Chapter Thirty-One
Matthew does, indeed, sleep on the couch. I did what I could, but he is the perfect old-fashioned gentleman. For now, anyway. I’m not giving up that fast. When I wake up the next morning, I do what I can to fix myself up before heading to the living room, but he’s not there.
“Matthew?”
I spot a Keurig in the kitchen, and I am instinctively drawn to it. Beside it, I find a note, written in the neatest handwriting I’ve ever seen.
Quick trip to the office. Back before eleven. I will bring food and more coffee.
I feel a mix of disappointment at his absence and pleasure at the unexpected opportunity to explore the apartment on my own, which will give me a better understanding of this man.
Sure, it’s snooping, but he would expect as much from me, I imagine.
He likes to research, and he knows I do, too.
I did what I could of that last night in his bedroom, looking at old photographs of grandparents and parents mixed in with grandchildren, maybe?
There’s not one of him with a woman, though, which makes me unreasonably happy.
I browsed gently through his closet and noted that he didn’t have a lot of variety, but what was in there was very nice.
Not expensive, but good quality. I’ve already seen him in a few shirts and sweaters, and he’s looked great in everything.
It’s what’s covered up by his taste in fashion that interests me now.
I take a quick shower, since I’m not sure about the hot water tanks in this old building, then I dress in a T-shirt and sweats. Nice and comfortable. I want him to feel comfortable, too. No more worrying about being “too forward,” please.
As a last touch, I turn on the radio to something new but not too intrusive.
I have no idea what kind of music he likes.
As I’m doing that, a nervous thought occurs, and I walk to his window and pull back the shades.
I search the street for any sign of that man from before.
I’ve almost convinced myself that he was a bad man, and though there’s still a great possibility that he was nothing at all, I’m concerned that he might have followed me here.
As I’m scanning the street, I hear a noise behind me.
“Hello!”
Matthew’s home. I grin stupidly and meet him by the kitchen, letting my fears go.
He’s unloading coffee, and I see him lift a few bread varieties from the bag: croissants, turnovers, muffins. I’m not surprised. This man does love bread. I hope his cholesterol is all right.
“That smells delicious,” I say, holding out my hands to help.
He shrugs out of a leather jacket and hangs it on a hook on the back of the door, then he gives me a coffee. Under the jacket is a white shirt. Not quite flannel, but soft and cozy, and he’s rolled the sleeves up. The blond hairs on his forearms catch my eye.
“Good morning,” he says. “I hope you like something here.”
I check out our brunch, which has enough muffins and cinnamon buns piled on it to feed a roomful of people.
It’s a little much, but I won’t laugh. Though it seems far from it at times, we barely know each other yet, and he’s trying to make sure I get something I want.
It’s thoughtful, and it’s nice, because I rarely bother with breakfast for myself.
I’m usually in a rush to get moving. But I like the feeling of this. Of slowing down.
“Thank you for this.”
“My pleasure. Black, right?”
“You got it.”
“Okay. Go sit. I picked up a few things at the office, and I have stuff to show you.”
I carry the plate to the kitchen table, which is bare except for a simple salt and pepper shaker set.
I know he likes auctions, and now I wonder if he likes antique shopping.
I do. I could spend an entire day browsing in antique stores with lunch in between, given the chance.
With the speed of my life these days, I haven’t enjoyed that simple pleasure in a while, but it would be fun to do it with him, I think.
He’d have more insight into treasures than I do, too.
“Louis is coming in about an hour,” he calls from the kitchen.
I take a seat, surprised. “Already? That’s fast to collect so much information.”
“He must have some good people working with him,” he agrees, joining me.
In one hand he has his coffee, which is so much lighter in colour than mine, I can tell he has it loaded with cream and probably sugar.
In the other, he holds the handle of his leather briefcase.
He stands in front of me, observing me, and I sense a hint of tension in his smile.
“Did you have a good sleep?”
Does the strain in his expression come from what I’m feeling as well?
How can I ease that? Should I tell him that it would have been better for both of us if he had shared the bed with me?
Without sounding “too forward,” as he calls it.
He’s hard to read sometimes. I decide to give him a nudge of sorts.
“I did, thank you. How was the couch?”
He scratches the back of his head and lowers his gaze to the plate of pastries. “A little short, honestly. I guess it’s technically a love seat, which apparently wasn’t built for me.”
There’s my opening. “Oh, well, the bed is much bigger. You should try it next time.”
“You’re right,” he says shyly.
I could honestly die at the modesty of his expression.
To ease the pressure, I laugh. “Oh, Matthew. We have to figure each other out. You’d think we’d be better at that, considering how much we research things.”
“Personal discoveries are more difficult for me. I don’t have much experience, to be honest. Never had much time or interest in the dating scene.”
I need him to understand. “Let’s learn a little bit today.”
There’s still worry in his brow, but he has a very steady gaze, and it holds me fast. “I’d like that, Bridget. I…”
“It’s okay,” I say with a grin. “We all go at our own pace. But I should probably warn you that—so far—my pace is way faster than yours.”
He returns my smile, full of promise, then he bends down and kisses my lips. His touch is soft, and yet in full, surprising control. I feel myself falling again.
“I will do my best to keep up,” he says, and I think through a fog that I have underestimated this man once again.
He seems pleased with himself as he pulls out the chair beside mine. All he has is a small, very plain white table with four chairs. I wonder if he’s ever had four people here at one time.
“While we wait for Louis, I want to know something. So much has happened with you in the here and now, you never got a chance to tell me the story behind your text about Rosie Ryan.” He pulls out a copy of the chambermaid group photo. “You found your great-grandmother on here? Which one?”
“That I don’t know.”
Matthew stares calmly at the photo a moment. “Oh well. That would have made it too easy, I guess. But really, this is incredible, finding her there right when you’re working at the hotel.”
“I think about that a lot.” I hesitate, not sure how much to say, because he’s a serious researcher, an expert, and yet I sense an underlying curiosity in him that is unrelated to cold, hard facts.
I want to know if I’m right. “Yesterday morning, I went to the chambermaids’ room, and I just stood there.
I have no idea what I was hoping for, but I tried to imagine Rosie standing with me. I know it’s silly.”
“I don’t think it is,” he says.
The pressure in my shoulders melts away. With that simple agreement, he let me know I’m not the only one. I’m not alone.
“This photo is such a fluke,” he muses, “it’s like it was meant to be discovered. Does that make any sense? I mean, almost a hundred years separating the two of you standing in the same place. I’d do the same, Bridget. I’d wonder if she was watching. Did anything come of it?”
“No, nothing. But it was still nice.”
His thumb skims the edge of the photograph. “Did your grandmother tell you anything else about her?”
“No. She doesn’t know anything.”
He’s confused, so I tell him everything about Grandma, beginning with being left at the church as an infant.
“That day she showed me the old photo, she also showed me the letter that her mother had tucked into the basket with her. It was so sad. Rosie’s handwriting was like a child’s, you know?
She was young and, I imagine, uneducated.
I feel so sorry for her. It’s hard for a young, single woman to discover she’s pregnant even now, but back then it would have been monumental.
” I sigh and scan the line of chambermaids, seeking something familiar.
“Grandma has never gotten over being abandoned. She doesn’t want to talk about why, or what might have been. ”
He is transfixed, listening to her story. “Understandable. That’s a deep hurt.”
“I wish I could help her. She means the world to me.”
He sips his coffee, then he swallows a muffin like it’s nothing.
“How about I show you what I found this morning?” From his bag he pulls a thick white binder, just like the ones in his office, and he opens it to the beginning. In it are copies of newspaper articles. “The other day I mentioned Marco Carboni, remember?”
“Yeah. The gangster.”
“Right. He was briefly a suspect in a murder in the hotel in 1929, and I got curious. The victim was a woman named Mrs. Geraldine Evans,” he says.
He taps his finger on a slender, no-nonsense woman standing at the side of the rows of chambermaids.
On the next page, he’s magnified her photo and placed it beside the mug shot of Mr. Carboni.