by Teri Brown
I see Prissy and Addy exchange looks again.
“What?” Maryann cranes her neck. “What did I miss?”
“Lorraine,” I see Addy mouth to her.
Maryann’s eyes widen. “Oh!”
“And is she ever casting a kitten!”
The girls crane their necks trying to see what’s happening, but my view is blocked. Then a tall man steps aside and I see Owen arguing with a blond woman. Her back is to me, so I can’t see her face, but Owen’s is furious. He grips her arm and gestures wildly. Suddenly the woman pulls out of his grip and stalks out the doorway. Owen straightens his tie and turns back toward the table. I avert my gaze so he won’t know I’ve been watching.
My face heats and I feel more out of place than ever. He sits next to me and drinks deeply from his drink. “Is everything okay?” I ask, pretending to watch the dancers.
“Sure. My old girlfriend showed up to cause a scene. I gave her the gate a few weeks ago.” He drapes his arm over my shoulder. “Right after I met you, actually.”
His dimples deepen as he smiles down at me, and I feel better until I catch the other girls exchanging yet another volley of glances. Is this what normal girls do? Go to speakeasies and make other people feel bad? I’ve had enough. I stand up and take his hand. “Didn’t we come to dance?” I ask.
He looks surprised for a moment, then laughs. “That’s my girl!”
He leads me out onto the crowded dance floor and we begin to move. I’m unsure of myself at first, but the music is snazzy, toe-tapping good, and I’m soon shimmying with the rest of them. The room is almost unbearably hot, but the blind determination to have a good time is contagious. Owen’s a good dancer and keeps grinning at me as if he’s happy to find that I’m still his partner.
The tempo slows and I turn to step off the dance floor, but Owen catches my hand and swings me back into his arms with a wink.
“Not so fast, Just Anna. I’ve been waiting for this number all night.”
He pulls me close, lifting my right hand in a basic waltz position.
“This is slow foxtrot music, but there’s no room on the floor to trot, so we just call it The Slow,” he says, his breath whispering across my ear.
I tilt my head back to get a better look at his face. His bright blue eyes, usually so teasing, are warm with admiration.
“You have no idea how beautiful you are, do you?”
I lower my eyes, both flustered and pleased. The heat from his palm, resting lightly on my back, spreads through my body. As usual, the emotions coming off him are all mixed up, but this time the strongest emotion is joy. Happiness is radiating off him like heat from a woodstove, and I move closer to bask in the magic of it all. I sneak a glance back at his face and my breath catches, he’s so handsome. I close my eyes and we sway to the music, as the melody curls around us like silken ribbons.
His arm tightens and his cheek presses against mine. “I wish I could dance like this with you forever and let the rest of the world go hang.”
My heart swells. At this moment, with the lights glittering like diamonds and his arms wrapped tightly around me, I almost wish the same thing. An image of Cole holding a bouquet of flowers at my door flashes before me and my cheeks flush. What kind of girl am I to have feelings like this for two different men? Besides, I’m still angry with Cole.
The music ends and I make a motion to stop, but before we leave the dance floor, Owen raises my hand to his mouth. “Thank you for the dance,” he murmurs. His blue eyes twinkle at me as he brushes his lips across my knuckles.
I swallow, my mouth so dry I can’t respond. So I give him a weak smile and he leads me back to our table.
I gulp down my drink, forgetting about the burn, and end up sputtering half of it onto the table. They should use my mother’s supplier. I lean toward Owen, still coughing. “What I could really use is a glass of ice water.”
“Anything for Just Anna!” He spreads his arm expansively and goes off in search of something cool to drink. The table is empty—everyone must be on the dance floor—and I amuse myself watching as people stagger about, laughing too loud. It looks as if half of New York is going to have hangovers tomorrow. The band takes a break and the rest of the gang comes trooping back. The men, dripping with sweat, are discarding their jackets. The girls fan themselves with their hands. Owen returns, a young black man in tow. “This round is on me,” he announces grandly.
“That’s the last of the ice, so enjoy,” the waiter says, setting the drinks down in front of us.
The waiter leaves and I take a long, grateful drink of the water. Maryann fishes a sliver of ice out of her cocktail and holds it to her forehead.
“It’s hotter than Hades in here. Why don’t we head over to Connie’s Inn? At least we’ll cool off on the way down there.”
Addy shakes her head petulantly. “Nah, let’s go to Paradise Alley.”
“We could stay here and watch the show,” one of the men suggests. “Next one starts in an hour.”
Owen cuts in. “You all do what you want to. We need to get a wiggle on. I promised Anna’s mother I wouldn’t have her out too late.”
Everyone looks at me and I feel about two feet tall with a bib around my neck. Owen catches the look and adds, “No, it’s not like that. She has a performance tomorrow night.”
Suddenly their faces change from derision to something akin to respect.
“Oh, that’s right. Owen told us you were a magician. How on earth did you get into that?” Prissy wants to know.
“My mother is a medium. It kind of runs in the family.”
Owen snorts. “I’ll say. Her father is Harry Houdini,” he adds.
My stomach drops.
“But hasn’t Houdini been married forever? He doesn’t have kids, does he?” One of the men looks confused.
My face gets itchy and hot. “He and my mother knew each other in Europe, a long time ago,” I explain, waving my hand as if that will make it go away.
The truth of the situation dawns on everyone about the same time. “Oh! So you’re like his illegitimate daughter? And you’re a magician, too? How fantastically odd!” Maryann says.
“How romantic,” Addy breathes, linking her arm in mine. “Are you sure you can’t go with us?”
They look at me with more warmth and interest than they have all evening.
I could kill Owen.
I shake my head. “I’m sorry, I really can’t.”
The men all pull out their wallets and throw bills on the table. Owen looks through his billfold, frowning.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“I thought I had another ten in here. That’s why I bought the last round.”
He checks his pockets, becoming more frantic.
Everyone else gathers their things, oblivious to Owen’s discomfort. I reach for my purse. “I think I have some money.”
“God, I’m so sorry,” he whispers as he takes the money I hand him. Twin roses of embarrassment mottle his cheeks as he flags down our waiter.
“Four-flusher.” Addie rolls her eyes.
I want to ask what that means, but Owen seems in a hurry to go.
We take our leave then, and the crowd piles into one car while Owen and I walk down the block to ours.
“Did you have fun?” Owen asks a little anxiously.
I pull my stole closer against the biting cold. “Yes.” The whole evening has taken on a sense of unreality, as if someone else lived it. The conversation about Houdini cast a shadow over my whole night. Why did Owen have to ruin it by telling everyone?
Owen’s arm snakes around me and I smile in the dark, remembering the magical moment when he’d held me close. The evening wasn’t a total loss. Some parts were wonderful.
“I’m glad you had a good time. Nights like this are one of the reasons I left stuffy old Boston.”
“You were raised there, weren’t you?”
He snorts. “Unfortunately, I was.”
“Why unfortunatel
y?” I realize how little I know about him.
He’s silent and for a moment I think he’s not going to answer. When he does, it’s in a voice different from his normal happy-go-lucky tone. “My father comes from an old Boston family. You know, the kind that makes tons of money but never talks about it?”
He looks at me and I nod. I do indeed know. One of the reasons we never hit Boston. Too tightfisted and suspicious.
Owen continues. “They disinherited him when he married my mother. They think of her as some sneaky French dance-hall girl who tricked him into marriage. I think my father believes it, too. At least that’s how he treats me.”
I catch his sideways glance and understanding dawns. “Ah.”
“Oh, they paid my way into all the good schools. It was unthinkable that a Winchester should go to public school. But my father, and all my many cousins, went out of their way to make sure I knew I was a second-class citizen.”
I shiver at the bitterness of his words and he’s instantly contrite. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t ruin our wonderful night by telling you my troubles. Besides, none of that matters. Someday I’ll return triumphant as a rich man.”
His arm tightens around my shoulders. “I really do wish tonight could last forever.”
My heart constricts in sympathy at the wistfulness of his voice. I know how it feels to be unsure of a parent’s love. I turn to him and he wraps both arms around my waist. The light from the streetlamp encircles us. Mrs. Lindsay, Houdini, my mother, and my vision all fade away in the warmth of his gaze.
For a moment, I know exactly what it’s like to be a normal girl enjoying the company of a normal man. “I really had a wonderful evening. Thank you so much for everything.”
He tilts my face up with his finger. He’s going to kiss me, I think. But all he says is “You’re a wonderful girl, Anna. The pleasure was all mine.”
We resume walking, and I don’t need my abilities to tell me that he is as happy as I am.
Then a shiver of apprehension races up my spine and I stumble.
Owen laughs and grips my arm. “Too much to drink? I didn’t think you’d had that much.”
I don’t answer him. Instead I pause, my whole body frozen in concentration. Sweat breaks out on my upper lip and I start trembling.
Something is horrifyingly wrong.
Nineteen
My trembling increases, and Owen puts his hands on my shoulders. “Anna, are you all right?”
Suddenly a milk truck squeals around the corner and races toward us. Before we can react, it screeches to a halt and a man leaps out and punches Owen in the face. Owen falls to the sidewalk in a deflated heap and the man kicks him in the ribs. I scream and back up against a brick wall. The back doors of the milk truck swing open and another man jumps out. He grabs me by my arms and yanks me toward the vehicle. Realizing his intent, I throw myself to the ground. Surprised, he lets go and I scramble backward, looking for a weapon. Any weapon. Not seeing anything, I straighten, ready to run for help if I can, but the man who punched Owen reacts faster than I do and seizes me from behind. He picks me up and tosses me like a bag of potatoes into the back of the milk truck. My head smashes into the side of the door. Stars explode before my eyes, and blood trickles down my face, warm and salty. Desperately, I try wiping it away, but I’m slammed against the floor of the truck.
“Go! Go! Go!” someone screams.
“Anna!” I hear Owen yell, his voice fading as the vehicle careens sideways.
Something dark and suffocating is yanked down over my head and I begin to fight in earnest. I shove my elbow backward and hear an oof as it connects with something soft and squishy. Someone grabs me by the hair and slams my head against the wooden floor.
“Tie her up!” a female voice snaps.
The man forces my arms behind me as I struggle to place the woman’s voice. The ropes bite into my wrists, but I cease struggling. Rope I can handle. The man, satisfied that I’m properly bound, crawls away from me. I pretend to swoon, which isn’t much of a pretense as the dank, smelly hood over my head doesn’t allow enough air to get through. I remember how Houdini once said that he concentrates on slowing down his breath and heartbeat when he’s doing his escapes. Easier said than done when panic has your pulse racing.
“Did we kill her?” someone asks.
“Nah. Just stunned her.”
The woman whispers something and I strain to hear her voice again, but it’s too low. Perhaps she’s afraid I’ll recognize it?
I’m not sure how long we drive. Time slips away as I vacillate between heart-pounding terror and an eerie calm. I keep my eyes squeezed shut even though my captors can’t see me with the hood on. Finally, after an eternity, the milk truck stops.
“What should we do with her?”
“We can’t move her right now. People are still out. Someone will see for sure.”
“I’d like to just dump her in the river,” the woman snarls. My blood freezes. Again, I recognize the voice but can’t quite place it. Could it be the Lindsay daughter? I’ve only heard her voice that one time, so I can’t be sure.
“Remember who you’re working for. She’s just bait.”
“Yeah, crab bait.”
“Not a hair on her head can be hurt,” the man warns.
They’ve hurt a hell of a lot more than my hair, but I remain silent.
There’s movement in the front of the truck and then the sound of doors opening and closing. I make myself count to one hundred before my fingers slowly begin to work on the bindings that hold me. My fingers are numb from shock and cold, and it takes me far longer than it should to undo the rope. Once my hands are free, I reach up and slip off the hood.
I let my eyes adjust to the darkness but can only make out dim outlines.
Quickly now, fearing they’ll be back for me, I reach down and undo the ropes around my legs. Inching my way over to a window, I peer out, afraid someone will see me and knock me senseless again.
The milk truck is parked in an alley and there’s nothing but brick walls on either side. My first instinct is to throw open the door and make a run for it, but I hold myself back and consider my options. If they catch me now, I won’t get another chance. I wonder briefly if Owen has called the police, but they would have no way of finding me.
I see no movement outside and the windows looking out into the alley are dark and still. Slowly, every muscle in my body protesting, I search the back of the milk truck for my purse. At least then I’d have a weapon. But I find nothing. Either they’ve taken it or I dropped it when they first grabbed me.
I crawl to the front to open the door. Surely they’ll be watching the back? I inch the door open, my nerves screaming as the hinge squeaks. When nothing happens, I open it farther, just wide enough to slip through. My head throbs with every heartbeat and I lean against the truck for a moment, fighting off nausea. Then I crouch, moving along the side until I reach the front. Drawing in a deep, ragged breath, I wait for the longest second in history. If they’re going to see me, it’ll be now. Then in a flash I take off for the street ahead.
Fear clutches my throat as I strain to hear the sound of pursuit behind me. Nothing. I round the corner and keep running, trying to find a place with enough people that I can get lost in the crowd.
My heel swivels on an uneven patch of concrete, twisting my ankle beneath me. I don’t slow. One block, then two. Metal buildings loom on either side, but the few stores are closed. I press on. Shadows assail me from all sides, dark and terrifying. I pant, fighting for air, wondering how long I can run. Coming to a corner, I finally slow down, my heart drumming in my ears.
I double up, gasping. Blazing pain sears my chest with each breath of air I take in. When I finally straighten up, I squint at the street sign, but the words blur into dancing blobs. I reach up to wipe my eyes and my hand comes away with a combination of blood and tears.
I take stock. I’m hurt, lost, and possibly being hunted like an animal at this very moment. Nope,
it doesn’t get much worse than this. I draw in a deep breath and wipe my face on my scarf. After looking at the street sign, I hurry west, keeping my eye out for a store where I can call my mother. Every time an auto passes I cringe, waiting for the shout that means I’ve been found.
I finally spot an all-night grocer on the corner. I dart across the street and into the brightly lit store.
The woman inside takes one look at me and screams. I must be worse off than I thought.
The clerk hurries over to me. “What happened? What happened?” he asks with a thick German accent.
“Do you have a telephone?”
He frowns for a moment and then nods. “Yes, yes.”
“May I use it?”
The woman, recovered from her fright, clucks over me. “Poor Liebchen. Come sit first.”
I’m more than happy to move away from the windows toward the back of the store. The woman sits me in a chair next to an old-fashioned potbellied stove and wraps a scratchy wool blanket around my shoulders. I shiver. My stole must have come off in the milk truck or during my run.
A mug of hot coffee is placed in my hand and I sip gratefully. I hear the clerk yelling into the phone but can’t make out what he’s saying.
The woman keeps patting my head and murmuring words in German. Shelves of cans with names I can’t read are stacked around me and bins of vegetables give off a sharp, pungent odor.
The clerk comes back and gives me a look so sympathetic, a lump rises in my throat. “I have called the law. They are on their way.”
I start to shake and he puts more coal in the stove. Policemen. Of course they’d call the police. Most people like the police.
The woman reappears with a bowl of steaming water and a clean cloth. She wipes my face, clucking in sympathy. I wince but say nothing. What can I tell them? That I was taken by unknown people for reasons equally unknown?
My heart thumps as I remember my vision. I picture myself being trapped underwater, knowing Mother was in danger. What if they go after her now? Who were my captors and what did they want? And why was the woman’s voice so familiar?
An image of Mrs. Lindsay’s contorted face comes to mind. She’s crazy, but crazy enough to try to kidnap me? For what purpose?