8. George
George
Ileaned against Sarah’s parlor door as the pretentious young fool raised his glass.
“A toast to the three most talented ladies ever to grace a single street. I am awestruck by your abilities. Miss Milton’s Shakespeare, Miss VanMartin’s Handel, and Miss Everson’s Mozart.
Utterly extraordinary. I raise my glass to the Lakeside ladies. ”
Glasses were raised. Lakeside ladies, indeed.
At last, Sarah’s hazel eyes flicked to me, and I raised my glass to her. She frowned and turned to Viola. Something in my chest dipped.
Viola and Tessa drifted away, but Sarah remained seated with the oaf standing guard.
I sauntered over. To the rescue. I clamped a hand on the oaf’s shoulder—good grief, he was built like a brick wall.
“Higs, my good fellow, blazing excellent toast. Lakeside ladies. Very clever. Say, I overheard someone mention they wanted to hear more about your football days.” I nodded vaguely toward the other end of the room.
Sarah seemed glad to see me. I slid onto the settee beside her. “That should buy you at least a few minutes of peace.”
Her shoulders shook with silent laughter. The group at the other end of the room soon surrounded the dunce.
I said, “I don’t remember hearing you perform that aria before tonight. Your voice was…” I cleared my throat.
Sarah’s hazel eyes locked with mine, almost as close as when I’d steadied her on the steps. Her lips matched the pink of her devastating gown.
“Did Viola tell you about her letter?”
Stop staring at her lips. “Goldilocks?—”
“Did Viola say anything about your aunt? Anything about what she asked in her letter?”
I glanced down the room at Higginbotham, still surrounded. I laid a hand on her forearm. “He seems harmless enough, but he’s not right for you. He’s a?—”
She lowered her voice. “Anything about your father’s demand? Marriage?”
“What? No. You were there for the whole conversation. You’re too smart for that dunce.”
“Did she mention her plan, George?”
“No.” Had she even heard a word I said?
She groaned. “I should have known you’d be impossibly lunkheaded.”
“Hey, what did I do?”
“You took my seat. Skedaddle, Brother.” Viola appeared above me, balancing two plates. Sarah huffed. She accepted one of Viola’s plates, and they both turned to stare at me like I’d committed a crime.
Fine. I could read a room. I wove through the crowd to chat with Sarah’s father, a pleasant man who let his wife do all the talking. If I couldn’t get Sarah to see sense, I’d intervene from a different angle, like a concerned older brother. Someone had to keep a level head around here.
The Monday after the dinner party, I bounded down the front steps without barreling into anyone, uncharacteristically ahead of schedule.
White-blonde hair streamed behind the cyclist zipping along the path across the street.
I paused at the end of my front walk, drawn to the lightness of her freedom.
Then that clod Higginbotham closed in behind her, a hungry grin plastered across his face.
He sped past, calling something over his shoulder.
She leaned forward, pedaled harder, and pulled beside him as they rode out of view.
He was good at cycling, apparently. I’d never learned how. Hadn’t seemed important.
I hauled my mood into work.
Lenny appeared beside me as soon as I hit the door. “Big boss wants to see you upstairs.”
Probably another lecture—the family legacy, punctuality, responsibility, and all that. I took the stairs two at a time and blew a kiss to Mrs. Kirkegard.
She waved me on. “Go right in. He’s expecting you.” At least I wasn’t late.
Father turned from his expansive window with a pinched scowl waiting under his poker face. “Troubling, my boy. Had coffee with the editor of the Times. Heard some grisly stuff about the Whitechapel Club.”
“Seems some things can’t go unnoticed forever.” I’d wondered when he’d ask about the group of upstart young newsmen.
Father raised his brow at me. “Worshiping death and drinking from human skulls? That will get noticed.”
“I think the skull part is true. Heard it from too many sources.”
His face darkened. “With coffins and murder weapons for decor?”
“Never been there myself.”
Father stared at his palms. “But why?”
“Want their own mythology. But they’re just dressing death up in velvet and toasting it by candlelight—trying too hard to make it profound instead of pathetic.”
Father turned back toward the window. “Should I forbid our boys from membership? You know them. What do you say?”
“Can of worms, that. The surest way to increase membership is to forbid it.”
He nodded.
“And then there is the problem of enforcing your mandate.” What was Father’s obsession with mandates lately? “What if the whole newsroom joins the club in protest? Will you fire everyone?”
Father’s brows pulled deeply together. “I don’t like it. It’s disrespectful.” He drummed his fingers on the arms of his chair. “Would wager no members have ever found death lurking in a loved one’s eyes.”
My hands clenched in my lap, nails digging into my palms. Death had appeared like a shadow in Mother’s green eyes—eyes the exact shade Viola and I had inherited.
Recognizing that shadow had sucked the light from the world.
I remembered the cool press of her hand on my cheek.
Hadn’t known it would be the last time. Losing her had been terrible, but guilt clung, heavier than damp wool. For I was the one who’d ushered it in.
I took deep breaths and exhaled slowly until the tightness in my throat eased. Focus. Father was listening. To me. “We don’t have to like it. It’s a phase that will fade away if we ignore it.”
Father said, “I should ignore it?”
“Yes, ignore it. It’s what I’d do in your position.”
He tapped the tips of his steepled fingers on his chin. After a long minute, he slapped the desk. “Good advice, George. I will take it.”
My eyes prickled. Ridiculous reaction for a grown man, but there it was.
He said, “You still spending your free time at the Chicago Club?”
“Couple nights a week.”
“Convenient that it is across the street from the Palmer House.”
I knew he wanted me to ask him why, but I said nothing. I tried out my poker face and met his gaze through the long silence.
He chuckled and answered my unspoken question. “Because I am putting you in charge of organizing our annual Holiday Banquet this year.”
What? This was no small responsibility. It involved a guest list of several hundred people at the Palmer House, the grandest location in Chicago. Father had organized it for at least the past fifteen years.
“See Mrs. Kirkegard. She has all my notes.”
I couldn’t find words, but I did my best to smile and nod. I shook Father’s hand and made a hasty exit. At least he didn’t give me a marriage mandate.