Rags to Rubies

by Annalisa Russo

  “How about a compromise?” she proposed. “I’ll stay with my aunt for a few days while we figure this out.”

  Jared’s brows came together as he considered her idea. “Sallie’s men could watch your aunt’s house...” His voice trailed away as he sorted through the possibilities. “Do you agree to spend all your free time under my watchful eye?”

  “Do you usually get your way?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he stated simply, over his shoulder as he closed the greenhouse door.

  Grace sighed. There was no sense arguing with a force of nature.

  Chapter Eleven

  “I’ll dry the lavender, Zia, and sew up some herb sachets for your dresser drawers.” Grace wheeled her aunt’s chair from the kitchen into the morning room that overlooked a tiny manicured lawn and garden. She handed the old woman a sprig of lavender to hold.

  For six days now, she’d been sleeping at Zia Bruna’s. Halloween pumpkins shriveled on her porch, and they were no closer to figuring out why someone had followed her and ended up paying with his life.

  Fragrant herbs overflowed from terra cotta pots lining the marble sills of the morning room. Beams of sunlight warmed the room, but soon the colorful autumn hues would turn to winter white as mountains of lake-effect snow buried the grime of the city’s streets.

  “Next year I’ll plant more perennials for you, and spring bulbs, too.” Creating the garden for Zia Bruna had been a labor of love, the least she could do for her only living relative. When Grace’s father had taken to the bottle after her mother’s death, Bruna had cared for her dead sister’s child. Now, Grace simply returned the favor, but not out of obligation. “I need to rake the last of the leaves and put them in the compost pile,” Grace mused, “and maybe the pumpkin we carved with Patty. We’ll have a great Victory Garden next year.”

  The old woman sighed. She sniffed the sprig of lavender and looked longingly out the window. “You do a good job, cara mia.” A solemn mood hung in the ensuing silence. Bruna could walk, but Grace wanted her to save her strength. Though Zia fought her illness with a vengeance, it was a battle she would not win. Consumption, the doctors had explained. Grace took solace in the fact that they had consulted with the best physicians Chicago had to offer.

  She ran her hand over her aunt’s soft white hair as she stood behind her and gazed out the window. Picking up a brush, she began to separate the long hair into sections for braids and wondered absently how many times she had performed this simple task for her aunt.

  “He’sa good-looking, Graciella,” Bruna said unexpectedly and clearly. She could speak English well enough, having lived in the States since Grace was young, but her words were usually interspersed with her native tongue. Half and half. Grace had grown up with the strange combination, and it made perfect sense to her.

  “I guess so.” She began to braid the silver strands.

  Soon Grace had wound the thick braids on the top of Bruna’s head and secured them with bobby pins. Bruna patted the cushion of the couch next to the wheel chair. “Sit, uno momento.”

  Grace sat obediently. She had known it would be only a matter of time before Bruna broached the subject of her new friend.

  “I already told you the circumstances of how I met Jared, Zia.”

  “Sì,” Bruna replied.

  “You know Jared placed guards at my house when someone tried to break in there.” Grace suspected Bruna secretly approved of the way Jared had handled everything.

  “Sì.”

  Upset over the attempted break-in, the old woman never suggested going to the police. In the old way, her aunt believed you never went outside the family to handle what needed to be done.

  “La famiglia è tutta.”

  Grace smiled. “I understand. The family is everything.”

  Bruna patted Grace’s hand. “I understand. You are afraid.”

  Grace smiled weakly. The memory of Jared’s burning kisses and caresses had her distracted, not some petty thief. Her aunt would not be sympathetic if she knew the truth. As hard as she tried not to think of their intimate encounter in the greenhouse, she found she could think of nothing else.

  The man was far too dangerous to her emotions.

  Thankfully, there had been no repeat of the intimacies they’d shared in the greenhouse. He seemed to be holding back, letting her set the pace. They’d spent every evening together since the incident, sometimes going out, sometimes conversing, or simply sitting by the fire in a comfortable silence.

  The more time she spent with him, the easier it became to dismiss the dark rumors that were circulated.

  Polite, charming, generous. Though his fine manners implied gentility, she knew he lived by his own rules rather than society’s, and there was something untamed and primitive about him, a wild, reckless streak just below the surface.

  Intuitively, she knew he would never harm her. But that fact did not make him predictable, either. He always kept her just a bit off kilter, usually leaving her breathless, throbbing in places she’d rather not think about.

  In one short week, the mystery that surrounded her had forced an intimacy to blossom between them. She had told him more about herself than she’d ever shared with anyone.

  While he seldom engaged in small talk, she could usually draw him out of his pensive moods. Occasionally, his eyes lit and he spoke with enthusiasm, but his nature was of a serious bent. She thought of the long years he must have spent as an orphan without the luxury of family.

  Bruna rubbed her thumb and forefinger together. “Le denaro.”

  Grace laughed. “Sì.”

  “Sometime i soldi no good.” Bruna waggled her finger at Grace. “Rich boy, rich amici. How you say...take.” She pulled her hands in toward her chest. “No—prende.” She extended her palms out.

  Grace stiffened. “Well, Zia, he certainly has been a gentleman so far.”

  She should have felt wary of him and his unsavory reputation, but instead she always felt ridiculously safe. And there was that exquisite feeling when he would usher her away from the street side of a sidewalk and take the outer edge himself, when he would protectively pull her to his side when they passed a dark alley or some unsavory passerby. This instinct seemed to be part of his nature, to protect those weaker than himself.

  Bruna shifted in the stiff wheelchair in spite of the feather pillow Grace had tucked behind her back. “Talk to me, bambina,” she said.

  “I know you are worried about the thief, Zia,” Grace began.

  “No. I worry about your friend,” Bruna said. The old woman placed a soft, blue-veined hand on Grace’s cheek. “Be careful, Graciella,” she warned. “He will take what you offer, but he will not give in return.”

  Grace shook her head. Bruna’s tongue could become decidedly barbed if the occasion warranted it. She didn’t want to hear a lecture. An Adam lecture.

  Instead, Bruna’s tone softened. “He must look here,” Bruna said pointing to her own eyes with two splayed fingers, “and say, ‘I cannot live my life without you.’” She patted Grace’s hand. “Only then will you be sure.” Then Bruna dismissed her with a wave of her hand just as someone knocked at the front door.

  Grace opened the door to a woman juggling a basket, a child snuggly wrapped in a receiving blanket, and a squirming, redheaded six-year-old. “Jane! Come in. Let me help you with that,” Grace said taking the basket and Patty’s hand.

  “Thanks,” Jane answered breathlessly. “God should have given mothers one extra hand,” she said. “Maybe two,” she added with a laugh.

  Grace watched, smiling, as Patty skipped off. “She knows just where to find Zia Bruna and the cookie jar.”

  Jane carefully unwound baby Michael and pulled back the flannel blanket from his blond, fuzzy head, an unfortunate reminder of his departed father.

  “He’s filling out quite nicely, Jane. A beautiful baby.” She took the child from his mother and nuzzled his neck, filling her nostrils with the scent of infant. She wondered if she wo
uld ever be blessed with such a treasure. She’d never dreamed of fame or wealth or great success, but she had wished for a family of her own someday. Somehow, it always seemed out of her reach, so far into the future that it was hard to get a clear picture of it.

  “I was just about to brew some spiced tea for Zia Bruna. Would you like a cup?” Grace noticed the dark circles under Jane’s eyes. “How are you feeling, sweetie?”

  Jane’s shoulders drooped with the weight of her responsibilities, though a bright smile lit her pretty face.

  “I’d love a cup.” Jane set the basket on the wooden kitchen table and held out her arms for baby Michael, who gurgled happily as his mother wiped a bit of drool off his chin. Jane laid a receiving blanket on the counter to change Michael’s didy. “I needed to be up and about. If I don’t push myself, Grace, I’ll simply pine away. Luckily, I have two children who need me,” she said in her sensible way. “I’ll be fine. I try to rest whenever I can.”

  Grace filled the metal teakettle with water and put it on the new Roper stove she’d finally talked Bruna into buying. The pretty green-and-ivory coloring went well with the Nile green stippling on the kitchen’s ivory walls. The old wood-burning black iron stove had been delegated to the alley behind the house. Someone would haul it away. She hoped a needy family would pick it up, not just the junk man.

  Grace measured the spicy mixture into a tea ball and reached for the Delft teapot from the sideboard. Opening a drawer, she pulled out the pretty new tea cozy she’d sewn for her aunt out of leftover calico.

  By the time the fragrant tea had steeped, baby Michael was asleep in the wicker basket, his knees pulled up under him and a tiny pink thumb stuck in his mouth. Bruna and Patty were on the morning porch munching oatmeal raisin cookies and having a serious conversation about how much trouble baby brothers could be.

  Grace handed Jane a steaming cup of tea. She seemed grateful to simply inhale the fragrance.

  “I should be able to begin work at Brown’s Drugs by next week,” Jane confided. “Mrs. Pitts will keep Michael and Patty for me at a very reasonable rate. With my salary from the drugstore and what I make from taking in ironing, I should be able to manage quite well.” Jane took a sip of the tea and sighed. “I did splurge, though, on one of the new electric flatirons. I figured it was a good investment.”

  “Which one did you get, the Singer?”

  “No, the American Beauty, a much better buy.”

  “How much ironing do you intend to take in each week?” Grace asked as she walked to the kitchen window and flipped the sign for the iceman. Bruna’s icebox was running low.

  “I hope to get about three baskets a week.” Jane took one of the cookies from the chrome Lazy Susan. “I sprinkled and rolled the basket I had today, so it will be ready to iron tonight after Patty and Michael are asleep. I should be able to get it finished, and then I can starch Mr. Monroe’s shirts and hang them on the line to dry overnight.” Opening the canister, Jane added two lumps of sugar to her tea and stirred.

  “I bet the old goat is a fusspot about his shirts.” Grace thought of her neighbor in his high-collared, stiff white shirts, red suspenders, and bow tie.

  “ ‘Heavy starch, dried, sprinkled, then ironed to perfection.’ His words.” Jane chuckled. “But I can’t turn down the work. I get twenty-five cents for every starched shirt.”

  Jane took a sip of her tea. “So now tell me about your new beau. Is it serious?”

  Grace could feel the heat rise in her cheeks. “Don’t be silly. He’s not my beau. You know who he is. He’s just being neighborly and helping me deal with this problem.” She had explained all about Jared and her dilemma except the part about her near seduction in the greenhouse.

  “Hmm...neighborly? Seven dates in seven days? What a friendly man! Plus charm, incredible good looks, and money.”

  “Six, and I’m not so sure I’m interested.”

  “Banana oil! Of course you’re interested, silly. You’d be crazy if you weren’t.” Jane’s eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute, hold the trolley. Level with me. Is this about Adam?”

  Grace managed a weary smile. “I always made excuses for Adam, Jane. I don’t think I wanted to admit to myself I had chosen wrong until the evidence was so blatant I couldn’t dismiss it. Even then I could hardly believe my own eyes.” She paled at the memory. Looking across the table at Jane, she asked, “How could I have been so stupid? So naïve?”

  “Unfortunately, love is blind.” Jane sighed. “But Jared’s no Drugstore Cowboy, and you’re no Dumb Dora. I know the odds of someone like him being the Real McCoy aren’t good, but if what you tell me is true, he’s worth the time and trouble to find out.” She reached out to pat Grace’s hand. “You know, after what I’ve been through, I’d be the last person to give a man a rave review.” Jane clenched her hands around the teacup for a moment. “I think you should give him a chance.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t want one,” Grace remarked.

  “I doubt that. Have you looked in the mirror lately?” Jane added another lump of sugar to her cup and stirred thoughtfully. “Well, there is the possibility that growing up the way he did he feels quite alone in the world. If he had had a family to begin with, maybe his life would have turned out differently. He would be more open to the possibility of commitment and walking the middle aisle. We’re all a product of our background, Grace. Personally, I’ll probably be unsure for a long time.” Jane laced her fingers around the teacup and stared over the rim at Grace. “But the difference here is that you haven’t given him a chance yet. You’ve judged him by another man’s deeds.”

  “I don’t need him to be perfect.” But even as Grace uttered the words she knew them to be untrue. She did want him to be perfect. She wanted it to be as good as a fairy tale. So she could believe again.

  The last few nights she’d lain awake in her lonely bed, wondering what it would be like to be beneath Jared’s powerful male body. How it would feel to be caressed by strong, knowing hands. To be enveloped in his scent. His chaste goodnight kisses left her surprisingly unsettled. Everything seemed so incredibly complicated now.

  But maybe it was time to put aside the distrust of the past two years once and for all. She really didn’t want to go on like this. She could no longer pretend she didn’t have a young woman’s needs and desires.

  “Perfect? Uh-huh,” Jane said with a straight face, “so we can all believe in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, good men, and all sorts of other mythical creatures.” And then the two women burst into peals of laughter, waking baby Michael, who wailed in defense of his breed.

  Chapter Twelve

  Jared strode into The Peacock Club on Saturday afternoon dressed in a woolen Donegal jacket that had seen better days. His flannel trousers were held up with suspenders and he sported a newsboy cap. With a quick assessment of the tavern and the seedy patrons, he stepped up to the bar. The barkeep shot him a smile.

  “What can I do for ya, fella?” the man asked through teeth stained brown with chewing tobacco.

  “How about a beer?” Jared reached into his pocket slowly.

  The barkeep watched every movement. “Now, you know that there’s illegal, bud. How about a soda pop?”

  “Would this cover the cost?” Jared flipped a silver dollar toward the man, who caught it deftly.

  Jared watched him check it out with the care of a veteran bootlegger. Rubbing a fist over his grisly chin, he eyed Jared warily and the coin in his hand—ten times the going rate for a beer. Jared knew the man would be extra careful. The joint had been busted last month, and none too gently. It had taken several weeks to get the club back in business.

  The man glanced slyly at Jared’s hands. Luckily, Jared had taken the time to rub lubricant grease into his hands and fingernails.

  “This way,” he said apparently having come to a decision. He picked up a baseball bat as he opened a door at the end of the bar. Spitting into an empty soup can, the barkeep said, “After you, bud.”

 
; Cautiously, Jared led the way down a narrow, dimly lit hallway leading to the back of the building. He could see a door with a small, peek-through window at the end of the hallway. The barkeep knocked once, paused, then knocked twice. The sliding panel of the window opened to two beady eyes and a black sliver of mustache.

  “Open up, Charlie. I got a gent here who wants a soda pop.” He chuckled as he pocketed the silver dollar.

  As the heavy door whooshed open, the smell of tobacco and stale beer hit Jared full face. If Quigley had been a regular here, this is where he would buy his liquor. And so would the person who murdered him. The Peacock Club, packed like a sardine can, had men in various stages of inebriation. The few women who were present had the shrewd, cunning look that resulted from poverty and need. Several men turned to check him out, and one of the women sauntered over to him, her hips undulating in a provocative invitation. Jared started toward the bar.

  The woman grinned at him through bright red lips. “You lookin’ for a good time, handsome?” She flipped a strand of blonde hair over her shoulder, revealing the low-cut neckline of her worn blouse. Jared caught her hand in mid-thrust as she angled it toward his lower body, thwarting what she had in mind.

  “No, thanks, ma'am. I have a headache.”

  The men around her howled with laughter as the woman raised her fist in an angry assault.

  Jared caught her wrist a second time.

  Glaring at him through narrowed eyes, she yanked her arm away, then turned, pushing her way back through the crowd toward the bar.

  Jared made his way to a barstool and ordered a beer.

  Usually he liked working class establishments with their friendly regulars and easy talk, but this blind pig was worse than most illegal saloons. He looked around at the club. The type of patrons who would frequent here were hellhounds and vipers, those looking to get drunk fast on the high-octane liquor and plan their next crime.