Chapter Thirteen. Rose
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ROSE
“Hi.” Cooper Harrow is standing on my doorstep, smiling at me. My stomach flips.
“You look swell,” he says. He looks pretty swell himself in a striped blue shirt over a pair of navy swimming trunks, his honey-colored hair combed neatly.
“Thank you.” I wasn’t sure what to wear to a small-town weenie roast doubling as a first date—Is this a date?
I think it is, or he would have invited Ella, too, wouldn’t he?
—but I settled on a lemony halter top and a matching high-waisted skirt.
It reveals an inch of midriff, and I feel a little self-conscious.
“Are you ready to head out?” Coop asks.
“Sure,” I say, and he leads the way to a beat-up black sedan.
“Ford 48 Fordor?” I guess.
He stares at me in surprise. “Yeah.”
He opens the passenger door for me and, once I’m inside, pats the roof. “Be good, Myrtle, okay?”
“Myrtle?” I tease. I don’t think I was meant to overhear that.
“That’s what I call her.” Coop blushes adorably as he slides behind the wheel. “Do you drive?”
“I do. Father paid the chauffeur to teach me last summer.”
Myrtle starts with an ominous cough.
“Grace will be jealous!” Coop shouts over the noise. “She wants to learn how, but Dad said no. I would teach her anyway, but some nosy Nelly is liable to see her behind the wheel and tell Dad, and then there’d be hell to pay … How’d you learn so much about cars?”
“Milt’s been with our family since I was little, but he’s old enough to be my grandfather.
We didn’t know what to talk about during our lessons.
He started pointing out the make and model of the cars we passed.
There are all sorts of people in Washington, you know—senators to shopkeepers to sailors—so there are all sorts of cars.
We made a game of it,” I explain. “I got pretty good at it.”
“Myrtle’s a 1935,” Coop says as we bump and rattle down the drive. I grip the door so that my head won’t hit the roof. “I bought her off Levi’s dad last summer.”
“You paid for this car yourself?” I’m impressed. None of the kids I pal around with have after-school jobs. Father did say the Harrows were pretty skint before he stepped in, though.
And Mr. Harrow hardly seems the generous sort. Watching him with Grace was enlightening. There was no warmth whatsoever. He seemed determined to find fault, and Grace showed a grudging obedience—subservience—obeisance that felt wholly unlike her.
“Dad said Granddad never gave him handouts. If I wanted a car, I could work for it.” There’s no resentment in Coop’s voice, but it hits me how different our lives are.
I’ve never had to work. Some Miss Parker’s girls attend college and then become docents at art museums or assistants at publishing houses, but that’s more of a lark, till they have children.
We’re trained to manage a household—or two, if we’ve got a summer place—and throw gracious dinner parties for our husband’s colleagues.
Perhaps serve on the board of various charities.
We may have the appearance of freedom—college, travel, money—but it all leads to the same circumscribed ends.
I chafe at it sometimes. Miss O’Malley says my writing shows real promise. But even if I wrote a novel, would anyone ever take it—or me—seriously?
“The last two summers I worked for Levi’s dad. Baling hay, milking cows, mucking out stalls. Hard work, sure, but his dad’s a nice guy. And I liked the animals. Thought I might want to be a veterinarian for a while … Oh shit!” Coop looks at me, abashed. The front of the car is billowing steam.
“Oh no!” I say sympathetically.
Coop groans and pulls the car to the side of the narrow dirt lane. There’s nothing but farmland around us, tall rows of corn and furrows of leafy green plants. “She’s overheating. I’m sorry. I’ll have it fixed in a jiff.”
He gets out of the car. I follow, careful not to fall in the ditch. The road is muddy from last night’s rain. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Could you hand me the tubing and the pocketknife and the glue on the floor in back, please?” He pops the hood. “The radiator tubing keeps coming off. I keep spare just in case, but I was really hoping she’d behave today.”
His face is red behind his freckles, and I can’t tell if it’s from the steam or embarrassment. I hand him the materials and he cuts some tubing. “Some first impression, huh? Most guys you’ve gone with probably have spiffy new cars.”
“My last beau drove a red Ford Super De Luxe convertible,” I admit.
Coop whistles. “It was a beaut. But he could only talk about three things: himself, college football, and that car. I couldn’t wait for him to drive it back to Notre Dame come August.” Coop chuckles, but I’m serious.
“I don’t want you to be anybody but yourself, Cooper. ”
His hands pause as he’s affixing the new tube. “Thanks for saying that.”
I meet his brown eyes over the still-steaming grille. “I mean it.”
Coop grins, then changes the subject. “Hey, is your aunt home from her fundraiser? Did she give you a hard time about the party?”
I’m about to lean against the car but think better of it; it’s splattered in mud.
“She’s back, but I hoovered the library and did the dishes this morning, so unless she spots the empty bottles in the trash, I think we’re in the clear.
” I shrug. “We didn’t talk much. She said she was in desperate need of a pot of coffee, but she looked perfectly gorgeous as usual. ”
He glances at me and then back inside the hood. “You take after her.”
“No, I don’t.” Everyone says she looks like Hedy Lamarr.
“You don’t think so? I’m not just blowing smoke. I think you do.”
“Well, thank you.” I flush. Auntie and I have the same hourglass shape, though mine is considerably wider.
My hair is the same riot of dark chestnut curls, parted in the middle, and my face is heart-shaped like hers, with the same pointy chin and long narrow nose.
She’s taller, though—almost everyone is—and has hazel eyes under perfectly arched brows that she draws on.
A relic of plucking them too thin back in the thirties.
“Who do you take after?” I wonder if Grace has shared her theory that she and Coop might be adopted. It seems rather far-fetched to me, but she was awfully excited about it. And with a father like hers, I can’t blame her.
“I don’t think Grace and I look like either of our folks, to be honest.”
He’s right. Mr. Harrow is tall and thin, but without any of the twins’ athleticism. He has black hair, a strict widow’s peak, pale skin, and icy blue eyes. Mrs. Harrow is short and plump, with a button nose, round-apple cheeks, kind blue-gray eyes, and brown hair that has a natural curl.
But lots of kids don’t resemble their parents. Grace’s evidence is pretty scant.
I want to ask more, but I’m wary of prying. Have you ever considered that you might be adopted? How would you feel about that? seems uncouth first-date patter.
“Your ma’s sweet,” I say instead. “The hotel is lucky to have her. Her cooking is—wow.”
“Thanks.” Coop finishes his ministrations under the hood and stands up straight. “We should give Myrtle a couple minutes to cool off. Then we can be on our way. Sorry about this.”
I smile. “I don’t mind the delay. It gives us a chance to chat.”
His brow furrows. “I wanted to ask you—Grace didn’t give you a hard time last night, did she? While I was driving Stan home?”
“Not any more than usual.” I don’t mean to sound flippant; I know he’s worried about his sister. But Grace hasn’t told him about the ghost, and I can’t go giving away her secrets. Nor my own. I like Coop, but I can’t trust him. Not yet.
I think of my father and Anna, and I shudder. Maybe not ever.
Even the most genial men can do a lot of harm.
“There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?” Coop says.
I’ve never met a boy who pays attention the way he does. It’s nice. And right now, it’s dangerous. We can’t risk anyone finding out that Grace and I are seeing a ghost.
“Grace did share a few confidences. I suspect Father’s scotch played a role, but don’t worry, her secrets are safe with me,” I say lightly.
“Even from me?” Coop asks. I’m not sure which answer he’s hoping for.
“Would that bother you? If Grace and I became chums?”
I’m not sure chums is the right word. Reluctant allies, perhaps.
“No. I’m glad she felt like she could talk to you. She doesn’t really have friends like that.”
“I got that sense.” I shrug. “I’m a good listener, if you ever want to try me.”
The sun is warm on the crown of my head, and Coop’s brown eyes are warm on my face. He opens his mouth to—what? Flirt? Share a confidence of his own?
Then a red truck speeds down the lane behind us.
“Ford F-100 half-ton pickup—1940 or 1941.” Now I’m showing off.
Coop grins. “That’s a neat party trick.”
The truck slows and its passenger leans out the window. She’s redheaded and freckle-faced. “Hey, Coop! Everything all right?”
Gene, the redheaded boy from the party, slides across the bench seat and yells out the window. “Oh, man! Myrtle conk out on you again? You need a ride?”
“Hey, Alma. Hey, Gene. That’s all right. We’re just letting her cool off for a minute.”
“Who’s this?” Alma looks me up and down.
“Alma, this is Rose Thorpe. Her dad owns the new hotel. Rose, this is Gene’s sister, Alma,” Coop says.
“Pleased to meet you,” I say.
“Likewise. About time you got yourself a girl, Coop!” She laughs. Coop blushes.
“See you at Levi’s!” Gene calls, then motors off.
“Sorry,” Coop says. The only sounds are the birds and the truck’s receding growl. “I guess it’s been a while since I’ve taken anybody out … I mean, I have taken girls out before. But nobody special.”
Does he think I’m special? Or that I could be? Or am I only a cover? Stanley’s insinuation is still in the back of my mind. I bump Coop’s shoulder with mine. “Well, I’m extra flattered that you asked me, then.”
“I’m glad I did,” Coop says. “You’re easy to talk to, Rose.”
I smile. “So are you.”
It’s true. And it’s going to make keeping secrets from him even harder.