He hadn’t missed the way she’d done herself up yesterday, dousing herself with perfume, and playing the songs she thought he’d like. Emmaline was the one who went in for all that modern gaiety; he was satisfied enough to hear Pap’s versions of outhouse tunes. And though he didn’t really hate lemon verbena, he’d had to say something to the contrary. If she knew he liked fragrance on a woman, she’d double up on the spray. And he didn’t need any more distractions from her. Already he’d been noticing her clothes. He had never paid any attention to how her hat matched her suit before, or how the buttons on her bodice were so tiny, he’d pondered if his big fingers could ever get them undone. Then he’d realized he was in serious trouble. Undressing a woman like Amelia Marshall was not something he could afford to fantasize about.
And he’d been fantasizing about her a lot lately.
Keeping things simple between them was best. In an effort to cool his thoughts down, he’d been avoiding her. When he had to be m her company, he tried to keep his distance. He wasn’t the right man for her, despite wanting her in the worst way. She was home and hearth, while he put in long hours serving liquor at a bar. She needed a man whose arm she could be on to attend the church and town social functions. Her acceptance of Pap’s offer to that damn picnic drove him in the ground like a stake. He didn’t want to go, but neither did he want her to go with Pap. He wasn’t right for her either. It maddened Frank to think he was jealous. He couldn’t be. Never had feelings of resentment taken him over. He didn’t care to give the rivalry in his system an explanation. He knew if he did, he’d be sorry.
At least tomorrow he could get away and go fly-fishing.
Then he frowned on that thought and took another draw on his Havana. It was the Glorious Fourth tomorrow. Reverend’s Meadow and Tadpole Lake would be overrun with kids, people, and noise.
After a minute, a smile worked its way on his mouth as he thought about the peaceful spot farther upstream, secluded by trees and a carpet of grass scattered with white daisies. Wild mint grew along the banks, and he’d hauled out more than one trout feeding in the watery marsh grasses.
Frank developed a cramp in his shin and lifted his leg up to straighten his knee. He made sure he didn’t touch the water tank heater just above the faucets, having burned the bottom of his foot a few times when he wasn’t watching.
He was about to pick up his book again when a knock pounded on the door. A quick glance at the lock, and he noted he hadn’t put the hook in the eye.
“What?” he barked, irritated someone would disturb him when he was soaking.
“Frank?” came Pap’s low voice. “Are you in there?”
“Yeah, I’m in here. What do you want?”
“I gotta come in, Frank. It’s a hot emergency.”
Having just been thinking about saloon conflagrations putting people out of work, Frank clamped the sides of the tub with both hands, slid his buttocks across the bottom, and sat up. “Shit, the Moon Rock’s on fire!”
He was putting a leg out when Pap reassured him in a level tone, “No. The Moon Rock is fine.”
Frank froze.
There was a dry pause.
“It’s me, Frank, who’s in trouble, and you’re the only one who can help.”
Slumping back, Frank grabbed the bar of Colgate floating on the surface of the murky water. “This better be good,” he said around the fat cigar in his mouth. “Come on in.”
The door opened and Pap staggered inside, nearly stepping on the novel Frank had on the floor next to the tub.
“Damn, Pap, watch where you’re walking. That’s Oliver Twist you almost kicked.”
“Sorry, Frank,” he said, and it sounded to Frank as if Pap’s teeth were chattering. Though the day was warm, his sleeves were rolled down to his wrists, the buttons at his cuffs fastened with horseshoe-shaped links. He’d even put on his winter mohair coat, his derby hat, and had wrapped a blue bandanna high on his neck.
“Couldn’t you have waited until I got out?”
“No.”
“What’s the matter with you?”
“I’m sick.”
“You look sick.” Frank propped his elbows on the sides of the tub and tapped the ash off his cigar. “Take the night off and go to bed. Did you think I was going to make you come into the bar?”
“N-No. ’Sides, I ain’t that kind of sick.” Pap shivered. He glanced for a place to sit. Seeing none in the bare bathing room, he slumped against the cedar wall and slid onto his backside. Wrapping his left arm around his middle, he scratched his ear with his right hand.
Frank took the situation more seriously once he got a good look at Pap and saw the red blisters on his forehead. “Son of a bitch, you’ve got scarlet fever.”
“I think I got malaria.”
“Hell, you can’t have malaria. You wouldn’t have spots if you had malaria.” Frank puffed thoughtfully on his cigar. “But you would if you had the chicken pox.”
“The chicken pox!” Pap exclaimed, moving his arm down and across the side of his neck after tugging at his bandanna. “Damn . . . I think I do.”
“How in the hell did you manage not to get the chicken pox until now?” Frank absently soaped his chest. “This is something you’re supposed to have when you’re four—not nine days after you turn forty.”
“I don’t know,” Pap whined, scratching at his underarm now. “I just don’t know. Damn. I’m sick. I’m cold, my bones feel like they’re all broke. Ah, damn. Shit.” He raked the inside of his thigh with his fingertips. “Even my parts has ’em. I woke up this morning, and there they were. All over. You should see my back. Thank God I ain’t got a mirror big enough, but I can feel ’em. It’s like they’re crawling, and my skin can’t stop tingling.” He rubbed his back and shoulders against the wall.
Frank let the soap slip from his fingers, and he ran his hand over his belly. “Stop scratching. You’re making me feel itchy.”
“I can’t help it. I ain’t never felt this sick in my life. It was all I could do to come on over here.”
“Then why the hell did you?” Frank put out his cigar in the galvanized soap dish hanging over the side of the tub. “I would have known something was wrong with you and sent Cobb over to see what.”
“Don’t you ever send Cobb Weatherwax over to my residence.”
Frank glanced at Pap. “You’re still agitated with Cobb about yesterday?”
“Damn right.”
“You think he’s after Amelia?”
“I know he is.”
“Well, Pap, I don’t think Cobb is her type.”
“I don’t care.” Pap’s eyes grew tiny and his lip curled in a sneer; the red dots on his face grew prominent and deepened a shade with his aggravation. “I won’t give him the chance to take her from me tomorrow, Frank.”
“You don’t even know if Cobb is going to that picnic.”
“What else does he have to do?” Pap dug his fingers into the side of his boot and scratched his ankle. “He’ll be there.” He pointedly stared at Frank and said, “You’ve got to help me.”
Frank didn’t say a word.
“You need to take Amelia to the picnic for me.”
“I don’t need to do anything.”
“Frank,” Pap implored between scratches, “you’re the only one I can trust.”
“What makes you think you can trust me?”
“Hell, Frank, you’re the best friend I ever had. I’d trust you with my life.” Pap itched his brow. “I’d trust you with my girl.”
Frank shot his gaze on Pap. “Saying she’d go with you to a picnic doesn’t mean she’s your girl.”
“Close to it.”
“Not close enough.”
“Regardless, I’m thinking,” Pap said, moving his fingers to rake his neck again, “Cobb’s thinking, if I’m not there tomorrow, Miss Marshall is fair game. You saw for yourself the way she was mooning over him about his piano-playing.”
Frank shrugged. “He impressed her.”<
br />
“Now you know why I need you to do me this favor, Frank. I ain’t ever asked you to do me anything as big as this. Not even when we were running shotgun for the Fargo.”
Feeling his stubble-covered jaw, Frank tried to think of an excuse. He couldn’t afford to be alone with Amelia Marshall. Not to mention if he did take her, he’d have to listen to political speeches, eat watermelon, be under the scrutiny of the old crow matrons, and feel obligated to socialize with the men.
It was one thing doing business with Fisk, Dodge, Reed, and the others in his saloon; the boundaries were drawn, and he knew where he stood. He was a businessman; they were the customers. When they exited through the bat-wing doors, so did their problems, and Frank was free of them.
He wasn’t sure they liked him all that much but tolerated him because he served them right. Bringing one of their own to a town function—especially a lady as cultivated as Amelia—he’d turn some heads.
“I can’t, Pap. I’ve got plans.”
“Plans!” Pap’s tone was dubious. “What the hell kind of plans? Going fishing?”
“So what if I do?”
“So what?” he huffed. “So what? So my life is flashing before my eyes. I could die of this, you know.”
“I’ve never heard of a case of chicken pox death.”
“Well, I could be the first. And if I did kiss off, I’d be eternally floating in heaven, wondering if Amelia was with Cobb Weatherwax.”
“First, I don’t think you’re going to heaven, with some of the hell-raising you’ve done with me. Second, you’re not making any sense, Pap.” Frank sloshed the tepid water with his hands. “I think you’re delirious.”
“I am not.” Pap stood. “I can’t believe you’re being such a hardhead about this. I ask you one favor, and you’re acting like I asked you to go kill someone. It’s for one day. A few hours of your time. Just make sure Cobb doesn’t get near her. You’ve got to stick by her side, and above all else, make sure you’re the one to buy her box supper. That’s all I ask, Frank.”
Frank inhaled and closed his eyes for a moment. He’d have to bid on a box supper. And Amelia Marshall had said she could cook fried chicken. How long had it been since he’d eaten some? Too long to even remember.
Opening his eyes, Frank gazed at Pap. “You look like hell.”
“I feel like hell.”
“If it weren’t you asking, I’d tell them to go to hell.”
“And I’d agree. But it is me, and I’m the only kin you’ve got. We’re like brothers.”
“True.”
“Then you’ll do it?”
“I guess I have to.”
Pap frowned. “You don’t have to look so pained, Frank. She ain’t an ugly woman.”
“I know that.”
Twisting his arm to claw at his back, Pap stamped his foot like a dog whose belly was being scratched. “You won’t regret it.”
“I hope not.”
“Go by her place tonight and tell her it’s you that’s taking her and not me. I’m ashamed to show my face. I’d scare her. I ain’t ever itched so bad in my life. Ah, damn. I think my skin is coming off.”
“Go home, Pap.”
“You’ll go over and tell her, won’t you?”
“I’ll try. I still need a shave.”
Pap grabbed the knob. “I don’t know when I’ll be back to the saloon . . . them Reed twins wasn’t around for over a week.”
“Damn,” Frank said. “That’s right. I’ll be out a piano player for a week.”
“It weren’t like I planned to get this.”
“I know.”
“I got to go, Frank. I’m sick.” He rapidly blinked his eyes and rubbed at them with his left hand. “Even my eyeballs are itchy.”
Pap let himself out, and Frank stayed in the bath, the water no longer soothing to his muscles. He pondered what he’d gotten himself into. He’d made a promise to his friend he’d make sure Cobb wouldn’t get near Amelia.
The trouble was, who was going to make sure he didn’t get too close to her?
* * *
Frank didn’t have a chance to go see Amelia on Saturday. There was a line for the barber’s chair, and he’d had to wait. By the time he returned to the Moon Rock, it was near his opening hour of four, and he’d had to do Pap’s jobs on top of his to get ready.
The customers had been sorely disappointed to hear they’d lost their piano player to the chicken pox, but after a round of free drinks to toast Pap’s speedy recovery, most of the patrons were more than forgiving.
But that was one night.
Frank hoped he wouldn’t have to dole out free suds for the rest of the week just to keep the men at the Moon Rock instead of bailing out in favor of Lloyd’s Palace. Iza Ogilvie could sing a passable tune when she was encouraged, and Lloyd’s clunker organ could sound good to a man with a thirst for music.
This being Sunday morning, Frank had forty-eight hours until Tuesday to figure out a way to keep his customers coming back while Pap recuperated. But as it stood now, tired as he was, his thinking wasn’t worth a damn. Having turned in somewhere in the vicinity of three-thirty in the morning, he’d been jarred awake just past nine by Dodge, Fisk, and Parks to open the saloon so they could move the piano out and into a gazebo that had been erected toward the outskirts of town off Divine Street. He’d had five cups of strong coffee since, but yawns were still creeping up on him.
As he crossed through Amelia’s picket gate, he thought he should try and catch a quick nap before having to take her to the picnic.
His twist on the bell ringer didn’t bring her to answer the door. He waited and rang again. She didn’t show up. Frowning, he ascended the porch steps and headed toward the back, thinking this was the second time he’d gone looking for her at her house. He hoped he wouldn’t find her crying in the grass again.
The backyard was empty, so he went up to the veranda. The back door was open and the screen in place to keep the insects out. The smells of a home-cooked meal hit him at once, making his stomach rumble—almost to the point of pain. He thought of all that coffee sloshing in his empty belly and was instantly starved.
He rapped on the door with his knuckles.
No answer.
He knew she was inside. She wouldn’t have left her door open if she weren’t.
He knocked louder.
This time, he heard her call from the interior of the house. He couldn’t make out what she was saying, so he waited for her to let him in. Only after a long moment, did her voice drift to him more clearly.
“Come in, Coney Island. You may set your lesson money on the kitchen table.”
Frank raised his brows inquiringly. “It’s not Coney Island.”
She must not have heard him, because she repeated her request. “Coney Island, dear, I’m indisposed at the moment.” She sounded like she was talking from the stairs leading to the bathroom. “You may let yourself in and put your quarter on the table.”
Shrugging, Frank pulled the handle on the screen and walked into the kitchen. He surveyed the room. Neat as a pin. On a rack resting on the sideboard was the most perfect pie he’d ever seen. Leaning over, he sniffed the fruity-smelling, buttery crust with the decorative fork markings on it.
Cherry.
Jackpot. He loved cherry pie.
Then he let his gaze wander over the rest of the fixings. There was a jar of homemade root beer. And she had a small wicker basket with a Turkey red fringed cloth neatly arranged and folded over a large lump. He couldn’t help lifting the hem and checking out the contents.
Fried chicken.
Wings, drumsticks, thighs, and breasts—all perfectly golden. They looked light and crispy, and he detected a hint of cinnamon in the flour coating.
Biscuits.
Buttermilk from the looks of them. High and plump, with a crock of honey as an accompaniment.
Cole slaw.
He hadn’t tasted that in years.
Indian pickles.
> He could tell by the cayenne pepper and red pepper pods.
And she’d packed something with vegetables in a jar. Who cared what it was? It looked good.
“Coney Island?” Amelia called, and Frank straightened.
He didn’t answer.
Footfalls came on the floor in the dining room, then a face peered into the kitchen from around the corner. Or at least he hoped there was a face underneath all that cream smelling like almond liqueur. She looked as if she were wearing a ghoulish mask, her eyes, mouth, and nostrils the only parts spared from the white paste. She’d put her hair up in rags and it stuck out all over with frayed ties keeping the knots in place. She wore the same floral wrapper she had on the night he’d kissed her in her foyer.
There wasn’t a chance he was going to kiss her now.
“Frank!” she gasped, and immediately retreated behind the wall so he couldn’t see her.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“Where’s Coney Island?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“But you said you were he.”
“Actually, I replied to the contrary. You just didn’t hear me.”
“Why did you come in?”
“You told me to.”
“I said for Coney Island to come in.”
“Well, he’s not around.”
“I can see that.”
“I can’t see you.” Frank crossed his arms over his chest. “Why don’t you come here?”
“No.”
He decided to flush her out. “I’ve never seen a woman have to use so much depilatory cream on her face before, Miss Marshall. I guess your facial hair is a real problem.”
“Well, I like that!” she squeaked, and came around the corner once again.
He chuckled. “I figured you would, sweetheart.”
She put her hands on her hips, and gave him a mad glare. “What are you doing here?”
“I came bearing a message from Pap.”
“Mr. O’Cleary?” She suddenly looked alarmed.
“He can’t take you to the picnic today.”
He couldn’t really tell because of the white stuff, but she didn’t seem all that let down. “Did Mr. O’Cleary change his mind?”
“No, he’s got the chicken pox.”
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