The Gamble (I)

by LaVyrle Spencer

  Agatha blushed and became flustered. “Oh, don’t be silly, Violet. Having a... a proposition for me could mean anything.”

  “Then why is the ticket only one-way?”

  Agatha’s gaze fell to it. Within her body the fault line widened. “I... I don’t know,” she answered in a small voice. “But, my goodness. Jubilee and Marcus engaged to be married—imagine that.”

  “Do you think you’ll see Willy?”

  “I don’t know. Scott doesn’t mention him.”

  “Well, what are you sitting there for, child? The tenth is the day after tomorrow.”

  The realization stunned Agatha. “Oh, gracious, so it is.” Pressing a hand to her hammering heart, she glanced around the shop, as if trying to recall why she was there. “But...”—she raised distracted eyes to Violet—“but how can I get ready to go by then... and how can I leave the shop for an indefinite length of time... and... and there’s that dress I’ve been working on for—”

  “Bosh!” Violet spat. “Put that ticket down in a safe place and get upstairs this moment, Agatha Downing. Don’t ask yourself how or why or for how long, not when a man like that is waiting in a hotel room in Florida for you. Just stuff as many gowns as you can into your trunk and be on that train when it pulls out tomorrow!”

  “But—”

  “One more word and I’ll quit my job, Agatha!”

  “But—”

  “Agatha!” For an elderly woman, Violet could muster remarkable choler.

  “Oh, Violet, can I really do such a thing?”

  “Of course you can. Now, up with you.” Violet reached for Agatha’s hands and assisted her from the chair. “Check your gowns and your petticoats and make sure you take plenty of clean underwear, and if anything needs laundering we’d best get it down to the Finn’s immediately. There’s not a moment to waste.”

  “Oh, Violet.” Agatha would have been appalled at her lack of coherence had she realized how many times she’d already said “Oh, Violet.” But this time she embraced the birdlike woman and said fondly against her temple, “You have a magnificent rebellious streak in you that I’ve always admired. Thank you, dear heart.”

  Violet patted her shoulder, then shoved her away. “Upstairs with you now, and use a little vinegar in your rinse water. It brings out the red highlights in your hair. Tt-tt.”

  He’d booked her a berth in a sleeping car, but sleep was out of the question. During the night she spent in it, her eyes scarcely closed. Such brimming anticipation could not be squandered in sleep. Hours like this were too precious, too rare, to let them slip through unconscious fingers.

  She watched the land change from brown to white to green, a green more verdant than any she remembered in her entire life. She recalled the semiarid climate of Colorado with its piñon pines and poplars, but the earth itself was sere. And in Kansas, though a veritable ocean of blue-stemmed bunch grass filled every vista, it was green for only a short time each spring. Beyond the plains, Kansas offered little verdure but for an occasional copse of cottonwoods and hackberries. But the farther south and east Agatha traveled, the greener became the view out the train window.

  They crossed the Tennessee River on a majestic trestle so high above a canyon it felt as if she were looking down on earth from heaven. Near Chattanooga the tracks twisted and turned through verdant ravines and several times she glimpsed waterfalls in the distance. With the foothills of the Appalachians behind, the land began flattening. Then there was Georgia with earth as red as ten-year-old rust, and more pines than she’d ever imagined, straight and thick and secret.

  She changed trains in Atlanta and the rumbling wheels bore her ever closer to Scott and an assignation whose outcome she dared not contemplate for fear it might be one she must refuse. She shunted the thought to the recesses of her mind and immersed herself in the childlike joy of discovery. When she saw Spanish moss for the first time, she gasped in delight and looked around for someone to share it with, but everyone was either dozing or disinterested. The pines gave way to water oak and live oak and soon the tracks were bracketed by black water from which cypress knees projected, and the foliage became so thick it seemed no creature could live in it. But she saw a deer on an emerald knoll and before it quite registered upon her brain, it had turned tail and disappeared into the wall of growth behind it. Something flashed past, an impression of candy-pink tufts on a ball of green, too fast to absorb. She watched for another and saw one in time to inquire of the conductor.

  “A tulip tree, ma’am. We’re just about to pass over the Florida border. Tulip trees bloom early down here. Watch for white flowers, too, big white flowers on spreading green trees. Those’ll be magnolias.”

  Magnolias. Tulip trees. Spanish moss. The very words accelerated her heartbeat. But what accelerated it even more was the realization that with each passing mile she was being borne closer and closer to Scott. Would he be there at the station? What would he be wearing? Would Willy be with him? Whatever would she say to him? What did a woman say to a man to whom she’d confessed her love but from whom she’d received no similar response?

  The conductor weaved his way along the aisle, announcing, “Next stop, White Springs. White Springs, Florida.” He paused a moment, touched the bill of his cap and said to Agatha, “Enjoy those tulip trees, ma’am.”

  “Yes, I... I will,” she replied breathily, surprised to find that she could speak at all. As the train began slowing she was deluged with a mixture of silly concerns: Is my hat on straight? (But there was no hat; she’d come bareheaded in deference to his wishes.) Is my dress wrinkled? (Of course it was wrinkled; she’d been riding in it since she’d left home.) Should I have worn the blue one? (The blue one! The blue one was a dairy maid’s dress compared to the one she’d made for the governor’s tea.) If he kisses me hello, where shall I put my hands? (If he kissed her hello, she’d be doing well to remember she even had hands!) Should I ask him immediately why he’s brought me here? (Oh, Agatha, you’re such a priss! Why don’t you try to be more like Violet?)

  After all her concerns, she stepped from the train to discover Scott wasn’t there to meet her. Disappointment turned to relief and relief back to disappointment. But there were hack and baggage lines to transfer passengers and their luggage from the depot to the hotels. So many hacks! So many hotels! So many people!

  She signaled to a Negro driver who pulled up and tipped his wide straw hat.

  “Aftuhnoon.”

  “Good afternoon.”

  He got down with a great lack of haste and stowed her trunk and bandbox in the boot, then shambled back to the side of the rig. He wore maroon felt carpet slippers on misshapen feet. His legs were bowed, and his lips swollen.

  “Where to?”

  “The Telford Hotel.”

  “De Telfund. Sho’ ‘nuff.”

  She sat behind him on a cracked black leather seat, while a clip-clopping white mare moved over the sandy streets with no more hurry than his driver. Agatha’s head swung left and right, trying to take it all in. An offensive odor pervaded the air but she seemed to be the only one aware of it. Well-dressed ladies and gentlemen strolled everywhere, crossing streets and hotel verandas, along shaded paths all seeming to lead in one direction. A bunch of mounted men with guns on their shoulders and quail hanging from their saddles followed a pack of hounds down the street. The carriage passed a sign that read, HUNT CLUB—HOUNDS FOR HIRE. A woman in a cane-backed wheelchair crossed the street behind them, pushed by a portly man in a beaver top hat. A band of laughing men with fishing equipment strode toward them with creels strapped over their shoulders. Everybody seemed to be playing.

  “Sir?” she called her driver.

  “Ma’am?” He half turned as if he could crane no farther around. His neck was crosshatched with furrows deep enough to plant seeds in, had it been made of earth instead of skin.

  “I’ve... I’ve never been here before. What is this place?”

  “Minnul springs, ma’am,” he replied, the
words so abbreviated her brow furrowed.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Minnul springs. Healin’ watuh.”

  “Oh... mineral springs.” So that was what smelled like rotten eggs.

  “’S’right, ma’am. Rich folk come, play some, res’ some, soak in d’ watuh some. Go ‘way feelin’ fine as a frog hair.” He chuckled and returned to his driving. Within three minutes they drew up before an impressive three-story white edifice with a deep front veranda where ladies and gentlemen sat on wicker chairs and sipped from tall glasses.

  “Telford, ma’am,” the old man announced as he backed down from the driver’s seat with arthritic slowness. With equal slowness he fetched her trunk and bandbox from the boot and delivered them inside the busy lobby.

  “Be twen’-fi’e cen’, ma’am,” he said, returning, shifting his hat brim left and right, as if scratching his temples with it.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Be twen’-fi’e cen’,” he repeated.

  “I... I’m sorry.”

  A familiar deep voice drawled near her ear. “I believe the fare is twenty-five cents, ma’am.” She had never before experienced such a stirring reaction at the sound of a human voice. She snapped around and there he was, smiling down at her with familiar brown eyes, a pair of familiar dimples, a wonderfully familiar mouth... and a totally strange moustache.

  “Scott,” she could only think to say because her breath was short, her head light, and she felt curiously weak.

  He looked tropical, in a nankeen suit as pale as bleached bone, a matching straw hat with a wide curved brim, and a black band that matched his collar-length hair, eyebrows, and the new moustache. His waistcoat was tight, molding his ribs above the twinkling gold watch chain that spanned its two pockets. At his throat he wore an ascot of striped silk—white on wheat, pierced by a single pearl stud.

  “Hello, Gussie.” He took both her gloved hands in his bare ones and squeezed hard while they smiled at each other with wide, bold gladness.

  He realized in a flashing moment how much he’d missed her. And that she’d worn no hat, and that her hair was as beautiful as always, and her face as becoming, her smile as rare. And that her breasts appeared ripe, her breath hard-driving within the boned, high-necked dress she’d made for the governor’s tea. And that his heart was thudding to beat hell.

  “Sorry I missed the train, but I wasn’t sure which one you’d be on.”

  “It’s all right. I’ve caught a hack.”

  Reminded that the driver waited, he released her hands to reach in his pocket. “Ah, the fare. Twenty-five cents, is it?”

  “Yessuh.”

  He paid double that amount and the driver nodded twice while thanking him. Then Scott turned back to Agatha and retrieved both her hands. “Let me look at you.” When he had, for so long her cheeks turned pink, he said, “No hat. Thank you.”

  She bobbed her head and laughed self-consciously, then lifted it to find his grin as delectable as ever and the scent of tobacco still marking him as the one she’d remember out of thousands.

  “Thank heavens nothin’s changed,” he said.

  She assessed him in return. “I can’t say the same for you.”

  “What? Oh, this?” He touched the moustache briefly, then took her hand again. “Got lazy and left off shavin’ awhile.”

  It was an obvious lie. The remainder of his face was shiny from a fresh blading, and the precise black moustache was trimmed as if to military specifications. She loved it immediately.

  “Very raffish,” she approved.

  “I was aimin’ for refined.” But he was pleased that she liked it.

  “Possibly raffishly refined,” she concluded, and they laughed lightheartedly, then stared at each other again, ignoring the hotel bustle that continued around them while their joined hands hung between them.

  He squeezed her fingers, hard. “You look wonderful,” he said.

  “So do you.”

  They stared some more. Then Gandy laughed, as if his cup of joy had just run over.

  She laughed, too—there was no controlling it when a heart was this happy. Then she found it impossible to look into his eyes any longer. “Is Willy here?” She glanced around.

  “No, just us.” Again their gazes locked. They stood among bellboys and hack drivers, women and men with children in tow, and a trio of the quail hunters making their way toward the kitchen with their unplucked supper in hand. Yet it seemed as if Scott had spoken the truth: just them. The flurry around them receded and they basked in their reunion. He changed the position of their hands, lifting hers until their palms matched, then meshing his fingers between hers and squeezing. Their absorption in each other continued inordinately until finally Scott seemed to realize it, freed her, and cleared his throat.

  “Well... uh... I take it you haven’t checked in yet.”

  “No.”

  “Let’s do that.”

  Let’s? His ambiguity left her with a feeling of palpitating uncertainty as he escorted her to the desk, watched her sign in, then took the key. But the room she was given was private, not even on the same floor as his.

  “I arrived yesterday,” he explained. “Mine is on the third, yours is on the second, so you only have t’ climb one flight.”

  But what a flight—triple-wide steps with heavy oak railings; a landing with an enormous oval window bearing a leaded spider web design; a sprawling fern on a pedestal table, then more stairs with their rich scarlet runner overhung by double-bracketed gaslights.

  “It’s breathtaking, Scott. The most beautiful place I’ve ever been in.”

  “Wait till you see Waverley,” he replied.

  She seemed to float up the remainder of the stairs. But she didn’t ask when. Not yet. The anticipation was too heady.

  “You’re still living there?”

  “Yes.” He leaned to put the key to the lock.

  “And the others—Jube and all the rest?”

  The door swung back. “They’re there, too. We’re turnin’ Waverley into a resort hotel. Your room, ma’am.” He ushered her inside with a light touch on her elbow. The moment her toes touched the thick Aubusson rug she forgot everything else.

  “Ohhh, Scott!” She turned in a circle, looking up, then down. “Oh, my.”

  “You like it?”

  “Like it? Why, it’s magnificent!”

  Scott draped an elbow on a high footpost of the brass bed, tossing the key, watching her scan the room a second time, enjoying her smile, her delight. She moved to one of the twin windows overlooking the street, touched the rose-colored overdraperies and the white Austrian drapes behind them, the silky wallpaper with its tiers of trellised rosebuds. Turning slowly, her gaze passed the lacy fern on its three-legged pedestal, the glass washbowl with its rose design in red on white, the matching water dispenser with its brass spigot, the drinking glass beside it, the bed with its woven counterpane of shell-pink and neatly folded quilt over the footrail, just in front of Scott.

  Her eyes—green as the leaves of the fern with the sun glowing through them—stopped when they reached his. She clasped her hands, thumb knuckles pressing her breastbone. Her smile dissolved into an expression that made him want to leave his post at the foot of the bed and take her by both arms and feel his mouth moving over hers. Instead, he stood as he was.

  “I cannot possibly allow you to pay for all this.” She stood still and prim with her white gloves carefully placed.

  “Why?”

  “It wouldn’t be seemly.”

  “Who will know?” Unspoken came the question: Who will know anything we choose to do in this room? For a moment it seduced them both.

  Having completed her study of the room, she realized the most breathtaking thing in it was Scott Gandy in his tailored tropical suit with the vest that fit his chest much as her glove fit her trembling hand, and his intense dark eyes leveled upon her from beneath the brim of the finely woven planter’s hat. And the new moustache that d
rew her attention time and again to his mouth.

  “I will. You will,” she replied, unsmiling.

  Muscle by muscle, he drew himself away from the bedpost, unsmiling, too. “Sometimes you’re too rigid with yourself, Agatha.” He had taken a single step toward her when the bellboy spoke from the doorway.

  “Trunks here.”

  Disappointed, Gandy turned, forcing a lightness to his tone. “Ah, good. Bring ‘em in. Put ‘em here.” He tipped the bellboy, who left the door open as he went out. But the interruption had broken the spell. When Gandy turned back to Agatha she was strolling the perimeter of the room, carefully keeping her eyes on things other than him.

  “The room’s already been paid for, Gussie.”

  “I shall reimburse you, then.”

  “But it was my invitation.”

  “Why?” She stopped strolling, facing him from the diagonal corner of the bed. “I mean, why here? If Waverley is a hotel, then why the Telford in White Springs, Florida?”

  He expelled a breath and consciously brought his grin back into place. “Because I remembered that you said you’d never been swimmin’. What better place t’ learn than in a mineral spring of the first magnitude?”

  “Swimming!” She pressed her chest. “You brought me all this distance so I could go swimming?”

  “Don’t look so surprised, Agatha. It’s not just a pothole in a Kansas creek. First magnitude means the springs spout thirty-two thousand gallons of water an hour, and when you hit those bubbles you’ll feel like you’re floatin’ in champagne.”

  As if she were doing so now, she laughed. “But I’ve never even seen champagne, much less floated in it.”

  “Looks exactly like spring water, but tastes much worse. Oh, by the way.” He pointed to the spigoted dispenser and the drinking glass beside it. “Be sure you drink plenty of the water while you’re here. They see to it y’ have an ample supply in your room at all times. And they claim it does all kinds o’ miraculous things t’ your body. Cures gout, goiter, colic, constipation, cretinism, corns, catarrh, dandruff, and deafness. And makes the blind t’ see and the lame t’ walk.”