Chapter Twenty-Two. Rose #2
Stan elbows Coop. “You know what to do when you get to the top, Harrow? You got three minutes.” He sneers at me. “If she’s not a cold fish.”
Can everyone see that there’s something wrong with me, even a dolt like Stanley? I flush. What if the game of post office was an anomaly?
Grace pulls Stanley toward the funnel cake booth, mouthing an apology.
“That was uncalled for.” Coop’s jaw is tight. “I’m sorry, Rose.”
“You aren’t responsible for that—” Beast. Boor. Brute. “Come on. Let’s get in line.” I slip my hand into Coop’s and pretend that Stanley’s rude remarks didn’t bother me in the slightest.
When it’s our turn to board, Coop hands me gently into the car. He sits down next to me, the operator fastens the gate, and our gondola begins to rise. The sky is melting into soft pinks and blues like cotton candy.
It’s lovely, looking out over the gray expanse of water. Then even lovelier, looking back at Cooper Harrow and his ridiculously long eyelashes and his keen chocolate eyes and his extremely kissable lower lip.
I blush at the thought.
As the car ascends in fits and starts, our conversation falters. Coop lists the carnival food—roasted peanuts, cherry ice cream from a local orchard, funnel cake, cotton candy, corn dogs—and debates at length which one we should get.
When we reach the top, I fall silent, sneaking glances at him. I catch him watching me, too. My tongue darts out to wet my lips. I angle myself toward him.
But he just sits there like a bump on a log, scuffing his shoes against the floor.
“What did you think of the parade?” he asks.
Is he serious? Who cares about the parade?
“It was nice. Lou got fistfuls of candy.”
I don’t know what other signals I can give, short of grabbing him by the collar and dragging his face down to mine. Doesn’t he want to kiss me? I really thought he liked me. The way he smiles at me …
I sound like a lovestruck ninny, interpreting his smiles, imbuing them with meaning.
All the lovely ease of our conversation has dissipated.
Then the great wheel turns, and it’s like someone popped a balloon. “I saw you reading another Agatha Christie at breakfast. Which one’s your favorite?” he asks.
I answer him, but my mind is churning. Does he only like me for talking to?
The sky has deepened to navy, and we’re waiting for the fireworks when Grace appears by our picnic blanket. “Rose, can I talk to you?”
!
“We’re on a date, Grace,” Coop hisses.
Are we? We’re sitting at opposite ends of the plaid blanket, surrounded by couples holding hands and canoodling. I don’t think I’m doing a swell job at masking my disappointment.
“Sorry,” Grace says. “I’ll bring her back before the fireworks start.”
“Well, if it’s important…” I scramble up.
“What is it?” I ask as Grace strides toward a row of booths in the shadow of the Ferris wheel.
“I found Dovey Mae! She’s here!”
“What? Where?”
Grace points to a booth advertising homemade cherry ice cream. “I heard somebody call that woman Dovey Mae. It’s not a common name.” In the dim light, I make out a tall thirtysomething broad in a red apron, her curly hair pulled back with a red kerchief. “Let’s talk to her!”
“Now?” I glance at the sky.
“After the fireworks, it’ll be a madhouse”—Grace eyes me—“sorry, I mean, a real press, with everybody heading out. Who knows if she’ll be here tomorrow?”
Lou can see the ghost, too. We need to put this mystery to rest sooner rather than later.
And it isn’t as though I’ll be missing anything romantic.
I nod, and Grace pulls me toward the booth. “What can I get for you?” Up close, the woman is what my English teacher, Miss O’Malley, might call handsome. She has unruly eyebrows and jolly brown eyes.
“Are you Dovey Mae Martin?” Grace asks.
“Since the day I was born. Who’s askin’?”
“Can we speak with you? Privately?” Grace says.
Dovey Mae cocks an eyebrow. “I don’t chitchat for free. You gonna buy some ice cream?”
I look behind me. There’s no line. Most of the fairgoers have found spots to watch the fireworks. But Grace and Dovey Mae both look at me expectantly.
I pull a dollar from my pocketbook. That’d buy ten ice cream cones. Double scoops, even.
Dovey Mae shoves the money into her apron. “Jamie, I’m gonna take a break!”
She leads us around the side of the booth, where there’s nothing but spools of rope anchoring the tents. “What can I help you girls with?”
“We understand that you spent some time at the Harrow Home,” Grace says.
Dovey Mae’s eyes narrow. “What about it?”
“I’m looking for my mother, who—”
“Ain’t me. I had a boy.” It’s too dim to read her face, but her voice is matter-of-fact, without any of Sadie George’s pain or shame.
“I know. My mother died,” Grace explains. “But she was there the summer of 1930, same as you. Her name started with the letter D. That’s all I know.”
Dovey Mae folds her thick arms across her chest. “There was a gal who died that summer. Kind of snooty. Like her.” She jerks her head at me. “No point puttin’ on airs in a place like that. She spread her legs and got caught out, same as the rest of us. Still. Shook us up pretty bad.”
“What happened to her?” I ask, right as Grace says, “What was her name?”
“Dessa.” Above us, the first firework explodes in a dance of gold sparks. “Toxemia. By the time they caught it, midwife couldn’t save her.”
“But her babies lived?” Grace presses.
“Babies? Twins?” Dovey Mae looks us over. “Really? You two don’t look nothin’ alike.”
“Oh, we’re not—Rose is a friend,” Grace says. I scowl at her for using my real name.