He could only guess what she was getting at. “Rebels?”
“Of course.” She smiled, giving him a glimpse of her even, white teeth, then confided, “They sleep in flannel union suits.”
Suggestively, Jake countered, “I don’t sleep in anything.”
“I sleep in a blue Mother Hubbard.” The intimacy was out before she caught herself with a clap of her hand over her mouth. “That is to say—”
Jake cut off her explanation with a deep laugh. “You don’t need to say anything, sweetheart. I’m already seeing yards of blue.”
“I shouldn’t have disclosed that.” She brought fingers to her lips, as if on the brink of asking something, but she stopped herself.
Resting his arms on his knees, he leaned forward. “What?”
A seriousness overtook her features. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-three,” he replied without hesitation. He wasn’t one to give a good goddamn about age. He felt virile enough not to care what the number was.
“You don’t appear to be thirty-three.”
“You don’t appear to be twenty-five.”
Her chin lifted with surprise and she met his eyes. “My being twenty-five doesn’t put you off?”
He shrugged. “Should it?”
“It would any other man.”
“I’m not any other man.”
The song ended and the paper flapped inside the piano. Dutch changed the roll and fed the cylinder, and music sounded once more.
“For you, Bruiser,” Dutch called over the piano’s snappy melody, “ ‘The Fig Leaf Rag.’ ”
Truvy bit her lower lip and looked at Dutch, then at Jake, and dropped her voice to a near whisper. “I’ve wondered . . . just recently . . . how do you get those fig leaves to stay on? I mean . . . I saw the photographs in your office of those men . . . and . . . do you use glue?”
The laughter that rumbled from his chest all but shook the table. “I’ll be damned, Tru,” he drawled, “you just surprised the hell out of me. I didn’t think even you would ask that.”
Self-consciously, she cleared her throat. “For purely scientific reasons, I can assure you. As you pointed out, I’m reading The Science of Life, and there are some matters that, as an educator, I need to expound upon. My subject matter must be broadened and—”
“Would I be a gentleman if I told you how a fig leaf stays on?”
“I suppose not.” In an obvious move to distract him from her bold-as-brass question, she rearranged her long legs; they had to be cramped in the awkward position she’d had them in. Her shoes disappeared into the volume of her green skirt. But not before he could see the patent leather was a network of scuffs.
He asked, “Why not wear your Spaldings?”
“Not on your life,” she replied. “I have enough idiosyncrasies, like my height.”
Id-eo-sin-crass-ees.
He’d never heard of them. What were they? But he wouldn’t show his ignorance for all the cigars in Farley’s Tobacco Shop. So he let the comment slide, but he damn well intended on looking that word up when he got home.
Truvy picked up another sandwich. “How is it that you knew about the Chinese women’s feet?”
He followed her lead, wishing he had a sandwich with more meat in the middle. His stomach threatened to growl, but he didn’t want to come across as a wolfish pig. “I learned about it in an opium den.”
“Really?” He heard the quick intake of her breath. “What were you doing in an opium den?”
“Getting a tattoo.”
“A tattoo!” she exclaimed as if they were something sinfully secretive. Because her voice rose, she glanced at Dutch once more to see if he’d heard her. Dutch had moved on from polishing the bar and was going through the crate of masks.
Turning back to Jake, Truvy wickedly asked, “Where is it?”
“Around my ankle.” He grinned. “Disappointed?”
“No. I’d like to see it.”
Sweet Judas. Fig leaves and tattoos. Tonight’s Truvy Valentine wasn’t holding back curiosity for the sake of stuffy propriety. The longer they talked, the more he realized he’d underestimated her. She wasn’t all classroom and political essayist. She was skilled in conversation, an intriguing and intelligent woman. He admired and respected that.
Stretching out his leg, he pushed his sock down to the edge of his boot and showed her the ink-drawn Chinese symbols.
“What are they?”
“Words. A proverb.”
“What does it say?”
He dragged his fingertip along the circumference of his ankle as he read aloud: “ ‘A man without determination is but an untempered sword.’ ”
A deeply thoughtful expression captured her face as she repeated. “ ‘A man without determination is but an untempered sword.’ Why, that’s very profound. And quite apt for your profession. I can see why you chose it.”
She didn’t shrink away or sneer at the marking that would forever stay on his body. The tattoo’s ancient wisdom influenced his mind, in the way he thought and the way he molded his body, but others might find it something easy to scoff at. In fact, women had done so before when they’d seen the tattoo. He hadn’t cared. But he did care that Truvy wasn’t one of them.
“You smoked opium.”
Her words didn’t fully register, then he had to admit, “While I got the tattoo, yes I did. But I stick to cigars now. Opium was something foolish I did in my younger days.”
Cautiously, she glanced up while sighing. “I have a confession.”
He braced himself.
“I thought tonight would be full of bland conversation,” she divulged. “I never dreamed I would . . . that is . . .” A moment of strained silence lapsed, but her face didn’t lose its sincerity. “I’ve had a very good time . . . Jake. You really are more than . . . muscles. I apologize for ever thinking you weren’t bright because of them.”
A bolt of remorseful awareness turned inside him, twisting, nagging, tightening. He hadn’t expected her to say something like this. He’d figured she had a lot of opinions about him, none of them high. But he was dumbfounded by her admission. Recovering from his surprise, he knew he had to tell her about the bet. Right now.
“Truvy . . . I have to tell you something.” He plunged in with his story, getting it all out in one breath, before she could say anything. “Me and the boys were at the gym last night and they were talking about how you snubbed me in the dance class and they said I couldn’t get you to favor me no matter what I did and they went on so much about it I found myself betting I could get you to come to dinner with me at the restaurant.”
He watched her eyes grow larger and larger with each piece of the story that he revealed.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said as her breathing increased to an even, angry tempo. “That I’m an ass for making a bet about it. I won’t argue with you there. And that’s why I couldn’t go through with it. I—”
“Couldn’t go through with it?” she said accusingly, the deep brown of her eyes darkened with pique. “What am I doing sitting here with you for if you don’t have a stake in my being with you?”
“But we aren’t at the restaurant.”
“It’s closed. Kitchen fire.”
“Ah—no. I made that up.”
“You made that up?” She brought a hand to her eyebrow and pressed fingertips on the spot as if she’d developed a sudden headache.
“When I asked you to Nannie’s, I wasn’t thinking about a bet. All that was on my mind was you. Kissing you. Holding you. And wanting to be with you over a supper. I swear.” He reached out and caught her hand, lowering it from her forehead so she’d look at him. His eyes locked into hers. “Truvy, I swear. This is why we’re here and not at the restaurant. I couldn’t take you anywhere near there and give the boys the wrong idea. Can you believe me?”
Music from the piano played over his question while she sized him up pensively. Contemplating. Thinking. Wondering whether he was
telling the truth. “What am I going to cost you for losing?”
He swore but had to come clean. “Six cans of beer for each guy.”
She folded her arms across her breasts, inhaled, and admonished him. “You dolt, I’m worth at least twelve.”
Jake’s chin dropped to his chest; then he slowly lifted his head.
If they were alone, he’d kiss her, hard and quick, on the mouth. Any woman who after being told she was part of a ludicrous bet could up the ante was one of a kind.
“I’m sorry, Truvy. I really am.”
“You should be.”
The song came to an end, a prelude to the end of the evening.
Jake didn’t want to take her home, didn’t want to have to enter a dark apartment, drink a cold beer by himself, and read Crime and Punishment with nobody around to discuss the meaning of the chapter.
“I’m going to close up now, Bruiser,” Dutch called as he turned off the gaslights over the bar.
“Okay, Dutch,” Jake said, reluctantly hopping down from the pool table. He helped Truvy climb off, then took the plate to the washtub behind the bar.
A moment later, they exited the poolroom door just ahead of Dutch, who turned and locked up. The night smelled like hearth fires, damp snow—which quietly fell—and the pines that banked Evergreen Creek.
“Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow night, huh, Bruiser?” Dutch said. “Good evening, Miss Valentine.” Buttoning up his coat, he walked into the night.
“Come on.” Jake took Truvy’s arm. “I’ll walk you home.”
It didn’t take long to reach Elm Street. Just around the corner of Birch, Truvy stopped. “I need to go the rest of the way by myself.”
He wished she didn’t. But he understood why.
“I’m sorry, Truvy,” he reiterated. “But I’m not sorry you came out with me.”
“At least you told me the truth. I appreciate that.”
“Yeah, g’night.”
Turning, she quickly walked to the Plunketts’ house, alone, while Jake stood and watched her go.
His heart expanded and caught in his throat. He fought the compulsion to ignore the emotions behind its pounding. But the strange pumping continued, pulling him from reserves of indifference.
A tightness gripped his chest and a feeling of uncertainty claimed him. On its heels came a thought he’d not anticipated:
When Truvy Valentine left town, he was going to miss her.
Chapter
13
“M iss Valentine,” Mrs. Plunkett announced sourly from her perch on the divan, “I’m so disappointed.”
Truvy stood in the archway to the parlor, any thoughts of breakfast gone. She held herself erect, not showing the restlessness that crept up her spine. She put on a sober face and gazed directly into Mrs. Plunkett’s eyes.
The elder woman’s disappointment couldn’t be traced to the pink dress, which had mysteriously disappeared from Truvy’s room last night while she’d been out with Jake Brewster. It bothered her that Mrs. Plunkett had been in her room. Mrs. Plunkett’s speaking to her this morning in such an agitated tone was more bothersome. Her stiff voice meant some other horrible thing had happened and Truvy was the cause.
“About what, Mrs. Plunkett?”
With her arms over her full bosom, Mrs. Plunkett lifted her chin so that the loose folds of skin were no longer doubled. “Mr. Higgins informed me his Airedale was barking last night.”
Truvy didn’t see any connection between her and the dog. She hadn’t heard a sound from the Airedale. “Yes?”
“Baron alerted Mr. Higgins to a man in his yard skulking through the shrubs in a deviant manner. Mr. Higgins couldn’t tell who. It was dark and the scoundrel ran away.” She picked up a coffee cup and took a sip, then gazed over the floral rim as she continued, “Mr. Higgins sat in the armchair in front of his window for the rest of the evening, looking to see if the miscreant would return. Ever since my wise men were vandalized, we have all been keeping watch for hoodlums. Some two hours later, Baron spotted an approaching figure on Elm Street and barked. This time Mr. Higgins got a good look. It wasn’t his prowler but Jacob Brewster. And he wasn’t alone.”
At that moment, the pendulum in the foyer grandfather clock gonged the hour, deep, heavy notes that seemed to symbolize the mood. There was no reason to let Mrs. Plunkett say anything further.
“Yes, I know he wasn’t alone. He was with me.” Truvy walked into the parlor.
“That is precisely why I’m disappointed.” Mrs. Plunkett set her cup on the tea cart beside her chair. “I thought I made it clear that men were not to be tolerated.”
Truvy stared at the ceiling, wishing she were any place but here. Then, on a resigned sigh, she lowered her head and faced Mrs. Plunkett. “You never told me I couldn’t be friends with people.”
“Men are not people. They are . . . men.” Mrs. Plunkett all but shivered with annoyance. “I warned you about Mr. Brewster’s ill-bred behavior. He calls on ladies at an ungodly hour of the morning. He operates a gymnasium, a place to convene and sweat. A gentleman does not sweat. He perspires. But I have seen firsthand the men who depart Bruiser’s with their collars wet and their hairlines damp. It’s indecent.”
Using a fork, Mrs. Plunkett took a bite of sweet cake, then replaced the utensil on the side of her breakfast plate. The lump of food in her mouth was discreetly chewed, then swallowed, while Truvy’s propensity to be comforting and accommodating was chipped away, piece by piece, as the seconds on the clock ticked by. Just seeing Mrs. Plunkett with that cake, hearing her tone, having had a horrible night’s sleep for worrying over the other woman’s feelings, only to be set upon like this—as if she were an immoral woman—brought Truvy’s patience to an end.
“And inasmuch as I find that offensive,” Mrs. Plunkett said in a voice chocked with authority, “what I find even more atrocious is that you went out to socialize with Mr. Brewster last night—without telling me—when I was under the weather.”
You weren’t speaking to me! Truvy screamed the words in her head, tensing.
“Where were you, Miss Valentine?” She sampled the cake once more, then scorched Truvy with an expectant gaze. “I have a reputation in this community and cannot have it sullied by an indiscretion on your part.”
“I met him for dinner.”
“At the very least, that man should have rung our bell to collect you so that Hiram could slam the door in his face and tell him we don’t condone the practice of callers for our boarders.”
To Truvy’s knowledge, she was the first boarder the Plunketts had ever had. And as far as she could tell, Mr. Hiram Plunkett wasn’t averse to Truvy’s having dinner with a man.
“But that’s not the point.” Mrs. Plunkett took another sip of coffee and then wiped her fingertips with her silky handkerchief. “After what transpired yesterday, you should have stayed here. With me. I needed you. I was upset and distraught.”
I was upset.
“I had such high hopes for you,” she pouted. “When Mrs. Wolcott told me you were a teacher, I thought you had more sense than to involve yourself with trouble. You were my shining star, the young miss I could count on to fill my days now that my precious is gone. I’ve been so lonely without her. She had to go and marry that dreadful man and leave me.” Her eyes misted. “It’s been awful. I’m disappointed. I’m so very disappointed in you, Hildegarde.”
Hildegarde.
The name unhinged Truvy and she could no longer hold back what had been bottled inside since she’d walked into the parlor. “I’m not Hildegarde. I’m Truvy Valentine.”
Startled red splotches roughed Mrs. Plunkett’s cheeks. “I meant Miss Valentine.”
“No, you didn’t.”
Mrs. Plunkett gasped.
The previous night, Truvy had lain awake fretting how to make amends. But all was for naught because there wasn’t—and never would be—any pleasing Mrs. Plunkett. And it was time to put an end to this.
“I’m sorry your
daughter got married and left you alone,” Truvy said. “But at least she got married. I’m not going to get married. So if a gentleman asks to take me out to dinner and I find that gentleman to my liking, I’m not going to say no. You have Mr. Plunkett, so you have no idea what it’s like to have thoughts and not have anyone to share them with at the end of a day.” The admission was just as much of a surprise to Truvy as it was to Mrs. Plunkett. But she had started this quest for freedom and there was no stopping her.
“I find Mr. Brewster’s company enjoyable,” Truvy decreed, the pulse at her throat beating against the buttons of her bodice. “I don’t care that he’s a gymnasium owner. I’m an athletic coach—as you well know from snooping in my room. My trophies are on clear display, although if they weren’t, I’m sure you would have found them.”
Another gasp, this one so loud its force all but sucked the air from the room.
“Miss Valentine!” Mrs. Plunkett warned. “That’s quite enough. Saying anything more—you’re jeopardizing your place in this house.”
But she’d never had a place in the Plunketts’ home. Because her name was Truvy, not Hildegarde. The brush-and-comb set, the lunches for two, the dress—everything was meant for a beloved daughter.
Truvy wondered if Hildegarde had ever felt like this, as if she were trapped and had no place to turn, yet in desperate need of getting away. It was a strange and uncomfortable farce, this trying to be somebody you weren’t, just to please Mrs. Plunkett.
“I’m not going to impose on you any longer, Mrs. Plunkett. I’ll pack my bags and be gone within the hour.” The statement was uttered before Truvy thought a plan through. She’d figure something out.
“You can’t leave me,” Mrs. Plunkett said with sudden worry in her voice. For all the bluster in her reprimand, a single fear held her. And that was being the only woman in the house where she’d raised a daughter, a daughter who was now gone.
Even knowing this was a chance to undo what she’d just declared, Truvy stood firm. “I have to leave, Mrs. Plunkett. This isn’t working out.”
The woman’s round face reddened in shock; her full lips pursed. The cake sitting beside her was forgotten and her coffee grew cold. “Y-you can’t leave. Because I know good and well Mrs. Wolcott doesn’t have room for you. And the hotel is filled up because of a hardware convention. There are no other choices for you, Miss Valentine. I’m all you have. You must stay here. With me.” Panic and despair gripped her face. “Now, my dear,” she said, laughing nervously. “I’ve forgotten all about the dress. It was an accident. We’ll get you another one.”
Hearts Page 21