by Tracy Sumner
He squirmed in his chair. His gaze bounced away. He took another drink, this time straight from the bottle. He tapped his fingers on the bottleneck a full minute before he finally glanced back at her. “Charlie, could you ask Katherine about this?”
She laughed. “No, I can’t ask Kath. She’ll be suspicious. And, she’ll go off on a diatribe about Miles.”
He rolled his neck and stretched his shoulders. “Hell.” A frustrated breath slipped from him. “Certainly, everyone has their own description, but I would classify relations as one time, or several times in one evening.” He flipped his hand and pursed his lips. “While, an affair might encompass a week or a month, with flowers, small gifts. Something like that.“
“Like a mistress?”
He flipped his hand the other way. “A mistress is a bit more than an affair. That relationship—without all the intricacies of a marriage—may be a long association. Some gentlemen have mistresses for years. They buy them homes, clothing, set them up, you could say. It’s a good arrangement for both parties if the woman is independent. A widow who doesn’t want to remarry, perhaps.”
She nodded and rolled her glass between both hands. “Do you have a mistress? The one who sent the smelly letter?”
He pressed his lips together. “How do you know about that?”
“It’s a small town. Who else would you imagine receives scented mail? Big news around here.”
He took another drink from the bottle, his glass forgotten. She watched as he ground his teeth together, jaw muscles jumping. “Her name is Marilyn Elliot. And, no, she is not my mistress. Just so you know my entire life history, I have no mistress.” When she continued to stare, he asked, “Aren’t you going to ask why?”
She shook her head. “I think I know why.”
“Wonderful.” He dug in his pocket and produced a cheroot. The obligatory “Do you mind?” followed.
“No, not at all.”
He lit the cheroot with a flick of the match, then leaned back to blow smoke toward the ceiling. A thin trail of it drifted to her. She inhaled the sharp scent, comforted despite herself. It was getting late. The press run would be finished any minute, and Gerald was coming to get her. Her time with him was leaking away.
She tried to catch his gaze. No such luck. “Didn’t you have plans tonight?”
He took a fast drag off the cheroot. “My, you are inquisitive today. Nosy, I could say if I weren’t so diplomatic.”
“Oh.” She looked at her writing tablet. “I’m not trying to be.”
He dipped his head, a grin growing.
She felt her face heat.
“I know, Charlie, I know.” He ran a hand over his mouth, rubbing away the laughter, but not the smile pulling hard.
“Don’t tell me you and Lila had a lovers’ quarrel? She is such a sweet girl. I can’t imagine anyone finding fault with her.”
They looked at each other and broke into laughter.
Which was good, because it rescued her from staring at the drop of wine on his lip. From watching his fingers stroke the bottle. From drowning in the pond that was his smile, the teasing light in his eyes making her feel entirely too special.
Why did he have the power to soothe her, excite her, amuse her, all at once? How could her heart be beating as if she’d run a mile simply because he was sitting close enough for her to smell him?
“Charlotte!” Gerald’s bellow startled them from their reverie.
It looked as if a bottle of ink had exploded all over him. His hair, matted into clumps, hung over his face. A black smear ran from his forehead to the tip of his nose. He still wore his printer’s apron, which had captured much of the mess. He wagged his finger at Adam as he said, “I told her not to come here. I told her that it wasn’t the place for a young lady. She doesn’t listen. Never listens.”
Adam flashed him a you-don’t-have-to-tell-me-about-it look.
Gerald tapped her shoulder. “Come on, missy. It’s time we got home. I’m tired from wrestling with that press.” He shook his head. “Never will make one that doesn’t have problems.”
She grabbed her writing tablet and rose, wishing Chase would offer to walk her home.
“I—” He stood, avoiding her gaze. “I thought I would work on a few editorials, since I have time tonight.”
Charlie turned away from him. His decision didn’t have any effect on her. Her heart sank just the same. Hellfire. She needed to get home, anyway. She and Adam had a habit of meandering, caught in a slow current, while Gerald went through life at a brisk pace.
“I’ll walk out with you.”
She smiled. Chase was leaving the hungry women of the Four Leaf Clover behind.
At least for tonight.
17
Disquiet
Lack of calm, peace or ease; anxiety; uneasiness.
Adam stood and stretched, preoccupation with matters beyond his control keeping him from his work. The office was quiet. Charlie and Gerald had plans for the evening.
He suspected Charlie’s plans were with Tom.
Frustrated, he dropped his pen and let his gaze stray to the Sentinel’s front window. The boardwalk was deserted; late afternoon was a time for dinner and family. A time to play with children or read a book while the soothing aroma of supper filled the house.
Oh, hell. Maybe a walk would clear his mind. And he needed a few supplies from the mercantile.
He closed the office door behind him and stepped to the boardwalk. Past the seamstress and a new millinery shop, run by a Mrs. J. Peters. A sign sat in the store’s window:
Hats, Trims, Designs.
We receive new materials
from Charleston every week.
He bet Lila had already purchased enough materials—whatever that meant—to keep Mrs. J. Peters happy for a year.
He pushed the door to the mercantile open with his shoulder, and a shrill bell tinkled.
“Be right there,” a voice called from the back.
“Damn bell,” Adam said and swatted at it like he would an irksome fly. The bell rang again, eliciting another “Be right there” for his trouble.
The store was well stocked. And clean. There were jars of candies lining the counter and an assortment of boxes, containing ribbons and lace trim, sitting next to an antiquated adding machine. A metal box sat on the other side of the machine—what Adam assumed to be the cash box. He shook his head; Mr. Whitefield certainly had a trusting nature.
“How can I help you, Mr. Chase?” Mr. Whitefield asked as he exited the back room.
“Please, call me Adam.”
Mr. Whitefield nodded, his smile spreading. “I want to thank you for the help repairing my storage shed. It’s so hard to get things done, with a wife and five children to look after.”
“Five?” Adam lifted his hand, fingers spread.
“Five. And, I wouldn’t trade any one of them for all the riches in the world. No, sirree. I’m a family man.”
“I would love to meet them one day.” He extracted a dog-eared sheet from his shirt pocket. “I have a list. I’ve been meaning to come by sooner. As you can see, it's weeks old.”
Mr. Whitefield propped a pair of silver spectacles on his nose and examined the list. “Charlotte tells me how busy you are. I’m surprised you had time to come at all.”
“Miss Whitney?”
“Oh my, yes. She stops by checking on her books near bout’ every week.”
Against his will, anything to do with Charlie interested him. “Books?”
Mr. Whitefield pointed to the books on a shelf in the mercantile window. “She uses me as a library, you see. No one knows they’re buying a book that has already been read. She takes good care of them. Not a wrinkle, not a scratch. I love doing it for her. Never seen anyone get such joy from words on a page. She’s a lovely girl, she is.” He said this with a sniff.
So, Mr. Whitefield had noticed the town’s reaction to the lovely girl.
Adam gestured to the books. “Has she read a
ll of those?”
Mr. Whitefield looped his suspenders through his thumbs and ambled to the shelf. He came back with four books balanced in the crook of his arm. “She hasn’t read these. Oh!” He slapped his forehead and disappeared under the counter. Adam feared he would have to help him get to his feet as he heard the man’s knees crack and pop like firecrackers.
“Here’s one she’s been waiting for.” He straightened and slapped a book on the counter. “I nearly forgot it was here. Come yesterday. I thought about putting it in the window, but I wanted to save it for her to read first.” He lowered his voice. “Those darn Danes buy the books for their library. And you know they don’t read them.”
Adam turned the book so he could read the cover. “Jane Eyre.”
“Yes, yes. Took me quite a spell to get it.”
“I’ll take it. And the other four. Let’s see.” He shuffled through the books. “Edgar Allan Poe. Emerson Bennett. Herman Melville. Augustus B. Longstreet. Hmm...that one is not a quick read. No matter. Deliver everything to the Sentinel office. Tomorrow is fine. I know you must be closing soon.”
Mr. Whitefield waved his hands in wild circles. “But, that one is for Charlotte. The others, well, the Danes—”
“These are for the Sentinel’s library. Charlie, being an employee, has full access to the books. She can scratch them, bend the pages, anything she wants.” Adam winked at him. “I’m sure you can tell the Danes the shipment was delayed. Give them some of the others. Can they distinguish between Melville and Hawthorne?”
“Dis...what?”
Adam smiled, using charm as an inducement. “They won’t know one book from the other.”
“You say Charlotte can read them, anytime she wants?”
“Of course. You have my word.”
“I’ll have them sent over tomorrow morning. First thing. One of my boys will be by. Strapping lads, the lot of them.”
“To be sure.” Adam grabbed Jane Eyre. “I’ll take this one now.”
“Sure, sure, Adam.”
Adam didn’t mind the bell ringing on his way out.
He knew Charlie would love the books.
“I saw something at Mr. Whitefield’s today. Something strange, I think.”
“Strange?” Miles pulled Kath closer to his side and yawned. He hoped the telling of the strange incident wasn’t going to take long.
She nodded against his shoulder. “Adam was in the store, and he bought Charlie all these books. I don’t know. I just got a funny feeling about it.”
“Good funny or bad funny?”
“Good, I mean, not a bad feeling. Mercy, I don’t know what I mean.”
He squeezed her and laughed softly.
“What?”
“I’m just surprised you’re so blind, that’s all.”
She stiffened and lifted her head. “Blind? Miles Lambert, I don’t know what you’re hinting at.”
He pulled her back against him and smoothed his hand along her back. “Adam and Charlie are in love.”
“No.”
“No? Why not?”
“Why? Because of Tom.”
“Ha. Do you honestly think those two are made for each other? Kathy, pull your head out of the sand.”
She slapped his chest. “Tom is a nice man. Responsible.”
“That’s true but think about Charlie. Would any of those things make her happy?”
“I guessed they would when she settled down.”
“If any settling was going to happen, it would have already happened.”
Kath kissed his neck and smiled when his muscles twitched in response. “I just worry about her. She’s alone now. Besides, I’m her best friend. Wouldn’t she tell me?”
“She doesn’t know it yet.” He caught her gaze, a small smile spreading across his lips. “Hell, neither does he.”
“Oh? And you do?” she asked and sucked lightly on the skin beneath his ear.
“Kath, honey, if you keep this up” —he rolled her beneath him, desire sharpening his features— “we’re not going to finish this conversation.”
“What conversation?” She sighed against his lips.
“Exactly.”
A loud noise woke Adam, jarring him from sleep and a rather enchanting dream: he and Charlie in his bed at Widow Davis’. Strange how your conscious mind was present during dreams because instead of holding her and doing all the usual things, he’d been desperately trying to get a good look at her nude body.
Like he was a voyeur in his own dream.
He lifted his head and squinted. The office. He had fallen asleep at his desk. What time was it? Somewhere in his mind the putrid smell of tobacco and whiskey registered. He swiveled in his chair.
Tom Walker stood just inside the office, leaning against the doorjamb, hanging onto it actually. His blond hair swirled in wild tufts on his head. A blue chambray shirt bunched out of his trousers. Beer or whiskey, or both, drifted from him. His slit-eyed gaze passed Adam, then swung back. He stumbled, righted himself, and made his way to Adam’s desk. He stopped as his knees collided, sending the desk skidding back along the floor.
The lantern cast enough light to discern Tom’s features. Misery, anger and betrayal twisted his normally placid face. His eyes were bloodshot, his lips pressed together so hard that a pale ring circled them. His hands coiled in fists by his side as he released a harsh breath.
The stance struck a familiar chord in Adam: the fists, the clenched teeth, the eyes. He pushed his chair back. The man looked ready to do battle. “Tom, what are you doing here?”
Tom leaned into the desk, and it slid back another inch. “You bastard. You greedy bastard.”
Adam shook his hands, loosening up his fingers like Eaton had always told him to do in preparation for a fight. He hoped this wasn’t going to go that far. “I’m not sure I understand.”
Tom clutched the edge of the desk like a lifeline. He drew a breath and expelled it on what sounded, oddly enough, like a sob. “What did you do to her?”
“Do to whom?” But, really, who else could it be?
Tom’s hand shot over the desk, scattering paper and sending the new inkwell to the floor. Adam cast a droll glance at his legs. I need to buy cheaper trousers if this is what is going to come of all of them.
Tom lunged over the desk, grasping Adam’s shoulders. The force of the movement drove them both to the floor. For a moment, they were nothing but a tangle of arms and legs. Adam was the taller, more muscular of the two, but Tom’s anger supplemented his strength. He connected with Adam’s cheekbone.
Rage and denied jealousy had Adam's heart pumping, blood pounding in his ears. He fought to stay in control.
For all his good intentions, he could not check the image of Charlie locked in this man’s arms. Tom swung at him again and missed, leaving his face unprotected. Adam raised his fist, putting all his weight behind it. A swift jolt of pain entered his knuckles and raced up his arm.
Adam heard the crack of bone. A nose, most likely.
Swearing, he pushed himself against the wall. He flexed his hand and shoved aside the guilt. He had not been the aggressor. He glanced at Tom, who was groaning, but conscious. Adam blew on his stinging knuckles and said, “Get up, damn you.”
Tom brought his hand to his face. Blood had begun to dribble from his nose to the floor. A thin line ran down his lips and his chin, soaking into his stiff collar.
Adam huffed a disgusted breath and hauled himself to his feet. He touched his cheekbone, wincing. A knot was forming. He grabbed one of Gerald’s press rags and threw it. The cloth hit Tom square on the forehead and flopped to the floor. Jutting his chin, Tom seized it without comment.
Adam leaned against the press. He made a hasty survey of his appearance. Torn shirt. Trousers again spotted with ink. Face surely beginning to bruise.
He hoped Widow Davis was asleep when he got home.
Tom staggered to his feet, the rag pressed to his nose and thankfully hiding most of his face. When h
e spoke, the words were muffled behind cloth. “Don’t damn me, damn you.”
Adam advanced on the man, his anger, like his cheek, beginning to throb. “Spit it out, Walker. Whatever it is you came here to say.”
Tom dropped the rag, where it landed on the desk in a defeated crumple. The stench rippling off him in waves was definitely the Four Leaf Clover’s signature fragrance: cheap perfume, tobacco, whiskey. He spoke through lips glazed with blood. “Charlotte has been different since you arrived in Edgemont. I don’t know why I’m surprised. This newspaper, and anything connected with it, has always been the only thing to matter to her.” He walked to the press, brushing his hand lightly over the metal plates.
Adam watched him, questions flooding his mind. Had Tom ever stopped by the office to talk with Charlie about her work? The editorials she was writing? Did he even know what he was touching? Did he care?
More importantly, what had happened tonight to make him behave this way?
Tom glanced at Adam, then away. “I waited for her to grow up, you know. Since she was in short dresses, I’ve wanted her. Something about her eyes...they always had that look, like she knew more than you did, like she was wise and pure all at the same time. Energy and life always bubbled from her, more than you could gather from a hundred different people.” He stacked and restacked a set of type, his hands shaking. “She never was interested in the things I'm interested in. And I'm not interested in the things she’s interested in.”
The metal type fell from his fingers to the press as his gaze found Adam’s. “Yeah, but you are.”
Adam's mind chose that moment to spill an image of Charlie in his bed, her legs tangled with his, their breaths mingling as he moved inside her. Heat blew over his face, and he turned away. “If you mean the Sentinel, yes.”
“I don’t think the Sentinel is all you share. I can’t say, for sure. But I’ve watched the two of you. Looks pass between you, like you’re speaking when you’re not. Like a set of damned twins or something.” Tom swiped his wrist across his lips, sliding blood across his check and into his hair. It lit the blond tips like fire. “I hope you haven’t touched her, when you’re only planning on high-tailing it out of here.”