Chapter 4 #4
“The worst part was keeping it together. Women are allowed a breakdown, even if barely acquainted—they could touch him… pull at him… clutch him to them…”
Not the right moment to get into the usually ironclad constitutions of women, to speak of hysteria and breakdowns and prejudice therein. Raberding was hardly the audience, and more to the point, he wasn’t exactly wrong.
“Not that I wished to touch him more. He was so… cold. It was horrific.” Raberding swiped at his eyes. “I’m sorry to say I fled.”
Laurie muttered a denial of blame. He was by then seated much closer, had pulled a damask ottoman up to Raberding’s armchair.
At some point, they’d both discarded their gloves, Raberding probably from fear of salt and wet, Laurie because he was good at his job; Raberding had snatched his hand.
Laurie couldn’t help but notice Raberding’s were pure gentleman’s hands.
A contrast to Chary Wright’s: the rough, callused palm that Laurie had swiped his finger across—stroked, really. Had felt compelled to touch.
A strange thing, that compulsion. Strange he didn’t feel it now. Laurie, when he was honest with himself, preferred a man’s smooth, slim hand to a rough one, a draping wrist to a fist. Everything that Raberding was beside him, unto the elegant snuffling and big, wet-lashed eyes.
“I’m sorry to cry all over the place. I hope some of this blabbing has been helpful for you.”
Laurie made a noncommittal noise. He was more convinced than ever that there was no story there. August Wright hadn’t been murdered. He’d only been wild and reckless. Nothing Laurie could, or wanted to, write about. “Don’t worry about it. Hey, can I be honest with you?” More echoing.
“Of course.”
“Not every source is useful. Some don’t seem as though they’ve been helpful until much later.” He shrugged.
Not the answer Raberding had been looking for. He laughed but detached his hand from Laurie’s.
“That must’ve been honest, Laurie Tulley. Ouch. I am offended.”
Laurie grinned. “Don’t be. I appreciate your taking the time to speak with me.”
“Well…” Raberding began, “perhaps… I might nonetheless make myself useful.” He slid from the armchair, down to his knees. Pinstripes dimpled into the rug’s thickly cut pile. “In a different manner.”
Geez. “Think I got what I needed, though,” Laurie lied quickly. He leaned back. “Really.”
“Really? But I’m already crying.”
If Hiram was laughing, wherever he was, he was justified in it. Look where flirting had gotten him.
Raberding, though, caught whatever hesitation he’d given away just then. “Oh,” he said, with an intrigued look. “No?”
“No,” Laurie confirmed.
“It’s only looks, then,” he murmured. “That would’ve been useful to know from our Mr. Sumner.” He stood. “But I can do both.”
“I bet.” Laurie believed it. Standing, the man loomed, and the chandelier’s artificial glow threw his face into shadow. Still no, however.
“Which way was it with August?” Laurie asked, returning to rude. Your dead lover, whom you were just mourning?
“Is that relevant?” Raberding threaded fingers through Laurie’s hair at his nape. One hand. “I told you I can do both.”
Still no—possibly—but Laurie didn’t move. He swallowed. “We’re talking about August, not me. You called him a whore. It might be relevant.”
Raberding didn’t want to talk about August. What he really wanted was to talk about himself. Whether he’d been in love with him or not, August Wright was behind him.
“August was a fairy,” Raberding said sharply. “Does that answer your question?”
More or less. There was some nuance there, occasionally.
“How d’you know Hiram, again?” Laurie thought he knew. It was that sort of underground connection—or else it was the jiujitsu. He wasn’t sure which one he preferred; both could put him on his ass. He did know Hiram owed him more than lunch.
Raberding gave him a tight smile. “From here and there.”
“New York’s a small town.”
Impatient, Raberding bent and kissed him. It was wet, lightly sweet, tea-bitter. Not unpleasant, but it wasn’t difficult for Laurie to slide his lips away.
“Still no?” Raberding breathed.
“Sorry. I should go.”
Raberding straightened himself, then his clothes. Not his hair—that was stuck stiff with pomade in sleek, unimpassioned dark waves. “Another time, then.”
Laurie couldn’t stop comparing one glassworks heir to another, it seemed.
One could tell a lot about a man by how he took a no.
Chary Wright had been confused, then excruciatingly humiliated; he’d known Laurie was reciprocating him because Laurie had been.
This man felt his lack of reciprocity and was weighing the sincerity of it, like it could be negotiated.
Overcome. How had August felt about that?
But being a pushy bastard didn’t mean he’d killed his lover.
“Sure,” Laurie said. “You have my card. Two more questions?”
Raberding gave a nod. The tears had dried and gone without a trace.
“You said you almost destroyed the company. How’s business?”
“Business?” Raberding smiled. “The new thing is food-packing. Jar canning. We’re having our best year yet.”
Laurie thought of the failure of Wright’s Improved Jam Jars.
“Brooklyn Glass is unionized, isn’t it?”
“Of course. American Flint Glass Workers. We have regular negotiations. It’s the twentieth century, Mr. Tulley.”