Chapter Four
FOUR
Vivian woke to the smell of ham frying. For a moment, she thought she was in heaven.
Last spring, she hadn’t been sure that she and her sister, Florence, would be able to afford their rent for the rest of the year.
The two-room tenement where they lived was cramped and ugly, but it had been their home for more than five years.
The prospect of moving to one of the few cheaper places in the city—which were infinitely more cramped and ugly and dangerous than the dingy corner they currently called home—had left them both sick with worry.
But these days, Florence was making more money at the dressmaker’s shop where she sewed and Vivian handled deliveries. And since deliveries took up less time in a day than the sewing she had previously done, Vivian had the energy to work at the Nightingale too, which brought in even more each week.
They didn’t live like queens. They didn’t even live like a snug little middle-class family. They were still poor, still scrimping and saving. But they could breathe a little easier.
Vivian hoped that maybe, one day, things would get even better for them. But in the meantime, there was a roof over their heads that wasn’t going anywhere. And every so often, there was ham frying at breakfast.
The room’s single window was wide open, trying uselessly to catch a stray breeze.
But only heat and humid air blew in, along with the smell of summer in the city—the reek of garbage that had piled up on the street, the odors of a dozen different breakfasts being cooked in the style of as many countries, the smells that had seeped into the wood and stone from years of families living too close together.
Maybe it would rain, one of these days, and then for a glorious twenty-four hours the world around them would be washed clean.
Vivian lay still for one more minute before dragging herself out of bed.
She dressed quickly. These days, Florence got up first and made breakfast so Vivian could get a little extra sleep after her shifts at the Nightingale. But they both had to be at Miss Ethel’s dress shop by eight.
“Morning, Vivi,” Florence said, yawning, when Vivian finally made her way out of the bedroom they shared.
In spite of the fatigue still blurring her head, the greeting made Vivian feel warm inside. Growing up in an orphan home and making their way in an unfriendly world had built a towering series of walls between the sisters. Those walls were slowly coming down, brick by hesitant brick.
The return of her childhood nickname had been a wall Vivian hadn’t remembered was there until it had come down.
“Morning,” she replied, going to the coffeepot and pouring them both a cup. Black, of course—they still couldn’t afford sugar or milk for themselves, though they sometimes bought it for the neighbors. “I’m glad you didn’t wait up last night.”
“Woke up when you came in,” Florence said quietly, spearing the two paper-thin slices of ham from the frying pan and forking them onto plates alongside their toast. “I don’t think I’ll ever sleep through the sound of someone coming in and out of here.”
She said it without much worry, but Vivian knew that casual attitude had been hard to come by. “You were able to get back to sleep, though?” she asked, carrying the plates to the table. It took up most of the room, with a little space left over for Florence’s rocking chair in the corner.
“Yes.”
They sat down at the table together, a study in contrasts.
They were both dressed well enough, in summer dresses that covered their shoulders and had the longest hems fashion would allow.
Working at a dressmaker meant they were expected to look the part, but Miss Ethel didn’t want anyone thinking the girls from her shop were fast.
The similarities ended there. Vivian, her black hair stick straight and bobbed to her chin, looked exactly like the sort of girl who spent her nights in places that needed a password before they let you in.
The sort of girl who kept secrets and could be ruthless with them.
Florence, with her wavy brown hair kept long and pinned back, looked as demure as a painting.
But when she needed it, she had a ruthless streak as fierce as Vivian’s own.
That didn’t mean Vivian told her sister everything—they weren’t there yet.
But they had always relied on each other, and now, bit by bit, they were learning to trust each other, too.
“Anything interesting happen last night?” Florence asked as they ate, and Vivian yawned into her coffee.
Vivian hesitated. She preferred to keep the seedier parts of life at the Nightingale as far away from her sister as possible. Florence didn’t even swear, much less drink or smoke or think of letting a stranger hold her close in the sweaty heat of a dance floor.
But Bea didn’t just belong to the world of the Nightingale.
The Kelly sisters had known Bea’s family for years, trading help and favors, meals and jokes, taking care of each other when they needed to because no one else in the world was going to do it.
Florence would be devastated if Vivian kept news about the Henrys from her.
“Bea was a mess last night. You know her uncle Pearlie?” Vivian asked quietly.
She had been looking at her coffee cup so she didn’t have to meet her sister’s eyes, but now she glanced up to catch Florence’s worried nod.
“He died yesterday. The doctor thinks…” Quietly, fiddling with her food now instead of eating it, she told Florence about Pearlie’s suicide.
She didn’t tell her that it might not have been a suicide after all. If Bea was right, Vivian wanted whatever had happened to stay as far away from her sister as possible.
“That poor family,” Florence said, her voice breaking. “The little ones will be devastated. And Bea … He brought pictures of her father with him when he arrived, you know.”
“I know.”
Florence shook her head, pushing her plate away as though she had lost her appetite. “That’s the third suicide I’ve heard about in the last month.”
“Poor folks are desperate folks,” Vivian said, standing abruptly and gathering their dishes. It was almost time for them to leave for work.
Florence had already made sandwiches for their lunch, wrapped in brown paper and tucked into a basket.
Miss Ethel didn’t give any of her seamstresses a long enough break to buy lunch, and they didn’t like to spend the money in any case.
And Vivian needed something she could carry with her in case her deliveries took up more than just the morning.
“I know,” Florence said sadly. “And desperate folks do awful things. I just feel so awful for them. Should we take them dinner tonight?” she asked as they headed out.
Vivian carefully locked the door behind them as they left. “Sure,” she agreed, hoping she would have something to tell Bea by that night. Not an answer—she didn’t have the sort of connections that could convince a coroner to drop all his work and do her a favor.
“I can pick something up and take it over once I’m done with my deliveries,” she said. “I want to check on Bea anyway. And Lord knows Mrs. Henry deserves our help.”
Maybe by then she’d be able to tell Bea she had set things in motion. Anything to help her friend move past the heartbreak of her uncle’s death.
The deliveries ended with the morning. After four hours of crisscrossing the Upper East Side in cheap shoes, Vivian’s feet were aching, her hair hung limp under the brim of her hat, and she could feel sweat trickling down the back of her legs.
Summer was brutal in the city—not that she had ever experienced it anywhere else.
But her work for Miss Ethel was done for the day, which meant she had a few hours before she needed to meet Florence at home. It was time to ask for her favor.
Vivian’s steps slowed as she came around the corner.
The building she was looking for was a cozy brownstone that she knew had been divided up into private homes—only one or two rooms each, but still worlds of comfort beyond where she and Florence lived.
The door was only a few steps away when she paused, her mouth twisting in a grimace as she tried to decide what to do.
The landlady, who lived on the first floor, was a stuffy, old-fashioned woman who would think only one thing about a girl coming to see one of her male tenants.
Vivian didn’t much like the idea of being looked up and down, thoroughly judged, and sent on her way.
But her mind was made up for her when someone came out the front door only a moment later.
Tall and lanky, with arms that swung awkwardly by his sides as he walked, he wasn’t the man she was there to see.
Before she could talk herself out of it, Vivian hurried down the sidewalk and caught the door before it could swing closed behind him.
The man, who was muttering what sounded like a shopping list under his breath, continued down the street without noticing, and Vivian was able to slip inside.
Stepping on her toes, as light as if she were dancing a quickstep, she made her way up to the third floor.
There she paused, hesitating again, before taking a deep breath and crossing the hall to one of the heavy, old doors. She was raising her hand to knock when the door swung open, the room’s occupant just putting on his hat and ready to step out when they came face-to-face.
Vivian held in a yelp of surprise and took a quick step backward. But the man was clearly used to a particular kind of unexpected visitor, his hand going faster than she could follow to the back of his waistband.
Before she had even caught her breath, she was staring down the business end of a revolver, pointed unwaveringly at her chest.