The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries)

by Connie Shelton

  “Frankie!” she shouted, racing toward them with outstretched arms. “Oh, you’re home, you’re home!”

  “I am, Deb. Finally.” He lifted her off the floor and twirled around with his arms wrapped around her waist.

  When he came to a stop he set her down and turned toward Patricio.

  “Meet my sister—Deborah. Sis, this is Patricio.”

  “Patricio? Oh, come on … you need an American name now. I’ll call you Patrick.”

  Patricio didn’t even think to object. He was lost in those blue eyes. She reached for his hand and pulled him toward the sofas as the maid returned with a small tray containing cups, saucers and another silver pot of fresh coffee.

  “Patrick comes from New Mexico,” Franklin was saying. “He’ll stay with us until the next Santa Fe DeLuxe leaves.”

  “Oh, dear, the DeLuxe stopped service last year.” Mrs. Hastings turned toward Patricio. “I’m afraid they’ve only first-class service to offer now. I do hope that will be all right.”

  “Too bad, old man. The DeLuxe always greeted the ladies with an orchid corsage and the gents with a tooled leather wallet.” Franklin had already reverted away from Army talk, had become more formal, Patricio noticed.

  “But it’s wonderful that you’ll be in Chicago a few extra days,” Deborah sat across from him now and the blue eyes were constantly on him. “And do you know—since you wouldn’t be able to make it home before Thanksgiving, I think you should stay and have it with us. Wouldn’t that be perfect, Mummy? A war hero as our guest.”

  Although nothing had been said, she must have noticed the medals on his uniform. He started to protest, to talk about how he had really not earned the medals. But these people didn’t want to hear of death and bombs and hospitals full of damaged men. The ladies were already talking about decorations for the holiday table. He accepted a cup of coffee that smelled like heaven and leaned back against the sofa’s puffy cushion.

  “We heard that the great pandemic flu had come to Chicago,” Franklin said to his father. “You never said, was the household affected?”

  “Oh, no. We were fine—went to the country place for a few weeks, even the servants. I’m sure your mother wrote you … must be a letter that never caught up with you.”

  Deborah spoke up. “It was deadly dull, I’ll tell you. But then the city was deadly dull as well. They closed the theaters, cancelled concerts, even some of the shops shut down for awhile. There was absolutely nothing to do, and one didn’t dare even ride the trains out of fear—the germs were simply everywhere.”

  “I suppose that’s pretty much over with now,” said Franklin.

  “Oh, yes. We’re all back up to our usual tricks.” The blue eyes twinkled and her smile revealed one eyetooth just a tiny bit crooked. Patricio felt his heart flutter.

  “Well, I am certain that you boys would love a hot bath and the chance to unpack before luncheon. Use the afternoon to rest, after that long train trip, then we’ll meet for drinks at seven and dinner at eight.” Mrs. Hastings stood to signal that she had other things to do.

  They all rose.

  Patricio and Franklin retrieved their Army duffle bags from the foyer and headed for the stairs.

  “I’m not sure about this,” Patricio said. “I don’t have any suitable clothes for dinners and such. And I can’t really afford to go shopping.”

  “Oh, nonsense. We’ll rummage up something of Father’s. You’re very close to his size.” He said it as if this were no problem at all.

  Patricio trailed one stair behind. He could wear borrowed clothing for a few days until the train left. Unless he really did accept Deborah’s suggestion that he stay for Thanksgiving. He found himself attracted to the idea.

  “You’ll be in here and I’m right up the hall, two doors away.” Franklin interrupted his thoughts. “Bathroom is right through that connecting door … plenty of blankets on the beds but if you want a fire just say so. Normally they’re lit first thing in the morning before we all go out. Otherwise, it’s just the central heat here in the radiators but sometimes it’s a little spotty.”

  Patricio walked into the room, decorated in shades of green with a high bed piled with luxurious-looking linens. Central heat? He wasn’t even sure what that was. He thought of his family’s cozy adobe with its one fireplace and the thick walls, which kept the place warm in winter and cool in summer. He dropped his duffle bag on the bed and peered into the bathroom. A flushing toilet, a deep, claw-footed tub, a handsome basin with both hot and cold water taps.

  He had just pulled everything from his bag, finding a hanger in the tall armoire for his spare uniform and stuffing used underclothes back into the duffle, when a tap came at the door. Without waiting for a response, Franklin opened it and peered around the edge.

  “Brought you a few things. Try them on. If they don’t fit properly we can have them altered. Father’s put on a few pounds …” he patted his stomach “… but these did fit him a few years ago. I do believe you are exactly the same height, though.” He handed over the garments and left without another word.

  The items consisted of a tweed suit with shirt and vest, a simple tuxedo (apparently dressing for dinner was expected), and a good quality overcoat. Patricio looked down at his scuffed Army boots, his only footwear. Equally shabby-looking was Roberto’s carved wooden box. He ran his sleeve over it to give it a little shine. So many months, so many events since he and Roberto had walked the streets of that little French village, eaten cookies from this box, read mail from home together. He thought of Emelia but could hardly remember her face anymore. Too much had intervened.

  “Meant to suggest,” said Franklin—he had not closed the door behind him. “You’re welcome to browse through my closet for shoes. Come along now, if you’d like.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Patricio found himself completely outfitted for going out in public (although he could have certainly worn his Army uniform on the streets) and for the nightly dinner ritual. He closed himself away in his assigned room and sat on the edge of the bed, nervous about getting through it all.

  A chime rang at seven o’clock, signaling the gathering for cocktails. Patricio had fallen into a deep sleep shortly after Franklin left the borrowed clothes, apparently missed lunch with the family, and had awakened only when his new friend tapped at the door an hour ago to make sure he was all right and would be joining them for dinner. He’d spent the hour figuring out all the parts to the tuxedo. A manservant who introduced himself as Hughes came by and righted the few bits he’d gotten wrong.

  He followed the sound of voices and came into the same room where coffee had been served that morning, to discover another addition to the group. A female guest named Catherine (‘the family calls me Cat’) Bates; he quickly figured out she was an old girlfriend of Franklin’s. The two of them drifted toward the windows, apparently to take in the city lights along the shoreline of the lake, leaving Patricio to make conversation with the elder Hastings and Deborah. It didn’t prove to be a problem as she took the lead.

  “Mother needs to see to some committee business for a charity ball and has had to cancel our plans to go shopping.” She raised her eyes to gaze at him in a way that brought out the fine line of her nose and accentuated a dimple that he had not noticed before. “I was so hoping that you might go along, to act as my escort for a few hours.”

  He reasoned that there were certainly worse ways a newly discharged soldier could spend a day. He agreed, just as her father handed him a heavy crystal glass with an inch of imported Scotch whiskey in it.

  “From our most recent shipment,” Hastings said, “forty-year stock. I’m afraid we’ll not be seeing much of that in the near future.”

  “Because of the new prohibition laws?”

  “The good stuff will go first but there will always be something to wet a man’s whistle.” He took a long sip. “One thing you have to understand about basic human nature, son. The more strongly you forbid something, the more determined pe
ople are to have it. Ask the mother of any ten-year-old child!” He chuckled and made eye contact with his wife.

  “I can speak from experience in raising this one,” Mrs. Hastings said, staring at her daughter. “Remember that little girl you wanted to befriend, the Irish one? No matter how much I forbade you to play with her you always found a way.”

  “Maggie O’Hare? I hardly remember her now.”

  “I should have given you free rein—you would have discovered how little you had in common, years earlier.”

  Franklin and Cat had joined them now.

  “Am I right, Frank? Prohibit the sale of liquor and even those who don’t care much for hard drink will suddenly develop a craving. There are men who will make their fortunes from this ill-conceived whim of the nation.”

  An inside joke seemed to pass through the group, with Patricio never quite catching its meaning. Mrs. Hastings caught a glimpse of Mattie at the doorway, stood and subtly herded everyone. Deborah caught Patricio’s arm and they entered a formal dining room with more plates and silverware than he had ever seen in one place. Stay alert, he told himself. You can learn a lot from these people.

  He was seated with Deborah on his right, her mother on his left. At the head of the table, Mr. Hastings talked with Frank about his newest, very lucrative, real estate deal. Patricio found himself perfectly situated to pay attention to the men’s conversation while observing which fork Deborah used with each course and when she sipped the wine and how she cut the meat into small bites. By the end of the meal he came away with a feeling this might be a lifestyle to which he could become accustomed.

  The following morning Patricio put on his borrowed suit and rode the elevator down to the lobby with Deborah. Her errands seemed trivial to him—a packet of hairpins at the druggist’s shop, a small loaf cake to be served with tea later in the day. As she paid for this last item she added a small wrapper of chocolates to the order and tucked them into her bag.

  “Let’s sit in the park for awhile,” she suggested, “enjoy the sunshine of an Indian summer day and have a chocolate.”

  She asked about Europe but didn’t want to hear the sordid parts. “No,” she said, “tell me about the architecture, the paintings.”

  He described the ceiling in the former museum that had been converted to a hospital, the place where he’d awakened in the belief that he had died and gone to heaven. She laughed with delight at the way he told it. He found himself speculating at the amount of work that had gone into creating the ceiling fresco, embellishing the details and describing the biblical characters very specifically. She hung on his every word and his words trailed off when he focused on her face.

  “I want to go to Europe, so very much,” she said. “Mother had planned to take me when I finished school. It’s just that by the time I might have experienced a debutant season, the war had started and my parents did not feel it safe to travel. I suppose now I shall have to wait until I’m married.”

  Did he imagine some kind of suggestion in her tone? He reached for the packet of chocolates, to take a second one, and his hand brushed hers.

  * * *

  The wedding was scheduled for Christmas week. A small ceremony at nearby St. Anthony’s Chapel, followed by a reception at the Hastings apartment. As a gift Deborah’s parents gave them an apartment in the same building, albeit on a lower floor and far less grand than their own. Patrick would be employed in the family business, managing two of the nightclubs which had begun to flourish under the prospect of full passage of the Constitution’s eighteenth amendment.

  He had never made the train trip back to New Mexico. By Thanksgiving in Chicago he and Deborah were spending a great deal of their time together; December first she began tiptoeing to his bedroom nearly every night. Once he discovered the joys of her uninhibited nature, he could not seem to remember much about his home state. These lavish walls and this vibrant city had become his domain. He wrote to Emelia to inform her that he would not be returning. He told his parents he would come after the first of the new year, when he could introduce them to his new wife.

  Two important things happened in the spring of 1920. He booked tickets for the two of them to take the train to Santa Fe where his mother and father would meet them and they would all make the drive to Taos. And Deborah informed him that she was pregnant.

  The journey went smoothly until his wife set foot in his parents’ home. The disdain was clear on her face. Perhaps she had expected them to be wealthy landowners; perhaps she saw the accommodations at the La Fonda Hotel as bare minimum. Either way, she was openly condescending to both mama and papa and could not get out of there quickly enough. He tried to chalk it up to morning sickness and other things women went through during pregnancy; he really did not understand those things. The thing he did understand was that his wife wanted nothing to do with his parents.

  “Hijo,” his mother said, “you are a man now and your duty is to your wife and children. There is no other way. Write to us often and tell us of your new life. We will always love you.”

  She cleared her throat and turned away, but not before Patrick saw the tears coursing down her face.

  Back in Chicago, Deborah decided to redecorate their new apartment. It had come furnished with perfectly nice things but she wanted to ‘make it my own’ she said. This entailed bringing in crews of plasterers and painters and an odious woman who gave advice on what colors each of the rooms should be.

  “And I want to be rid of this piece of junk,” Deborah said. She held up Patrick’s wooden box.

  “You will not!” he shouted.

  She drew back, staring at him. He had never raised his voice to her. She dropped the box on a sofa and placed her hands protectively over her growing belly. He immediately felt contrite.

  “This box saved my life. During the war. It will not be discarded like so much junk.” He picked it up and cradled it against his new, expensive suit.

  She glared at the box but obviously knew how to choose her battles. “It’s only that it doesn’t go along with the new décor. Keep it somewhere else, darling?”

  She blew him a kiss and flounced out of the room. He carried the box to his study and placed it on a high shelf, moving some books to conceal it. Emelia would have found the box rustic and enchanting. How had he come so far from his true roots?

  * * *

  Deborah turned toward him in bed, running a fingertip over his bare arm. “Darling? Do you still plan to take us to the park today?”

  He rolled to face her, hoping that the playful tone meant something good. Their intimate relationship had been practically nonexistent since the birth of little Frankie, and that was nearly two years ago now. Between the demands of his work and the moodiness of his wife, he felt lucky if his needs were met every few months. Of course other men visited the brothels or took mistresses—he knew they did—including the men in this very family.

  “The park?”

  “Well, yes, Frankie loves it so much and I thought we could make it special, take a picnic along and ride the carousel the way we did when we met.”

  He eyed her cautiously. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d demonstrated a playful or sentimental streak.

  “If you will organize the food, I can meet you and Frankie there. Your father has called a meeting this morn—” Suddenly, he remembered the last time she had been in such good spirits. The day she informed him that she was carrying their baby.

  She had already turned the opposite direction and was sitting on the edge of the bed.

  “How far along—when is it due?” he asked.

  She sent him her most earnest, dimpled smile. “Oh, darling, I had hoped to surprise you with the news, over lunch.”

  “When?”

  “Six more months. Please tell me you are happy, please Patrick?”

  He thought of little Frankie and smiled. Maybe another baby would repair the strife between them. Surely every subject in a marriage couldn’t lead to an argument. Surely th
ere would come a point when they settled into their roles and felt the same happiness inside they portrayed to the rest of Chicago society.

  Deborah pulled a satin robe over her peignoir. “I’m glad to see your smile, dear. So we’ll be at McCormick Park at noon then? I’ve started to do a little rearranging, making space for the baby. I’ll decorate the room in pink this time.”

  So much for the possibility of sex, he thought as she left the bedroom. He washed and dressed in one of his office suits for this morning’s meeting. Some papers, contracts he was to discuss with his father-in-law, were in his study and he went to collect them. The moment he opened the door he knew what was going on.

  His desk had been shoved to one side, the rug rolled up, the shelves emptied. Swatches of pink fabrics lay on his chair. He stared at the shelf where he had stored Roberto’s wooden box a long time ago. It was missing.

  His gaze darted about the room, landing finally on a waste basket that stood ready for emptying near the door. The box had been carelessly tossed there. Without a word, he picked up his prized item, tucked it under his arm and walked out the door.

  He walked the streets for more than an hour. In the back of his mind, the meeting over the liquor contracts loomed. He was late already and for the first time he didn’t care. His mind churned. Responsibilities. Wife, child—soon two children—business, in-laws. He had been married in the church and took those vows seriously. There could be no divorce. But did he really want one? For the first time he faced the fact that the money had ensnared him.

  He thought of the tiny adobe house where his parents lived. As enticing as the farming life might sound to some, he had been there, had known the backbreaking work his father performed, year after year, simply to feed the family. He’d lived without money, and he’d lived with it. He had to admit that having the means to own anything he wanted was the easier way.

  Hating himself with every step, he approached a trash receptacle on the street.

  No. He couldn’t do it.