentieth time. It was after midnight, but Drayton still sat at his desk sorting papers that had been strewn about the office the night before.

  “There’s proof enough for me.”

  “You can’t know those footprints are your stepbrother’s.”

  “No one else has a motive.”

  “Drayton, you heard the policeman. Vandalism isn’t unheard of in this neighborhood, and vandals don’t always have motives. Why, it was probably just an adolescent prankster, like he said.”

  Drayton shot him an accusatory glare and he let out his breath in exasperation.”

  “Anyway, it doesn’t matter who it was. It’s over and done with. The insurance will cover the damages-’’

  “The insurance will cover the lost inventory, Matt,” Drayton broke in shortly, ‘’but it won’t begin to cover the damages.’’

  “Ken knows what happened,” Matt told him. “I’m sure he’ll agree to extend the contract until you can fill the order.”

  “I’m going to have it filled on schedule,” Drayton told him matter-of-factly. “The end of July.”

  “The end of July?” Matt repeated in disbelief. “But it will take you more than six weeks to stockpile the inventory!”

  ‘’Not if I hire workers for additional shifts at the factories. And the regular workers will work overtime, I’ve already spoken with Tom Landon about it. We’ll make it.”

  ‘’Overtime? Extra shifts? Sounds like an expensive gamble, Drayton.”

  “I don’t intend to lose.”

  Matt eyed him for a long moment. “What about Aaron?”

  Drayton finished with a stack of papers and put them aside. “What about him?”

  “You won’t do anything foolish, will you?”

  “I won’t do anything at all until this contract is filled.”

  “And then?”

  Without ans
wering, Drayton sat back in his chair, withdrew a cigar from his pocket and thoughtfully ran it under his nose. He would do something, Matt thought, the moment the contract was filled.

  Lily’s health rebounded a little during the long, warm days of June and July. Only a deep, hacking cough continued to bother her, though a thick molasses-and-rum syrup Ambrosia concocted gave her some temporary relief. Still, there were other changes, subtle changes in Lily that worried Ambrosia even more than the cough.

  She never regained an interest in eating and had to force down even her favorite foods. She was still so thin and pale, and her eyes were always so tired and lifeless. She stopped answering letters that arrived from friends, and instead spent each moment with Ambrosia or Bessie or Mandy, never wanting to be alone. Yet she steadfastly brushed aside Ambrosia’s suggestions that she see a physician, saying that she couldn’t be bothered, that she would be fine until Drayton came home, and then she would ask his opinion on the cough.

  “Do you believe in heaven?” Lily asked Ambrosia one day as they sat on the stone bench in the garden.

  Trying very hard to hide her surprise at the question, Ambrosia nodded. ‘’Of course. Everyone believes in heaven.”

  ‘Tm not really sure I do,” Lily returned softly. “Oh, I believe in God,” she added quickly. “One has only to look at Mandy to know that He must exist. And I feel His presence sometimes, as if He’s holding my hand, helping me along.” She hesitated. “But I’m not really sure of heaven... or hell. And I want so to believe that I’ll see Henry again....’’ She broke off in a violent fit of coughing and it was several moments before she could speak again. “But-if life is all we have,” she murmured, half to herself, “if there’s nothing more, then it’s been enough... quite enough.”

  It was one of many conversations that troubled Ambrosia deeply, that made her long to write Drayton and tell him of her fears. If only he would come home! But she knew he had written Lily to apologize for not coming, and that his note had mentioned a terrible incident of vandalism that had made it imperative he stay on in town, at least till the end of July. No, she thought reluctantly. She couldn’t bother Drayton now, not when Lily insisted she was feeling so much better. She would wait another week or two.

  Chapter 48

  On the last day of July the warehouse and factories of Rambert Carriage Paints closed an hour early to celebrate the filling of Galbraith Distribution’s initial order. In high spirits over the accomplishment, Drayton agreed to meet Matt for a celebratory dinner at the club. They had just finished with their meal and were about to order after-dinner drinks when Drayton saw his stepbrother making his way through the hall toward the adjacent gaming room. The sudden hardness in Drayton’s expression made Matt turn and follow his eyes. Matt drew an uneasy breath and attempted to divert Drayton’s attention with a light comment. “On his way to his nightly sport, I suppose...It’s said he’s lost a fortune in the past year, since you took over the business.’’ He watched Drayton’s face intently, hoping that the bright, animal-on-the­prowl look would fade away. It did not.

  “How much cash have you?” Drayton asked him suddenly, his eyes still fixed on the hallway.

  “Cash? A few hundred dollars…seven-”

  “I’ll need to borrow it.” Still Drayton did not meet Matt’s eyes. His gaze was fixed after Aaron.

  Matt’s eyes narrowed. “What for?”

  Drayton’s mouth curved into a slow smile that did not reach his eyes. “I feel lucky.”

  Aaron was so totally engrossed in playing his cards that he was unaware of his stepbrother’s presence, unaware of the icy blue eyes that observed his every move. He was winning now, and winning was everything to Aaron Rambert. It was the only thing that made him feel alive.

  The four men had been playing a high-stakes game for over an hour when a heavy-set man in a flashy checkered suit shook his head and threw in his cards. “You’re too lucky for me tonight, Aaron. I’m out.”

  The man rose from his seat and left the table as Aaron gathered in his winnings, separating gold pieces from a stack of paper money. The man to the right of Aaron, an older gent with a thickly waxed handlebar mustache, retrieved the cards and shuffled them thoughtfully, eyeing the chair which had been vacated, then the man who slowly, deliberately came to take the seat. “May I join you, gentlemen?” the newcomer asked.

  The man with the mustache paused a moment in his shuffling and shifted the position of the cigar that was clamped between his teeth before giving a nod.

  “It’s a friendly game,” another man remarked, though there was something decidedly unfriendly about this new player, and he felt it immediately. So did Aaron. Aaron glanced up briefly, his jaw slackening as he met those cold blue eyes. The man to the left of Aaron, a short, balding man whose sparse hair was slicked with Macassar oil, nervously fingered his money. “Well, what’s everybody waiting for?” he snapped impatiently.

  Aaron jumped slightly at the man’s terse comment, but it was another moment before he realized that the next move was his. He tossed a hundred-dollar bill into the center of the table and forced himself to avoid Drayton’s eyes. He had a streak going tonight, and Drayton’s presence wouldn’t change that. He’d seen to it that Drayton’s luck ran out weeks before. “Ante up.”

  From the bar at the far side of the room, Matt observed the game while he sipped at a scotch. Aaron won the first hand, the balding man to his left the second. But it was Drayton who won the third and fourth, with a full house and a diamond flush. Lucky indeed! After folding early on the next hand, Drayton won three in a row, the last two without showing a card. Matt’s lips curled into a smile of amusement. There was no reading that face of his, no telling whether he held a royal flush or a pair of deuces.

  Aaron’s face was deeply creased with irritation when the man with the handlebar mustache collected the last of his money and left the game. Drayton had won nearly every hand since he’d joined them, while Aaron had hardly been dealt a passable hand. Something was very wrong here, he thought in panic. Suddenly his luck was gone while Drayton... He swallowed against the dryness in his mouth and opened his shirt collar, feeling tense and nervous. He could feel Drayton’s eyes upon him, watching...watching...almost as if he knew. But he couldn’t know; he couldn’t! Aaron struggled to regain his calm, lifting his cards slowly, fanning the hand open a card at a time. His eyes narrowed in intense concentration as he took stock of his hand. Four spades and a heart. A chance at drawing to a flush. The balding man opened for a hundred; Drayton raised the bet to two. He must have a fair hand again, Aaron thought as he called the bet.

  The balding man requested a pair of cards, Aaron one, and Drayton dealt himself two. Aaron placed his draw card atop the neat stack of cards he had been dealt originally, tapped them on the table, then lifted them and slowly fanned them open. His eyes glittered with excitement. All spades-he had made his flush and now sat with a strong hand.

  His eyes lifted to Drayton’s, those unwavering blue eyes so cold, so piercing, so completely unnerving. His hands trembled a little as he lowered his eyes again and reconsidered his hand.

  The balding man began the second round of betting at five hundred dollars, a bet Aaron raised to a thousand, and Drayton called. The balding man then raised the bet two hundred more, and Aaron boldly made it fifteen hundred. He was somewhat surprised when Drayton called again, since he had expected him to fold with the stakes running so high. This was not a bluffing move; Drayton must have a very strong hand too. Aaron studied his cards again, his hands shaking a little more noticeably now, his mouth going dry again. He’d lost a lot of money in the past hour and needed to win this hand. Slowly, with a confidence he didn’t quite feel, Aaron laid his hand face up on the table. “All spades, gentlemen.”

  The man with sparse, slicked-back hair tossed his hand to the table’s center. “Beats my three ladies,” he muttered.

  Aaron’s mouth cu
rved into a confident smile as he made a move to take in the pot. Drayton placed a hand on his ann. ‘’Are you forgetting that there are three players in this game... brother?”

  Aaron straightened abruptly and jerked his arm away from Drayton’s hold. He was furious at being called “brother” when he was nothing of the kind, and embarrassed at having appeared so anxious to collect his winnings. Barely restraining his temper, he watched as Drayton laid his cards on the table. A king of clubs, a six of hearts, a six of diamonds, a six of spades, and a six of clubs. Four of a kind.

  A muscle in Aaron’s jaw began to twitch and his face became mottled as he fought to hold his temper. The hand had been a costly one. The balding man was collecting what little money he had left and leaving the table. It was just the two of them now. One would lose and one would win, just as James Rambert had said. But the way Aaron’s luck was running, he just might be the loser. He ought to leave the table now- before-but no. His luck was due to change now. Indeed, it was already changing. A flush was a good hand, his first good hand in hours. And only the first, he assured himself. While Drayton’s luck was due to run out. He frowned slightly as he tried to figure out what had gone wrong in the past several hands. A fluke, that’s what it had been. Only a fluke. He drew in the cards and began to shuffle them, his fingers clumsy with the deck because of their shaking. He muttered a curse as he dropped a few cards on the table, then hurriedly scooped them up again and proceeded with the deal. It was those eyes of his, those ruthless, unblinking blue eyes, he rationalized as Drayton lit a cigar and drew on it. It was those damn eyes that had him so flustered.

  Still observing from across the room, Matt was keenly aware that Aaron was becoming unstrung. But then, Matt thought as he ordered another scotch, who wouldn’t be anxious with Drayton sitting across the table, winning nearly every hand? And if Aaron was guilty of vandalizing the warehouse, as Drayton believed, then all the more reason for his odd behavior. Matt had to wonder why Aaron didn’t simply leave the game, especially after he lost the next three hands in a row. His cards had obviously gone cold, and there was nothing forcing him to stay in the game... except perhaps the challenge in Drayton’s eyes. Matt could see the sweat glistening on Aaron’s brow, and when Aaron drained his glass, his hand was shaking violently. As he had done all evening, he quickly ordered another. He was drinking heavily and having trouble handling the cards when it was his deal. He ought to quit, Matt thought. Why in the hell didn’t he simply quit?