Epilogue
Jesse
Seven years later . . .
Seated at one of the workbenches at O’Connor and Caputo, formerly known as Putnam Press, Jesse was working on composing the type formes for the latest edition of Echoes Throughout Chicago, but could barely keep his focus thanks to Emma and Giuseppe bickering over who would cover the following week’s story on the opening of Chicago’s Northwestern Elevated Railroad nearby.
Echoes Throughout Chicago might not have been the only newspaper that Emma wrote for, but it was one hundred percent her own, with an impressive readership of around two thousand subscribers.
Since the newspaper belonged to Emma, she had control over who wrote for it, oftentimes featuring articles written by people like Giuseppe or other typesetters, rather than only those written by other journalists.
Sometimes Claire and Charlotte wrote for Echoes Throughout Chicago as well, especially when they wanted to call attention to a particular charity event they were helping organize or a cause that they were supporting.
Jesse looked up from the forme for a moment and smiled a little as he admired his business.
O’Connor and Caputo was a small print shop compared to most. It only employed a handful of people, most of whom came in part-time.
Thomas and Ellis were two of its employees, but both of them spent most of their workdays over at Hughes Press instead.
And so, Jesse and Giuseppe carried out most of the business at O’Connor and Caputo themselves.
Jesse loved it.
Giuseppe’s voice cut through Jesse’s thoughts.
“Please, Emma, let me write this one. I can interview people on my way to work. You, on the other hand, live right upstairs. You’re far too removed from the struggle of the common man to sufficiently capture the impact that the railway will have on us regular Chicagoans.”
Even though it was Emma’s newspaper, Giuseppe still liked to push his luck when it came to trying to convince Emma to let him write something that she herself had been interested in writing.
Always eager for a challenge, Giuseppe Caputo practically leapt at every interesting story that came his way.
Emma scoffed and arched an eyebrow. “Are you trying to be funny? Patrick takes you to work in the carriage at least three days a week. Besides, I live right here, in the heart of Chicago, in my own little abode, while you return home to your mansion—”
“My mansion?! It isn’t mine! It’s your father’s!”
“—where you’re waited on by servants. I’m sorry, Giuseppe, but you live a far too luxurious life to be the right person for this one.”
“Luxurious life?! Have you lost your head?! You are the one who was waited on by servants for most of your life! I was raised in Little Italy! Right off of Taylor Street! You saw my tiny childhood home yourself when my parents had everyone over last Easter!” Giuseppe let out a huff and spun around in a little circle, raking a hand through his hair.
“Do you really think that I’m too removed from the struggles of—”
Emma burst out laughing.
“It is way too easy to rile you up,” she said, shaking her head. “If it’ll really mean that much to you, you can write it.”
Giuseppe grinned.
Flicking her wrist in an all-too-familiar Arthur-esque manner, Emma spun on her heel and said, “I’ll write about the Chief Milk Inspector’s intention to ban formalin in milk.”
Giuseppe’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait a minute.” He hurried after her as she strode toward Jesse. “That sounds more interesting. Can I have that one instead?”
“No.”
“Please?”
Jesse snorted and threw a random letter at Giuseppe.
“Just be satisfied with what you have,” he said as the letter sailed toward his former roommate.
It struck Giuseppe in the chest, and he caught it before it hit the floor.
“But what she has is better,” Giuseppe whined.
“You weren’t like this when we met, you know.”
Giuseppe heaved a very fake-sounding sigh. “It seems that being with Patrick really has ruined me.”
“In more ways than one, I bet,” Jesse remarked with a smirk.
Giuseppe hurled the letter back at him, but it missed and flew into the wall. Emma shook her head in mock chastisement.
“What kind of unprofessional print shop is this?” she asked.
“The kind that’s home to a newspaper whose stories are sometimes so brutally honest about the state of the world, no one else will print them,” Giuseppe replied.
Emma pursed her lips. “Touché.”
After a moment, she hoisted herself up to sit on one of the worktables.
“When will my father be here?”
Jesse checked the wall clock. “Soon, I think.”
Five years had passed since Arthur had handed Putnam Press over to Jesse and Giuseppe, who had subsequently changed the shop’s name, and Arthur was eager to celebrate O’Connor and Caputo’s anniversary with everyone.
Apparently, he had a surprise to unveil, something that would have merely been sweet and exciting had it not been a surprise from Arthur Hughes, which meant that it was a little bit terrifying too.
Fucking hell, the man had a penchant for showmanship.
Just then, the sound of Arthur’s loud laugh trickled in from the sidewalk. Jesse smiled to himself, excitement and nervousness making his stomach flip-flop as he turned toward the door. Arthur pulled it open with such force that the knob clattered against the outside wall. Typical.
“Let the celebration begin!” he clamored, holding up a very large bottle of wine.
Emma shielded her face with her hand. “Goodness, this is embarrassing.”
Jesse scrunched up his face. “It really is.”
Giuseppe laughed. “I like it. It’s never not fun for me to watch Arthur Hughes make a fool of himself.”
Arthur strolled into the shop. Charlotte and Claire followed, both of them carrying trays of food, and Gertrude came in last, a picnic basket that probably contained cutlery and glassware hooked over one of her forearms. Jesse stood up, and Arthur barreled into him, squeezing so tightly it probably looked as though the two hadn’t seen each other only hours before.
“I’m so proud of you,” he said into Jesse’s ear. “Five years of running your own shop.”
“Thank you,” Jesse said, melting into Arthur’s wonderfully warm (but very tight) hug.
“Really, Jesse, I’m so impressed.”
Heat rose to Jesse’s cheeks.
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” he said. Arthur tightened his embrace even more, and Jesse fought to squirm out of it. “Or without Giuseppe. Maybe you could try hugging him for a while instead.”
“But Giuseppe smacks me away when I try to hug him.”
Arthur squeezed Jesse for a few more long seconds before finally releasing him. Jesse breathed an exaggerated sigh of relief.
“Silly man,” he chided.
Arthur smiled impishly. Behind him, Charlotte cleared her throat.
“Oh!” Arthur whirled around. “I brought food!”
“I can see that,” Jesse said.
Arthur removed the lid from the tin Claire was holding to reveal rows and rows of éclairs.
“Gertrude and I made them!” she said proudly.
Claire then set them on the table. Sunlight caught the oval-cut amethyst perched at the center of Claire’s wedding ring, and it sparkled, the purple beams of light shimmering brilliantly.
Warmth swirled in Jesse’s chest. Even though his and Claire’s marriage was a ruse, Jesse still felt a sense of pride whenever he looked at Claire’s ring.
After all, he had purchased it himself, after months and months and months of saving.
He’d wanted to somehow thank her for saying yes to the arrangement (even though it clearly benefited both of them).
More than that, though, Jesse had wanted to thank her for her friendship, too.
When Claire caught Jesse staring at the ring, she beamed at him while wiggling her fingers playfully. Jesse smiled back.
“I made some sandwiches, as well,” Charlotte said, raising up her tray. “I wanted us to have something besides sweets and wine.”
“How very responsible of you,” Arthur teased.
Charlotte flicked her eyes to the ceiling, pursing her lips slightly, probably to contain her smile. Charlotte set the food on the worktable, moving Jesse’s half-finished forme aside in the process, and then Arthur snatched one of the pastries out of the tray and inhaled it.
“I missed these,” he said while he chewed.
Jesse studied the trays, contemplating which flavor he wanted.
“Can someone help me with this?” Patrick called out from the entryway.
When Jesse moved to look up from the trays of food, Arthur cupped a hand over his eyes, blocking Jesse from seeing.
“Just a moment, Patrick!” he called out.
“Arthur, what the hell?” Jesse spluttered. “I’m trying to eat.”
“There’s more to my surprise,” Arthur explained. “And I need you to keep your eyes closed for a few minutes while I help Patrick bring it inside. Can you do that for me?”
Jesse was about to relent when Giuseppe came up beside him chuckling.
“Oh, these look heavenly,” he said, no doubt taking an éclair from the tray himself and trying to tease Jesse with his little comment.
Jesse frowned. “What about Giuseppe? Doesn’t he have to close his eyes too?”
“Giuseppe already knows about this part of my surprise,” Arthur replied. “Although, perhaps Mr. Caputo ought to be helping his beau instead of stuffing his face with French pastries?”
“Yes, yes, I will,” Giuseppe said, his voice moving farther away.
“Took you long enough,” Patrick said.
“I brought you a cream-filled treat,” Giuseppe said. Patrick sputtered a loud, happy laugh, and Giuseppe groaned. “Jesus, that’s not what I meant!”
Jesse chuckled a bit. While his mouth was open, Arthur shoved a pastry in it. Jesse flinched, but then chuckled some more before starting to chew.
“Now you can enjoy an éclair while I prepare your surprise,” Arthur explained, removing his hand from Jesse’s eyes. Jesse reluctantly kept them closed. “Doesn’t that make it better?”
Jesse lifted a hand and rocked it back and forth, palm open, while he enjoyed the pastry.
“Wonderful,” Arthur said with a loud clap.