“You excuse yourself and take it off when you undress, alone. You’d have to bring a very large handbag to hide it in. Do you have one? And you should wear a loose jacket if you have such a thing. Okay?”
She nods. He kisses her brow with apparent tenderness. Yet, does he truly feel what he professes? She wishes she felt more confident that a man she so longs for and admires could care for her. Their last kiss is painful, vibrating with repressed longing. “If you decide yes, call me. It’s the right thing to do, Rosalind.” He turns to the door, to the night. When he’s gone, she feels more alone than she’s ever felt in her life.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
In the morning, Rosalind is at odds. She’s warmed by the unexpected intimacy of the night before. Her bones feel phosphorescent as she reflects on Charlie’s touch, his kiss, his presence. Those broad shoulders, that understanding face, his voice. But even as she acknowledges how drawn she is to him, she can’t lose the distrust. Could his feelings be true without a hidden agenda? Weaver has made her doubt every man. Will she ever move past it? And then there’s Weaver himself. Her new abhorrence for him winds around her love for him—choking it. Choking her. Still, Charlie asked her, begged her, to stay involved.
And so, when her counter is free, she picks up the phone and calls Weaver at his office to tell him she’ll see him tonight. He sounds relieved, grateful even. He says he feared she’d never speak to him again.
“Will you answer all my questions?” she asks.
“I’ll tell you anything, as long as it doesn’t make you hate me more.”
Hanging up the phone, she feels a quaking in her chest. Will she have the courage to wear the recorder tonight? A confession could make him turn himself in. Would it save him as Charlie promises? Or would it damn him?
Contending with these conflicting thoughts, Rosalind returns from the ladies’ room to discover her brother-in-law standing in front of her counter, chatting with Adele.
“Henry!” Rosalind doesn’t think he’s ever visited her at Field’s before.
“Hey, kid,” he says. “This nice lady’s been entertaining me while I waited for you.” He throws a smile at Adele, who looks utterly charmed. Has Henry been flirting? Rosalind has rarely seen her supervisor smile so openly. “You have time to come out to lunch?” he asks.
“Sure. I always have time for you.” She looks over at Adele, who nods encouragingly. “Where are we going?”
“Harvey’s. If that’s okay.”
“You know I love it.”
Harvey’s Luncheonette on Lake Street is their place. When she was a kid, Henry used to be the one to take her downtown for a doctor or dentist appointment “We’ll give Louisa a break,” Henry would say, and take a morning off from work. As a treat, before he brought her home, they’d stop at Harvey’s for matching Coca-Colas and patty melts. Over lunch, he’d ask her thoughtful questions and treat her like an adult. She remembers him explaining the stock market crash to her. Later, as the Depression got worse, he made clear that while money was tight, they were a lucky family. For instance, they could still afford to eat at Harvey’s. But there were people who had no jobs, were hungry all the time. He told her she should never look down on their poverty.
“So it’s not their fault?” she asked him. “Lou says if they tried harder, they’d find jobs.”
“Well, Lou may be off about that,” he explained patiently. “Some of those people have tried their best to get jobs and haven’t had any luck. There are way too few opportunities out there these days. We should be kind to anyone in need.” That lunch changed the way Rosalind has thought about poverty ever since.
During the war, Henry was in his forties, so they stationed him in Washington, DC. She was grown and already working for Fermi, but she missed her brother-in-law. Sometimes, she’d take the bus up from Hyde Park on a Saturday and go to Harvey’s, where she’d sit alone at the lunch counter. After ordering a Coke and patty melt, she’d pull out letter paper and write to him. I just toasted you with my Coke, she’d write. Wish you were here with me, Pal. She signed her letters Kid. He always wrote back as soon as he could.
“So,” she asks him now. “How are you doing?” As they step into the flow of traffic, she glances back to see Agent Carlisle walking behind them. This morning he introduced himself, saying Lawrence had come down with the flu. He’s clearly new at his job, and with his twelve-year-old face and nervous demeanor, he doesn’t inspire confidence.
“I came to have lunch with you,” Henry says, “because I thought you should know . . . I’ve moved to the Allerton.”
She stops dead on the sidewalk. People pile up behind her, curse, push by with huffs and grunts. He grabs her elbow and pulls her to the side so the crowd can keep moving.
“I guess I should have waited until we got to Harvey’s to tell you.”
She thinks she might cry, but she swallows down the saltiness and is left with a tingle behind her molars.
“I didn’t think it would come to that,” she says. “I thought you two would work it out. Poor Ava.”
“Ava knows Lou and I both love her.”
“Why didn’t Louisa call me?” Rosalind asks.
“Who knows? Maybe she’s out celebrating.”
“More likely she’s ashamed. Your pushback after all these years baffles her. She’s used to you ignoring whatever she says.”
“I couldn’t do it anymore.”
“I know. When did you move out?”
“The night before last. I didn’t want to tell you on the telephone.”
“Thanks for that.” She grabs his arm. So steady. So kind. So unselfish. Why didn’t she fall in love with a man like Henry in the first place instead of Weaver? She could never take a man like that for granted. Charlie seems a lot like Henry. A thoughtful man. How she wants to believe him, to lose her doubts.
“How will you see Ava?”
“We’ll arrange it. Maybe she’ll stay with me on weekends. She likes being downtown. She’s always loved coming in to see you.”
“Do you have room for her?”
“They can bring up a cot. We’ll eat room service. She’ll love it.”
“So it’s over? There’s nothing you and Lou can do to make things right?”
He shrugs. “Things could be done,” he says in a soft voice. “If certain people would be willing to do them.”
They reach Harvey’s, and Rosalind is relieved there’s an open table. She wouldn’t want to be talking about this at the lunch counter with a waitress eavesdropping on them while wiping it down. At the table, they chat about other things, but soon she leans forward and whispers, “If things don’t happen as you hope, will you get a divorce?”
Henry shrugs, pushes his glasses back in place. “Maybe we’ll just live apart.” She feels nominally relieved. Divorce seems so ugly, so drastic. Something that selfish, sleazy people partake in. Or movie stars. Not Lou. Not Henry. Not people who have been married for more than twenty years. “I hope you don’t . . . unless . . . Henry . . . ?” She stares at him.
“What?” he asks.
“There isn’t someone else, is there?” She hazily imagines a lady CPA with glasses, a mannish suit, and a wise smile. “Another woman?”
He laughs. “There’s no one else, kid. I promise.”
“I think you’re very brave,” she says, “for standing up to Louisa. But I wish she’d change her mind, apologize, learn something.”
“Has Louisa ever learned anything?” he asks with a sigh.
That’s the way they’ve talked all these years: as if Louisa were at fault. Rosalind’s never thought that much about it. Louisa has always been hard to deal with. And yet . . . why? Does something hurt her? Is she lashing out for a reason?
The waitress comes to deliver their order, and it’s a good thing. The uneasiness Rosalind feels is hard to sit with. Later, as
they finish their lunches, Henry asks, “You and Weaver . . . how’s that going?”
“Oh. He’s not well . . .”
“No?”
“He’s got cancer.”
“Jeez. Really? I’m sorry, kid. That’s awful.”
Even as she says the word “cancer,” she still has a hard time believing Weaver is dying.
“Is that why he came back?”
“Probably.” She looks at her brother-in-law, the most stable person in her life, and has the urge to tell him more. “He’s not a good guy,” she says. “He’s done some awful things.”
“He hurt you, for one.”
“Yes. And that’s only the beginning.”
“You don’t have to stay involved with him, you know. Even if he’s sick. Not after what he did to you.”
“I know.”
She can tell that Henry wants to say something denigrating about Weaver but watches him swallow it down. Instead he says, “If you ever need me—to talk or cry or whatever it is you want to do—you’ll let me know, won’t you?”
She nods.
“Because you owe him nothing. Absolutely nothing. Look, you don’t need a lecture from me. You’ll know the right thing to do.”
“Do we ever really know the right thing to do? Any of us?” she asks.
“You will. I believe in you, kid. I have no doubt that whatever decision you make, whether it comes to Weaver or science or your life, you’ll make the right choice. You’re the smartest girl I’ve ever known, and your heart is true. You just follow it.”
* * *
Leaving Henry at the corner of Dearborn and Monroe, wishing her true heart would tell her just what to do about Weaver, she senses someone walking too close. She assumes it’s the hapless Carlisle, who sat gaping at them all through lunch. But turning her head, she’s chilled to note crisply pressed pants, expensive shoes, swollen hands. Anson. For one unnerving second their eyes meet. His so pale, so empty. Where the hell is Carlisle?
She swerves abruptly into the open doors of Carson Pirie Scott, sensing Anson close behind. Carson’s is packed with shoppers and a-lilt with music. In the middle of the main floor, a man in a tuxedo is perched on a piano stool before a shining black baby grand, and a girl in a long pink dress is belting “Buttons and Bows” into a microphone. The overly happy tune presses claustrophobically on Rosalind’s ears. With Anson on her tail, she veers right, steps up to the perfume counter, and grabs the tester bottle of L’Heure Bleue.
A bored shopgirl with a blond bob glances up from her sales book and declares, “L’Heure Bleue makes a girl irresistible,” in a tired voice. Rosalind brings the bottle to her nose, stalling for time, wondering what she’s going to do. As long as she’s in such a public place, isn’t she safe? And then she feels fingers gripping her left arm.
“Rosalind Porter!” Anson says in a jolly, familiar way. Rosalind tries to shake him off, but his hold tightens, so that her fingers begin to tingle.
“You have something I need, dear.” He moves close to her and whispers, “And you know just what it is.” His breath sliding over her ear makes her shiver in disgust.
“Let go of me.” She tries to jerk away. “Let go!” Rather than appearing alarmed, the salesgirl looks up with a sigh as though women get accosted every day at her counter. In a blasé manner, she turns to help a customer on the other side of the perfume island.
“No need to get too noisy, Miss Porter. Neither of us wants to make a scene. If you care about the safety of your friend Tom Weaver, you’ll be a good girl.” His voice is even, cool, and surprisingly delicate. Like his clothing, it doesn’t seem to suit his tough, threatening body. Charlie told her he’s assigned a team to follow Anson too. But where are they? It makes sense that they would hesitate to intervene, wouldn’t want to reveal themselves, but will they come to her rescue if she’s in real trouble?
“What do you want?”
“You happen to have a certain key to a safe-deposit box with you?” His breath smells surprisingly minty, as though he popped a breath mint before accosting her.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, you do, dear, you do.” He grips her even more tightly. “Mr. Weaver gave you a key and you’ve put it in your own safe-deposit box.”
“I don’t have a key,” she says. “Let go of me, or I’ll . . .”
“You’ll what?” he asks. “You’ll give me the damn key!” His voice is suddenly terrifying. He’s shaking her arm. His nails are cutting half-moons into her flesh. And no agent steps forward. No one is coming to intervene.
In what feels like slow motion, her heart banging, she raises the tester of L’Heure Bleue and sprays him right in the eyes. Anson lets out a high-pitched yelp like a puppy being hit by a car. His hands fly to his face; he doubles over. Rosalind slams down the tester and, weaving between strollers and shoppers, runs past the musicians and the crowd, not daring to look back. She bursts for Madison Street. Her ears pulsate with every clap of her heart. Her breath burns in her throat as she pushes through the noontime crowd. Her only goal: to get up the street to Field’s, to find her bodyguard. But even if Carlisle is waiting and there’s a counter between herself and everyone else, how will she feel safe?
* * *
Though her encounter with Anson terrified her, she has no choice but to keep working as though nothing’s happened. Spotting Carlisle, she quietly motions for him to come to her counter. Pretending she’s showing him jewelry, she tells him what happened at Carson’s, noting how shaky her voice sounds. She’s exasperated that he seems more interested in excusing how he lost her than showing concern for her terrifying experience.
* * *
After that, though, Carlisle paces the floor, glancing over at Rosalind too often, too obviously. But she’s glad he’s there. She can’t help wondering, what’s in Weaver’s safe-deposit box that the Russians need so desperately?
As the afternoon goes on, Field’s becomes more crowded. Fridays often are. She sells diamond earrings to a woman who tells her she’s visiting from Switzerland. A ruby-and-diamond wedding band to a young woman and her fiancé. A large sapphire brooch in the shape of a flower to a man who came looking for a birthday gift for his wife, whose passion is her beautiful garden. All three sales are larger than usual. She’ll get a decent commission. But she barely navigates her way through the light conversations and cajoling, the exchange of money and gift wrapping. Her arm throbs where Anson’s fingernails punctured her skin. Surrounding the half-moon lacerations, blue ovals are rising from the pressure of his grip. She feels disembodied and miserable and she can’t help scanning the crowd for Anson’s face.
At three, she calls Adele over.
“I’ve got to leave, Adele,” she says. “I’ve got to.” She makes sure her voice is wavering and weak. “It’s food poisoning, I think.”
Adele scans her face. “I’ve got to admit, you don’t look so good. Go. Go home. I’ll take over.”
* * *
Rosalind, with Carlisle sitting behind her on the bus, does go home, but not to Lake Shore Drive. She knows Ava and Louisa need her right now. And despite all, Louisa’s is the one place she feels most safe, most beloved. Even when her sister opens the door and blinks coldly, as though Roz is a vacuum salesman who’s interrupted her favorite radio hour.
“You could have called,” Louisa says.
“May I come in?”
“Why aren’t you at work?”
“I got off early.”
Louisa narrows her eyes, steps back to let Rosalind in. She isn’t wearing lipstick, looks pale and nervous. Thinner too.
“You don’t look quite right,” she tells Rosalind, though surely Louisa is the one most altered.
“Hard day,” Roz says. She would feel so much better if she could share her terror and confusion about Weaver with her sister. But she knows eve
n bringing up his name would set off a river of vitriol. Rosalind trails her sister into the kitchen, where the dinner dishes are stacked in the sink, a pan sits half-full on the stovetop.
“Henry told me what happened. I wish you’d let me know,” Roz says.
“You encouraged him to leave me, didn’t you?” Louisa asks, turning to her with a sneer.
“I never would.”
“The two of you have always conspired against me. You think I didn’t know?”
Anson’s attack has left Rosalind jangling, but her sister’s hurt breaks through, moves her.
She sets a bolstering hand on Louisa’s shoulder. “There must be something I can do,” she says. Louisa shrugs it away.
“Like what? Introduce me to my next husband?”
“C’mon. I’m worried about you.”
“As though that helps.”
Rosalind steps in front of her sister.
“Stop stonewalling me,” she says. “Are you getting out? Seeing friends? I’m concerned.”
“You think I want my friends to know my husband left me? Don’t you realize how ashamed I feel? How ruined?”
Louisa is often enraged, but today her face is twisted by simple pain.
“Chances are Henry will come back if you just listen to him.”
“Listen to him?”
“He’s asking you to understand he’s been unhappy. That he doesn’t want to be led around by the nose anymore.”
“As if he so much as ever listened to why I’m unhappy.”
Rosalind wishes she could go to her childhood room and fling herself on the bed. Or head down the hall and find Ava. But she stops. Maybe, she thinks, she’s the one who needs to listen. She takes a deep breath.
“There’s something you’d like to tell Henry?” she asks. “Something he’s not hearing?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me why you’re unhappy, then. Start with me.”
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