Dietrich stared down into the darkness dotted with flickers of light. Was one of those lights the little runner as she hurried to her fiancé at his event, carrying herself fast, away from the pain she tried to avoid?
He tapped Amabile’s book on his leg. Enough. Cate was going to run wherever and however she pleased…with an emotional limp, though, that she didn’t deserve.
The phone jangled, and a small red button lit up. He walked to the nightstand and lifted the receiver… “A wire? Thank you. I’ll be right down.” That would be from Carl, a very resourceful and eager young man. Dietrich managed a fragment of a smile. Then he left his room.
The United States had no concept of old, but the hotel and its lobby made the most of what was aged to this young country. Lights like tiny stars glittered high in the ceiling, while sconces sent soft fans of illumination up the walls. The bustle of the lobby had a hushed pleasantness to it, pleasant enough he took his wire to the hotel bar and chose a seat in a far corner.
“Doppel Bock, please,” Dietrich said to the young waiter bent in a slight bow at his table. It was a German beer this New York hotel probably wouldn’t have, but the young man suggested a suitable Belgian replacement, a good suggestion, and very dark. Dietrich smiled as the Carl of brews walked away. He’d keep this young man in mind in case he ever needed to woo something from someone in a dark, discreet New York environment on another trip.
“Danke.” Dietrich thanked the young waiter once the drink was delivered to his table. Dietrich leaned close to the wall and studied faces glowing over candles at nearby tables, close together, whispering love, promising it in their expressions. Which ones were genuine and which were fiction? Dietrich took a sip of the beer. Its heady darkness bit at him. It was genuine.
He leaned into his own candle, the fire’s glow lighting the envelope containing Carl’s nonfictional wire. “I trust you’ve done well again,” Dietrich whispered. He broke the seal, and Carl began to whisper his facts back.
“Most of Private Crawley’s unit stayed in France, where they were stationed, while he and several others were temporarily deployed to other locations in Europe, strategic locations, to ward off the possibility of an eventual war. Many were sent to Belgium for the elections, while Crawley was stationed in Poland with five others. He was sent there as a US presence in a country fretting over tensions to the east and the west. Lieutenant McCoy thought Crawley quite capable of tending to what little was needed in Wroclaw, sending Crawley there on his own. Crawley’s eventual injuries brought McCoy there, and his involvement in Poland ended shortly after.
“Private Crawley sustained injuries to his hands, chest, and arms in an explosion, burns severe enough on the extremities to undergo treatment in Poland, where they were acquired. It was a severe break of his leg that finally sent him home. Crawley finished out what little was left of his enlisted time in convalescence at home. Not the usual way the army did things, but an exception was made for him.
“His burns were sustained from a gasoline fire he attempted to help with. Still too medicated from the burns to be back on duty, his leg was accidently crushed above the knee when he misjudged the nearness of a backing truck and was caught between it and a loading platform.
“It was McCoy who had Crawley sent home. Crawley insisted he stay active, even though hospitalized, but McCoy had him shipped out. No reason was given, other than McCoy noting Crawley had served well, was near the end of overseas duty, and was of no use in his condition for his final days of enlistment.
“Not all of this information was from the Library of Congress. I found some at the National Archives and the rest with army records. If there is anything else you or your friend need to know, please send me your request. Working diligently on my cataloguing system, by the way. Hope to have it ready to present in another month.—Carl Logan, Photographic Archives Specialist”
Dietrich stared at the page. He could hear Carl’s voice as he’d read it, professionalism giving way to the youthful lilt of excitement at the end. Dietrich had also requested information about two other enlisted men he had no interest in, to throw Carl off. Those two pages lay behind Crawley’s.
Crawley didn’t fit with the Shanks story—no mention of running, nothing about Berlin. But photos didn’t lie.
“McCoy.” Dietrich spit the name as he refolded Carl’s notes, slid them back into the envelope, and tucked it into his inner pocket. He glanced at his watch. The little runner had suggested he take advantage of New York’s libraries. There he could find something about an officer who let one of his men just go home, bringing something with him that soured his wife. Dietrich would solve this for Oma’s sake, and then he would go home.
Chapter 26
The main course was done and dessert was being handed out when I entered Le Bourgelais, the restaurant I should have been at two hours ago…instead of running from Dietrich’s and my reflections, and Amabile’s book. The dining area was dimly lit, candlelight and soft chandelier luminescence making everyone appear young and amorous. I glanced beyond their expressions, searching for Emerson, and spotted two empty chairs at the main table. One was surely mine.
I scanned the black tuxedos, looking for one worn by a man with black hair and dark eyes. I should have run faster. Dietrich was an awful man. Nothing like the one I was searching for now.
Emerson’s voice came from across the dining area. His laugh, the way it pealed in genuine mirth. I glanced the direction it had come from, to the table where one of the attorneys who worked with Emerson sat, and alongside him, the man’s wife. Their secretary and her husband were also there, she looking as beautiful as she was valuable to the office. The others were faces I didn’t recognize, but I would soon know who they were. I left Dietrich behind and glided to the table.
“Catharine.” Emerson’s secretary saw me first. “Emerson said you might not make it. So glad you did.”
Emerson looked up from leaning on the back of his partner’s chair, his laughing expression changing to a smile. “You made it.”
“Yes, thankfully.” I came to his side, threaded my fingers through his. He squeezed my hand, and I burrowed in his grip. Blond. Runner. Blue eyes. “I’m sorry about…”
Emerson squeezed tighter, a squeeze that said, Not now.
He was right. Grandma and Grandpa had no place in Emerson’s world. Neither did Dietrich. I held on, knowing Emerson would soon shoo me off, send me around the room “running” for him, selling his agendas, helping him win. I leaned into his arm, holding tight as long as I could.
Emerson squeezed again, a promise he would never let go. He kept me close in his grip, included me in answers to questions, shared his dessert at my side, and whispered as we danced close. Amabile, Dietrich, runners, and my grandparents drifted farther away. This was my world, my real world.
“You have them eating out of your hand.” The crowd thinned after Emerson’s talk, and Miles spoke in a hushed tone alongside us, watching supporters leave who had promised their allegiances. Only the servers remained as the last guest exited, they and the four of us—Miles, his wife, Emerson, and me.
Emerson held onto me as he laughed, happy with Miles’ compliment. “It’s a large hand. I’ve promised them much, and I will deliver.”
“He will…” I began.
Emerson let go of my hand, wrapped his arm around my shoulder, and drew me close. “Family. Can’t do anything without loyal and solid family,” Emerson said, too loud as he looked at Miles. “Can’t if I’m exhausted, either. We must be going.” Emerson nodded at Miles, thanked him and his wife, then steered me away, thanking each server and the caterer as we went. I saw Miles and his wife slip out the door as Emerson said his last goodnight to a custodian. Family. Emerson would make loyal and solid family.
He led me to the coat rack and helped me into my coat.
“Thank you.” I glanced over my shoulder and up at him. “You don’t know how good you’ve made me feel this evening. Like family.” I reached for h
is hand.
“Family,” he said almost too low to hear. “When we get outside, I need to talk to you about that.”
“What?”
The fingers I reached for wrapped around my elbow and steered me from the building.
Chapter 27
Mc-Coy Mc-Coy Mc-Coy. My feet hammered his name. Somehow Emerson had heard about him.
Keep your friends close, your enemies closer. I didn’t need my grandmother to remind me of that old quote. Emerson had. The way he’d held onto my hand last night and kept me near instead of turning me loose to mingle on my own. I understood it now.
“You’re doing that thing you do again.” Frank pedaled his bicycle from behind to alongside me. “You know…”
“I know.” The two words exploded, sounding ugly. I stared straight ahead as I ran. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Sorry.”
Bits of asphalt and dirt crackled beneath Frank’s tires, a sound I normally liked. When I added the beat of my breathing along with Mc-Coy Mc-Coy Mc-Coy, a symphony resulted.
“That’s better. Sort of. How about I go a little faster and you put your energy forward into keeping up?” Frank asked as he inched ahead.
I watched his bike. I could take up cycling instead of running. I could go farther faster, be gone a whole day. No one took jogging tours, but anyone could take a bicycle tour.
“Faster.” Frank stretched in front of me. I could see the strength of his back, the muscles in his thighs. The light pumping motion he exaggerated so I’d do the same with my feet. Light, not hammering. Forward, not grinding down to the center of the earth where my family should be, by the look on Emerson’s face last night.
“You’re doing it again. I can hear your feet, and I couldn’t a second ago,” Frank called without looking back.
“Frank.” I lengthened my stride and came alongside him.
“What are you doing?” He swiveled his head my direction. “And you claim you couldn’t win. Want me to go even faster?”
“Frank.” I kept my arms close, my fists pumping me forward. “You’ve been around here for several years.”…and you live with Jill, who involves herself in more than she should… “Tell me, is there talk going around…about my grandparents?” In the silence I could hear the crackling beneath his tires again, hear the breeze in my ears, see the tunnel of trees, houses, and cars we were working our way through. “There is, then.” I said it for him. It was probably Dietrich’s fault. Or the army’s. My feet drowned out the crunch of Frank’s tires. I lightened my stride before he could change the subject to how I ran. “So what are people saying? That my grandmother has some crusade that makes no sense, in a bookstore where love stories mean nothing?” Please say that’s it. Please don’t say it’s Mc-Coy Mc-Coy Mc-Coy.
“Are you kidding? Love story is all over your grandmother’s store, according to Jill.” He grinned. “That’s why I don’t go in there.”
I ran on my toes, listening and waiting for Frank to correct himself. Correct Jill—something I would enjoy. “There’s no love story there.”
“Cate, surely you see that. Everyone does, according to Jill. It’s just not the normal type you read about, or something like that, but it’s love.”
Everyone saw love? Because Grandpa really did bring it to their door? But he was never in Non Bookends or even at Grandma’s side. Or maybe everyone saw it because they hadn’t lived around the two of them and been blinded by experiences that spoke of war instead of love. I dropped from my toes and stopped. I stood where I was, propped my hands on my knees, and looked up, soaked strands of brown hair clinging to my face. “People…or Jill…really think Grandma’s crusade is about love?”
Frank looped his bicycle in a circle…again…and wheeled to a stop in front of me. “They evidently do. Jill’s usually right.”
I dropped my arms to my sides and straightened. Sweat dripped from tapered ends of my hair, trickled down my face, my neck, and into my already soaked shirt. “But…but…” I frowned. “Never mind. How about Grandpa…”
“Your grandfather is…” Frank lifted a hand and rubbed his chin. “Wounded.”
“That’s all?” Mc-Coy hammered in my head. The look on Emerson’s face, even in the shadows when he had wedded McCoy’s name to my grandfather’s, said more than wounded.
Frank glanced at his watch. “He ever tell you about his injuries?”
The limp and the long sleeves. I shook my head. “He won’t talk about the military.” Except to the army officials, and to someone who must have told Emerson about McCoy.
“Well, might be he’s embarrassed, maybe about his long legs getting him in the way of instead of out of the way of whatever happened. Jill suggested that once.” Frank looked from me to nowhere, fidgeting with his handlebars. This wasn’t his sort of discussion, racing was, unless he could quote Jill. “Is it your running that’s really got you upset? Not this drivel about your grandparents?”
I was looking for a runner. But it’s not you. “I told you, I don’t run to win, so there’s nothing to be upset about.”
“I know, but your fiancé does, and I hoped it would rub off on you. You ready to get back to running before you stiffen up on me?”
Frank was right. Emerson was running, and doing it to win. Stretching forward and wanting nothing to weigh him down.
“I think I’ll just jog over to the high school track and take a couple of slow laps, then call it quits for the day.” I flung my arm the high school’s direction, a block to my left.
“Suit yourself, but I think you should keep going.” Frank hoisted himself up on his bicycle seat and set a toe on one pedal. “Don’t wear yourself out worrying. No one’s talking about your grandparents, or Jill would have told me. Call tomorrow. We’ll run again. Or, you will.” He turned his front wheel hard the direction of his home, squared fully on his seat, and was gone.
Someone was talking, and Emerson was listening. I started forward, to the right instead of the left. I had a soldier to run down. McCoy.
Chapter 28
Cate made a much better runner than Catharine would. Dietrich watched from his car while Cate talked to a man on a bicycle who wasn’t her fiancé. Dietrich never sat like this, he never just watched… Her form was good, though, her step muscled, her body posture exposing a trust she didn’t have with Emerson.
The bicyclist pedaled away. She stayed behind, pumping those too-short legs. Too short to be a real runner, too nice to be crushed like she probably would be. He latched onto the keys. Only hacks sat in parked cars. Her arms bent, her fists clutched tight. With her head high and brown hair waving, she took off to her right.
He folded the notes he’d taken about McCoy, what he’d been reviewing when she’d happened by. He started the car when she was out of sight. This was the perfect time to visit Non Bookends, the opportunity to speak with the grandmother alone.
****
The bells tinkled as he eased the door open. He drew the jangle out so Cate’s grandmother would hear. He stepped inside and fell into the flow of the other customers, hugging tall shelves, plucking novels from tiers, scanning titles and authors as he went.
He took a book from its shelf and let the cover fall open. He glanced at the title page, at the date of printing, the edition. He closed it and took the one next to it—no similarity, not the normal bookstore order. He rounded the shelves and plucked down another.
“May I help you?”
“Just browsing? Is that how you say it here in the US?” He slid the book back into its slot.
Cate’s grandmother watched him as he studied her, doing what he did so well—unraveling what he saw to find what was hidden behind it. He saw teetering. The expression beneath Cate’s grandmother’s taut exterior was teetering—between excitement and anger.
“Browsing for what?”
“Your granddaughter told you, maybe…I write. And I research what I write.”
“I thought we didn’t carry what you wanted.”
“Because you are a fiction store…” He smiled and shook his head. “We would be fools to think fiction authors weren’t writing their own truths. And we would be liars if we didn’t admit our truths were in their stories we read.” He faced Crawley’s wife, her matronly veneer marred, likely by some Amabile.
“Nonetheless, researching in a fiction store would be nearly impossible unless you…”
“Knew exactly what and who you were looking for?”
Her veneer tightened.
He looked at her unique array of shelves, her homey seating, the odd assortment of framed glass all around the tops of the walls. He slid a hand into his pocket, felt the charred lump as his gaze stopped on the nearly black frame. Rounded corners at the top, one lump attached below one of those corners. He clamped down on the charred lily in his pocket. No, it was impossible. It couldn’t be.
“You know what you’re looking for. Or whom.” She watched him watch the dark frame. He felt it.
He was looking for another author besides Erika, and that author’s fictional cad. Not Crawley, his connections to Amabile were too loose…except for what hung above Dietrich’s and Crawley’s wife’s heads…and the unanswered questions about McCoy…and the photograph. He was looking for truth. And he was afraid.
So was she. Dietrich saw it in her face, the horror of relief. He knew, without seeing his own reflection, horror was in his. Monika had carried an Amabile, an original straight from the author’s hands. And Oma, most likely by coincidence as an admiring author, had Amabile also, not to mention a lump of burnt wood. He looked up at the lump on what resembled Amabile’s mirror. On the wall of a bookstore run by a woman who’d ordered an Amabile, and whose husband had possibly run.
Out of Splinters and Ashes Page 11