Love Easy

by Roe Valentine

  Norma grabbed her coat, sliding it over her suit while she called to Ingrid, “Will you tell Mr. Chapel I had a family emergency requiring my attention?”

  Ingrid stood from her desk with further alarm—she’d pass out with another incident no doubt. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yes, my mother is not well. Please, just tell Henry…er…Mr. Chapel that I had to leave.” She was out into the grand hall in no time flat, pressing the button until the elevator opened and she entered. But it wasn’t until the doors closed that she breathed.

  Chapter Ten

  Henry poked his head outside his office door. “Ingrid!” He scanned the press room, subconsciously looking for Norma.

  Ingrid scampered across the tiled floor, holding a fountain pen between her fingers. “Yes, sir?” Her eyes were wide with alarm. Did he scare her?

  Breathing in, he handed her a folded telegram. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. Will you please have the courier send this to Mr. John Davis?”

  If possible, her eyes grew wider. “Uhh…Okay. Not a problem, Mr. Chapel.”

  “Thank you.” He turned on his heels, leaving her to stare.

  Walking over to the window, he stared down on Chicago Avenue. It was business as usual below, just as it was business as usual in the Daily. Except for one thing. Norma was just his reporter.

  “Sir…” The whiny voice pierced his ears.

  “Yes?” He faced her, gaze dropped to the telegram in her tight grip.

  “Well, Norma had to leave.”

  The blood raced through his veins. Is she okay? “Why is that?”

  “She had a family emergency. In Arlington Heights.”

  Arlington Heights? Why didn’t she tell him?

  “Did she say how long she’ll be gone?” Norma gone. He didn’t like that.

  Ingrid shook her head.

  He pressed his lips together. “That isn’t typically acceptable. If an employee needs to take leave, he must ask me.” Walking over to his desk, he loosened his tie. “Thank you, Ingrid. You may close the door.”

  She nodded, pulling at the door until he was isolated from the Daily.

  ****

  The afternoon eased in. Henry didn’t feel connected to activities on the press room floor; his door was shut the whole morning. He honestly could care less because all his concern went to Norma. Would she come back? After their conversation, he wasn’t so sure.

  Henry walked across his office floor to the frosted over window. A knock sounded against the door.

  “Enter,” he called.

  “Sir?” John Davis cowered in the doorframe.

  “Come in.” Henry didn’t move from the window. “Close the door.”

  “Yes, sir.” His voice wavered as he walked to the middle of the office and stood, holding the telegram between his hands.

  “You’re afraid.” Clearly it was an observation, though he didn’t like how it made his heart tighten a little.

  “I-I just don’t know why you telegrammed me.” John’s voice shook.

  “Why are you afraid? I’ve fired you. What else is there to fear?”

  Blue eyes shifted to the ground, then back to face him. “We all do…fear you, I mean. Sir.”

  Henry frowned. Norma certainly didn’t fear him. “Why?”

  John’s hands fell to his sides as he shrugged and sat in the visitor chair. “You are…very powerful, Mr. Chapel. You create and destroy at will. Everyone knows it.”

  Henry’s jaw tightened. Norma was right. His employee relations did leave much to be desired. What John described was Mr. Chapel, his father. Not him—the real him. He realized he might have been exerting his power, but to the wrong spectators. God, how far would Henry go to prove to his father he wasn’t a worthless paper man? But, still, he controlled his reaction. Underneath, he wanted to jump out of his skin. “I regret that I’m viewed as capable of the latter, Mr. Davis. I certainly prefer the former.”

  The room was silent. Realizations were made, though Henry suspected his realization was far different than John’s—if he indeed had one. After Henry stopped the clenching, he faced John again, this time his lips stretched in to a small smile that caused John’s eyes to widen. Striding over to his desk, he sat in the chair, taking his elbows to the desktop immediately.

  “Would you consider coming back to the Daily?”

  If John’s eyes widened any further, they’d pop out. “P-Pardon, sir?”

  “Mr. Chapel will do.” Henry steepled his fingers, resting his chin atop. “If I asked you to come back and work for me, would you accept?”

  “Uhh…”

  Henry’s hands fell to the top of the desk, a small smack sounded off the wood. “I will ask you a different way. John, will you come back to the Daily? On a probationary basis of course while you are trained to strengthen your skills.”

  John’s eyes watered. “Is this true, sir, er—Mr. Chapel?”

  Henry nodded, a lump formed in his throat. One he quickly gulped down. Baby steps. “As true as I am sitting in this chair. So will you? If not, I’m sure I can offer someone else the position.” Of course he had to add that bit. He was Leonard Chapel’s son after all.

  “Yes! Oh, yes, Mr. Chapel. I will come back. Oh, thank you! Thank you a thousand times.” Tears spilled from John’s eyes. He could hardly contain himself long enough to stay in his seat.

  “Excellent. Come back next week. I’m sure the staff will be glad to have you again.” Especially Norma. He smiled again, but it was for her not for John who gifted him a goofy grin. “Good day, John.”

  He stood, using both hands to wipe his eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Chapel. I won’t let you down.”

  “You better not, or I’ll have to fire you again.”

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Chapel.”

  Chapter Eleven

  After dark Norma reached her mother’s family home on Euclid Street in Arlington Heights, and the snow fell more ruthlessly than in Chicago proper. Floating ice crystals bit at her face like a jelly fish sting, burning everywhere they touched. Her lips cracked from the brutal cold air; her tongue darted out to sooth the tight, sore skin only to make matters worse. The walk to the grand double doors was a bit too long, and she certainly didn’t have on the right shoes; however, she trotted on faster.

  Even in the dead of winter, the yard remained tidy, she noted as she climbed the steps to the looming redbrick home. The snow blanketed the manicured lawn and neatly aligned bushes. Mother must have continued to staff gardener Rubbert.

  Rubbert had been employed by her mother’s family since Norma was a child. She remembered visiting her Grandmother Kate and Grandfather Fritz most weekends. Rubbert tended the flowers he so loved. He spoke to them with a gentle voice—mostly a whisper. Norma never heard what he said. You must whisper to them, girl, let them know you care, Rubbert would say in that soothing way he did everything. He’d always clip a single coneflower or tulip for her to care for. She’d whisper to her orphan flower, sing to it, and will it to grow strong. That fleeting memory brought a smile to her lips; the warmth of the memory niggled at her soul. The not-so-happy-memories resurfaced too and wiped the grin away.

  Before she could bring herself to knock, Martha, the housemaid, threw open the door, a wide benevolent smile stretching her face. Her arms, spread open, gathered Norma into a warm, suffocating embrace—nearly knocking the wind out of her.

  “Norma! Dear Norma! You’re finally here!” Martha’s voice was deep and raspy. She ushered Norma in, and before she could say otherwise, took her wool coat and folded it over her forearm.

  Martha led her to the sitting room where her mother, adorned in a silk robe and fuzzy, white slippers, sat near the fireplace. Her mother’s hair was tucked in an ecru silk scarf, and she puffed on a cigarette with that graceful elegance Norma didn’t inherit.

  “Oh Norma! What have you done to your hair?” Her mother’s forehead creased in the most unflattering way, and in two seconds flat, Martha disappeared. Smart woman. If Norma was s
mart, she’d dash off, too, but she’d be the “bad daughter” if she dared. Smart woman. Bad daughter. It was a toss-up.

  Norma smoothed her wool suit and waited several seconds for her mother to speak, but she didn’t. Clearing her suddenly parched throat, she said, “Hello, Mother.” With stiff legs, she approached the frail woman, waiting a couple of beats before she bent over to kiss her mother’s overly rouged cheek.

  “You look odd, dear,” her mother commented in that flippant way she did too many things and puffed on the long silver and crystal cigarette holder between her slim fingers.

  Norma looked down at her trembling hands. What looked so odd about her? Her suit actually fit for once, so it couldn’t be her attire. Maybe it was her face that was odd.

  Truth was, she had been thinking about Mr. Chapel the whole train ride to Arlington Heights and played his words over and over like a broken record. I am your boss. That is all I am.

  True, she did say the indiscretion would never happen again, but did he have to agree to it? She frowned. He thought it was a mistake. A poorly made decision. How could she refute her mother’s claim with the relentless lump that grew in her throat? Whatever she’d say would be a lie because the truth was, she was odd. She felt odd. She felt odd and out of kilter. Her whole equilibrium was compromised and had been for the eight days since Henry Chapel walked into her life.

  “No.” Norma could say nothing else without going into hysterics—there was already one lunatic in the room to contend with.

  “Well, sit, Norma, for the dear Lord’s sake. Don’t just stand there, you make me nervous. You’re just like your father. Always too tense to sit.”

  Norma sat on the settee opposite her mother’s prying eyes—luckily the fireplace kept the chill away.

  She glanced over to the large window. Yes, still snowing. Mother Nature was predictable even miles from Chicago. Norma looked back when she felt the weight of her mother’s intrusive stare on her face. That gaze penetrated her, attempted to read her mind. Norma couldn’t allow that. Perhaps her mother could see the remnants of Mr. Chapel all over her face. She’d have to do better at hiding her emotions.

  “What’s your accident, Mother? You look well to me…”

  “Well of course I look well. You’re simply looking at my face,” her mother barked. She always had a flair for the dramatics when she wasn’t comatose with drink or depression.

  “And you do have a lovely face, Mother,” Norma said with a tight voice.

  Flattery always worked with the former Mrs. Charles Hill. She pursed her lips—she was pleased with herself. “Yes, and it’s a shame you didn’t get any of my delicate features. No, you had to have your father’s nose and those eyes…those unusual eyes of yours. You don’t look at all like my ancestors.”

  “What’s the horrible accident you wrote of, Mother?” Norma had enough insults and underhanded references to her father. Obviously her mother would never get over Charles Hill.

  Norma’s mother frowned. Her bright blue eyes deepened to hard sapphires and shifted to the floor. “It’s my ankle.” Pain colored her face and couldn’t be more phony. Her forehead creased again and her pouty lips—the one feature Norma did inherit—turned downward. “I’ve managed to twist it, and Martha will be traveling in the morning to see her daughter until Friday morning.”

  “You want me to stay three days?” No way would she be able stay with her lunatic mother for that long—it was a challenge to be in her presence thus far.

  “Yes. Will that be a problem?” Her mother’s eyes blinked slowly. Not the puppy dogs again.

  Norma groaned inside. “No, Mother.” Her mind raced to Mr. Chapel. She would have to send him a telegram and hope she still had a job when she returned.

  In addition, she’d have to delay undercover work until she returned to Chicago—that burned her. Only her mother would think her twisted ankle was more important than uncovering a murder story. Would it be too late in three days? Would Elsie show up in some exotic place or emerge from a Parisian shopping trip? Norma couldn’t allow her new circumstance to sway her from finding out what happened to Elsie.

  Then her mind reverted to Mr. Chapel again. The tightness in her chest twisted her lungs—she couldn’t breathe. She wouldn’t be able to see him for three days. Three days. That seemed like an eternity. She wanted to see him. She needed to see him.

  “Norma…dear? You must stop daydreaming. When did you pick up that bad habit?” Distaste laced her mother’s voice. What was new? From the moment Norma walked in the door, her mother wore the mask of distaste and judgment.

  Norma sighed, squeezing her eyes, wishing the ceiling would cave in on her. Being crushed by the ceiling would be better than being the subject of her mother’s abuse. Luckily, before she could string together a sensible reply to stop the terribly accusing stare on her mother’s face, Martha bounced in to the living room and announced with a booming voice, “Dinner is served in the formal dining room.”

  Thank the good Lord.

  Norma was glad to have some relief from her mother’s attack. Cannon-ball-sized insults shot mercilessly since she arrived; it was akin to getting the raw end of a mob hit. She suffocated from all the questions and dastardly comments.

  And when did her mother start with those stares? In the past, her mother’s stares were more…blank. But they were harmless. Norma should have brought a shield to protect her vital organs; she needed a moment to regroup. Quickly, she stood, leaving her mother to hobble around with her twisted ankle. Norma had her own twisted parts to deal with.

  Walking to the dining room brought back too many memories of her childhood. The submissive grandmother, the neglectful grandfather, the fear of knocking over some old heirloom vase, the inability to speak until spoken to. Norma shut her eyes, hoping her lids would erase the memories. Luckily, they retreated to where they belonged, and she was back to walking to the end of the hall where an arched entrance led to a dining room; the whole house could be mistaken for the set of a Shakespeare play.

  Martha and Norma’s mother came in a few minutes after Norma had sat in a high-backed, ornate chair. Her mother’s face twisted up in twenty different ways with the pain—if there was pain. Martha did her best to assist her highness’ frail body in the chair at the head of the dinner table.

  The massively long table probably accommodated thirty people. Norma couldn’t remember ever having sat there at a dinner party. She doubted her grandfather could tolerate people in his house.

  “Well, thank you, Norma Liesel Hill for assisting your mother to the dining table.” Her lips pouted between words, and the crease in her forehead made her look all her fifty years.

  “I apologize, Mother.” Norma simply couldn’t engage in a conversation. Her mind again wondered to things from the past.

  “For dinner, the chef made pea soup and roasted chicken with root vegetables for the main course. I made a chocolate cake for dessert should you need to balance out the palate,” Martha announced, once she contained herself after dealing with the former Mrs. Charles Hill. She removed the silver tray covers from each place setting, and then she disappeared from the room.

  Norma picked at her food.

  “Norma, you really must eat. You’re a little thin and pale. Are you feeding yourself?” Funny, her mother didn’t seem interested in her meal at all.

  “Yes, Mother.” She sounded like a child being chastised. She’d eat if she darned well felt like it.

  “I honestly don’t know why you don’t open your trust fund left by Grandfather Braun. My father worked very hard to be a wealthy man for himself and his family. You should be gracious enough to use the money he left you to live a proper life. The good Lord knows you don’t have a husband to look after you.” She sipped from a silver goblet.

  Norma wondered if it was filled with milk like hers, or gin. Gin. Yes, definitely gin.

  Norma rolled her eyes. “I’m doing fine on my own. The Chicago Daily pays me enough.” That was a lie. Why el
se would Norma borrow clothes from her cousin? Fortunately for Norma, clothes didn’t matter, but being a legitimate reporter did.

  Her mother frowned. “I just don’t understand you, Norma. You are twenty-five years old. You’re not…spry anymore. Well, I would dare say you are an old maid.” Her gaze bore into Norma’s like a weevil in rice. She was disappointed. “Have you even met a man?”

  “No!” The butterflies took flight in her stomach, and any chance of taking another bite was long gone. Mr. Chapel’s face flickered in her mind again. His eyes, his lips, his touch, his kiss. All of that magically reignited the flame inside her and down below. She quivered.

  “You are just a nervous thing, aren’t you?” Her mother shook her head with even more disapproval.

  “Why do you still refer to yourself as the former Mrs. Charles Hill?” Norma had to change the subject, and by the look on her mother’s face, she picked the sorest one in the history of subjects.

  The ice in her mother’s gaze froze Norma in her seat. Her voice froze the air between them when she finally spoke. “Well, that is what I am. Is it not?”

  Norma wished she had asked a different question. Anything would have been better. Even, boy, Mom, age has really done a number on you would have been better. The pained look in her mother’s eyes spoke volumes of her continued loyalty to Charles Hill. She would never be over him. It saddened Norma. How could a woman love a man that much? Even after years of indiscretions? And the mental abuse? What about the physical abuse? Some things Norma would never understand.

  Norma tore her gaze from the icicles shooting from her mother’s eye sockets. Darn, she wished she could bolt back to the commuter train, back to her life in Chicago proper where Mr. Chapel wasn’t too far away.

  The air was thick, and she couldn’t find the energy to lift her head—it stayed down. In her smallest voice she said, “Meredith is Mrs. Charles Hill now. You are Bonnie Braun.” Still, with her head down, Norma could feel the ice turn to fire. Her mother was livid—she seethed in her seat. The air between them changed again. She’d picked the wrong time to mention her father’s new wife Meredith.