by Susan Wiggs
She didn’t want just some of the money Costello had stolen from the Catholic Relief Fund. She wanted it all. That meant waiting until the price reached a breath-stealing peak, and then selling off quickly.
Dylan tossed his head like an impatient racehorse. Kathleen smiled. She liked having this power over him. She liked having this control. If she could not have his heart, at least she could have his undivided attention at this critical moment, and even his trust that she would know when the time was right.
It was heady stuff. She almost didn’t feel Father Michael nudging her again.
“Isn’t that Bull down there, walking toward the telegrapher’s desk?”
Kathleen emitted a small, thin gasp. Not yet, she wanted to shout. But Bull was only following the plan. She had been greedy; she had pushed too hard. The hand holding the handkerchief clenched convulsively and then opened. The wisp of fabric, embroidered with a stranger’s initials, drifted to the trading floor. The frenzied traders took no note as they trod the fabric underfoot.
Just for a moment, she thought of the night she had dropped Gran’s holy card. A man had stepped on it and her life had been changed forever.
“My child,” said Father Michael, “you’ve turned as pale as the grave.”
She swallowed hard, darting her gaze from Bull to Dylan to Mr. Costello. “I’ve had a bad omen, Father.”
He didn’t bother trying to reassure her. He was Irish. He knew better than to argue with omens.
10:45 a.m.
At last the fool woman had made up her mind, thought Dylan as he saw the handkerchief drifting down from the gallery. Finally it was time to do what he had come to do.
Each time he had walked the rope over Niagara Falls, he had been possessed by a keen, focused sense of balance, heightened by the knowledge that one false move would mean certain death. The stunt always exhilarated him, and he was startled to feel that sense now. This was not a matter of life and death, but when he saw the hope on the faces of Kathleen and Father Michael, it felt much more important than that.
He took out his sell orders and held his hand in the air as Kathleen had instructed. A surge of self-confidence welled inside him. This, at least, was his specialty. Convincing people to pay good money for something of no value was what he did best. The current act was no different. He simply had to persuade people to part with their money for an illusion.
There was no convincing necessary. They surged toward him like flesh-eating fish in a feeding frenzy. Buy order after buy order was thrust at him, and he couldn’t gather them in fast enough. Costello was topping everyone’s price, smugly certain his private knowledge of the market was enough to trump Dylan’s efforts.
Jostled and harassed by the bidders, he felt a keen gratification, gathering in sums far higher than what he had paid for the forward contract. Before his very eyes, a thousand dollars ballooned to ten thousand, then twenty, just as Kathleen had predicted it would.
Yet it was strange. At the core of his thrill in the game was a certain hollowness. An emptiness. Winning was fleeting. Its effects never lasted. He was living proof of that.
And as he gathered in his orders, he felt a twinge of irritation at Kathleen. Damn the woman. She made him think too much. She made him yearn for more than confidence games and sleight of hand. She made him want to seize the very essence of life itself.
Stupid. For him, life was about getting ahead and moving on. That was all he had ever done. That was all he knew.
He became aware of a red-faced recording clerk shouting at him. “You fool! Why the hell are you selling out?”
Dylan was about to trade away the balance of the contract. “Because it’s the only thing I can do,” he yelled back.
But something, a feeling, an instinct, made him hold on to a fraction of shares. It really only represented about fifty dollars, but he wanted to keep it. He wasn’t sure why. In years to come, the chits would remind him of the elaborate scheme he had concocted with Kathleen, he supposed.
With nothing left to sell, his pockets swollen with chits just waiting to be converted into cash, he broke away from the crowd and stood back to let the rest of the trading unfold. There was Bull, right on schedule. Runners rushed forward with the new price discovery report.
And somewhere along the lakeshore, making fast for Chicago, was a bargeload of grain that would take the bottom clean out of the shortage.
11:05 a.m.
Rumors rippled through the crowd in the pit like the wind through a field of ripe wheat. Kathleen counted precisely three seconds of sick, disbelieving silence. Then the floor exploded again, shifting from rampant buying to frantic selling.
The recorders resembled men before a firing squad as they posted plummeting prices. Costello desperately tried to unload the grain he had bought at such inflated prices, but could find no buyers. Everyone else was selling, too.
Farmers in the gallery swore and stomped away. Vincent Costello clenched both fists to his chest, raised his face to the ceiling and let out an animal bellow of rage.
And Dylan Kennedy, Kathleen saw with a surge of pride, stood at the barred counter, reckoning his earnings. She sagged back on the bleachers, clutching Father Michael’s hand. “It’s over,” she said. “He got your money back for you, Father.”
Yet even as she embraced their victory, she could not stop a welling of sadness. Dylan would leave after this. He had said as much and she could think of no way in the world to stop him.
THE PAYOFF
When I consider life, ‘tis all a cheat; Yet, fooled with hope, men favor the deceit; Trust on, and think tomorrow will repay. Tomorrow’s falser than the former day.
John Dryden
EIGHTEEN
On the sandy shore of the lake, Dylan and Bull made a bonfire to chase away the chill of the autumn night. The amber glow cast a wavering circle of soft light over the thick wool blankets they had spread out on the sand. The remains of a meal of roasted chicken, contraband wine and fresh bread lay surrounded by four sprawling forms replete with good food and illicit drink.
Dylan sat with one arm propped behind him and the other around Kathleen. His feet, casually crossed at the ankles, rested on a strongbox containing their earnings in paper cash and coin.
He studied the play of firelight over the box. “You know,” he said, “I’m no stranger to a fortune this size. I’ve seen it before. Why does this one seem so much sweeter than the others?”
Father Michael’s beatific smile had been knocked askew by copious amounts of wine, obtained by means he refused to divulge. “’Cause you were doing God’s work, my son.”
Dylan chuckled and toyed with a silky lock of Kathleen’s hair. “Was I?”
“Of course,” Kathleen murmured, her voice sleepy with the wine she had imbibed. “Mr. Costello’s money was stolen from the church. By earning it back, you restored the church’s money.”
“It’s not that simple. We made more than that. We doubled the amount that was stolen.”
“Only because I made you wait for the right price,” she said.
“Only because I convinced Costello there’d be a shortage,” Bull said loudly.
“Only because I did such a good job in the trading pit,” Dylan chimed in.
“Children, children.” Father Michael made a quelling motion with his hands. “Don’t poison the sweetness of this victory with pride. Why not concede that the Lord himself delivered good fortune into our unsher—unswerving—undeserving hands?”
“I didn’t see the Lord in the trading pit, sweating bullets,” Dylan grumbled, taking a swig of wine.
“May God forgive you for your arrogish—arrog—pride.” The priest seized the bottle and polished off the wine.
“He will,” said Dylan. “That’s his job.”
“What about the other traders, the honest ones?” Father Michael asked with a troubled frown. “They lost money today, too.”
“Hazard of the game,” Dylan said easily. “They knew that, and they�
��ll be back to trade another day. Costello was the big loser. He was our mark.”
“I feel awful for his daughter,” Kathleen remarked. “Imagine, having such a scoundrel for a father.”
Dylan couldn’t imagine having a father at all. “Faith will be all right. She always is.” He didn’t mention that he’d had a private conference with Barry Lynch, making certain that Faith would have the means to carry on, no matter what happened to Vince. For years, Dylan had carried a very quiet, protective devotion for Faith in his heart. It didn’t mean he wanted to marry her, but he never wished her ill.
Kathleen rested her head on his shoulder. He liked the soft weight of it there. He liked the smell of the soap she used and the gentle rise and fall of her bosom as she relaxed against him.
Bull lit a match and held it to the bowl of his burl pipe. A ripple of smoke swirled around him, and then the night wind snatched it away. “If you had a fortune this big before,” he said, “why didn’t you hold on to it?”
Dylan stared into the heart of the fire. “I guess I’ve never been much good at holding on to things.”
They sat together in contemplative silence for a time. Some distance up the shore, lights had been strung along Government Pier. The lighthouse emitted its long beam over the restless waters of Lake Michigan. It made a fine sight, particularly with the knowledge that bargeloads of grain were making their way to port.
“Is Mr. Costello a vengeful sort?” Kathleen asked.
“He can do nothing,” Dylan lied, lightly caressing her back. “He cannot reveal the source of his capital because it was stolen. And he cannot complain that he was given false price discoveries because that was confidential.” Dylan decided not to disclose his prediction as to what Vince might do on a personal level. He was a proud man, harsh and ruthless. During their burlesque days, Dylan’s physical condition had mattered, so Vince left him alone. More recently, he had counted on Faith to keep her father’s temper in check. But lately, Faith seemed to be taking more interest in a certain accounting clerk than in Dylan Kennedy.
Now there was nothing to stop Costello from taking revenge. That was yet another reason Dylan had to disappear. Of course, he thought, sliding a glance at Kathleen, it wasn’t the only reason.
Father Michael climbed to his feet and patted his middle. “My friends,” he announced, trying to hold on to steady dignity, “I must be going. There is mush—much work to be done tomorrow.”
He staggered, and Bull got up to help him. “I’ll get him back to St. Brendan’s.”
Dylan reached for the strongbox. Father Michael lifted his hand. “We’re too drunk, and it’s too dark out, to deal with that now. Bring the money ‘round in the morning.”
Dylan felt a flash of amazement. He wasn’t used to being trusted. Then he saw Bull exchange a glance with Kathleen, and he understood. They bade goodnight all around, and Bull and the priest left. Outside the circle of firelight, the huge man and the drunken priest melted into the velvety night. The waves lapping at the shore filled the ensuing silent void, pierced by the occasional lonely whistle of a train, invisible on the distant prairie.
The sound made him think of all the empty nights to come, and how they would feel even emptier now that he had known a woman like Kathleen.
Without really planning what he would do, he shifted position to face her. He took her lips with his mouth, savoring her softness and the impulse that made her part her lips, maybe in protest, maybe in surprise. He deepened the kiss with pressure and sent a bold suggestion with the motion of his tongue.
She melted into his embrace. He was amazed at how sweetly pliant she was. They had their differences, the two of them, but not when it came to this sort of pleasure. He gave her no chance to protest. They had a mile of empty shoreline and the night was cold, but here in the circle of the fire, it was warm and intimate. He parted the bodice of her dress and drew it down and away from her, then loosened her corset and the shift beneath. Her breasts looked beautiful in the golden light. He put his mouth there, and the heat generated by the intimate contact lit his desire to a fever pitch. She was a magnificent creature, and he lost himself in her, lost all sense of time and space. Nothing existed outside this world of firelight and sensation, of flesh straining for contact and comfort. He loved the taste of her and told her so without words, drawing his tongue over her delicate skin while his hands worked efficiently, divesting her, and then himself, of the encumbering garments that lay between them. He kissed her everywhere, overriding a few halfhearted protests as he turned her this way and that on the blanket. He learned that if he kept hold of her, she never had a chance to escape him, for in truth she didn’t want to escape. He warmed her with his hands and mouth and body, discovering the soft shadows and folds of her most secret places.
She tortured him in turn, laughing quietly when he gasped and convulsed with the effort to prolong their lovemaking. She learned his body with an earnest will that drove him mad. She had never been shy with him, not even that first time, and now in the flickering firelight she pressed her advantage. Her small clever hands grasped and caressed, setting him afire. It was a game in which there were no winners or losers, only sensation and the delight of a torment that promised everything.
“God, you are exquisite,” he whispered, leaning down to give her the most intimate kiss of all. She shuddered beneath him, and then cried out for him to fill her. He took his time, though her fingers dug into him and her hips lifted toward his. He kissed her lightly, sweetly, lowering himself by inches. “This is how you taste,” he whispered, sharing. “You taste like pleasure. You taste like love.”
He filled her at last, and moved with a long slow rhythm, still holding back but starting to strain from the effort. When he could wait no longer he poured himself into her, giving everything he had and wishing he had more to offer.
The strange silence of the aftermath went on for long moments. He drew the pile of discarded clothing partially over them and pressed her cheek into the hollow of his chest. He had no idea why he liked holding her as much as he liked making love to her, but he did. It brought a certain rare quiet to his soul.
Finally he confessed it, because he realized he could say anything to her and it wouldn’t sound stupid or weak. “When I hold you like this,” he whispered, “the whole world seems to stop.”
She twisted to her side, propping her chin in her hand to gaze into his face. “I know,” she said. “I feel that, too.” Taking a deep breath, she said, “I wish—”
“Sh.” He touched a finger to her lips. “Don’t wish for anything.”
“Why not?”
“Then you’ll never be disappointed.” He didn’t want to hear her wishes, because he could not make any of them come true. Besides, she had an uncanny knack for forcing him to make, and keep, promises—something he would rather not do.
She watched him with sympathy and curiosity and confusion. He wanted to explain himself to her but he didn’t know how. He didn’t know what he was feeling because he had never felt this way before. It was like an illness that wouldn’t go away. Love? He had declared love for a woman many a time. It had never occurred to him that love was more than just a word to be used like a key in a lock. He suddenly remembered his feelings when the flames were marching toward the courthouse. The fire was something he couldn’t control or manipulate or talk his way out of. Loving Kathleen posed the same dilemma.
“You know I have to go away now,” he said.
“You don’t have to do anything of the sort.” She looked him straight in the eye. “You’re a good trader, Dylan. You proved that today.” She studied him for a long time, seeming to sense the futility of arguing with him. “But it seems you’re better at running away.”
“I’m not—” He broke off. “There’s nothing but trouble for me, and anyone associated with me, if I stay. Costello is probably already looking for me.”
“He doesn’t scare you. Don’t pretend he does.” She sat up and hugged her knees to her
chest, regarding him with a look as intense as the lighthouse beam. “You claim you are a man who loves risk. But you’re afraid of the biggest gamble of all.”
Wary, he squinted at her. “And what is that?”
“The risk of giving every part of yourself in a lasting bond. You’re good at the shallow gratification of the game, but when it comes to the enduring challenge of love, you’re afraid. Because as hard as it is to leave, it’s even harder to stay. As much as it hurts to leave, it hurts even more to keep loving me.”
“Who said I loved you?” he demanded.
Her smile was mysterious and sad. “You said so just now. Not with words, but that’s the reason you’re leaving. It’s the reason you’re so scared and the reason you can’t stay. So pretend if you like that you won’t settle down because you’d get bored. Pretend you have to flee because you’ve made a powerful enemy. That’s a pretty story to tell people and it makes you look manly and interesting as you drift from place to place, game to game. But you and I both know you’re running away because you’re afraid of staying with me.”
He formed his fists into hard knots, when he actually wanted to clap them over his ears. He didn’t need to hear this, damn her. With an effort, he relaxed and spoke with negligent offhandedness. “Very dramatic, but untrue. I don’t believe in the kind of love you’re talking about. It doesn’t exist for me. It never has. No one ever showed me how it’s done.”
“Oh, Dylan. You know. You know how it’s done. You have to believe you’re worth it.”
His mind whirred with confusion. He couldn’t be the object of her devotion unless he knew how to return it. And he couldn’t return it until he understood what he felt. “I don’t know how. I’d only hurt you.”
“You’ll hurt me by leaving.” She slowly dressed herself. As Dylan did the same, he hoped she wouldn’t cry, for her tears struck him like bullets from a firing squad. To distract her, he moved to another subject. “What will we do about the money?”