A-Splendid-Ruin(103)

Dante and I stood outside beneath a settling mist. Behind us the lights burned, before us was the dark ghost of the city. My hand went into the pocket of my gown, unerringly to the button, which I rolled between my fingers. I said quietly, “I bought Goldie’s IOUs from China Joe.”

“You did?”

“She had no idea of her danger. She still doesn’t.”

“I’d say it was kind of you, but somehow I doubt that’s your motivation.” He spoke lightly, but I felt how closely he watched me.

“She doesn’t know enough to be afraid of China Joe, but she’ll wonder what I mean by it. She’ll be uncertain.”

“Uncertainty is what keeps people up at night,” Dante said wryly.

“I know.” I remembered those days in Brooklyn after my mother’s death, my fear of the future. “I don’t want Joe to hurt her, and I don’t want her dead, but is it terrible to want her unsettled? Maybe to suffer . . . just a bit more?”

“I’m the wrong one to ask. I’d throw her off the docks if it made you happy.”

I pulled my uncle’s button from my pocket and held it out for him to see.

“What’s that?”

“The button I found in my aunt’s hand after she was killed. From my uncle’s vest.”

“You’ve kept it all this time?”

“I didn’t want to forget,” I told him. “I never wanted to forget what they’d done to me, and now . . .” I let it go. It dropped onto the street, rolling into invisibility. Had I been asked, I would have said it was not a burden, that I’d scarcely felt it. Now I knew that wasn’t true. It was a relief to release it.

“How does it feel?” Dante asked.

“Good. Good, but . . .”

“But now what?” he finished.

“It’s all I’ve thought about for so long. And now that it’s done, I can want so much more. I can think about other things.” I put my hand on his arm and turned to him. “Dante—”

“Before you say anything more, you should see this.” He reached inside his suitcoat and pulled out a pocket folder, which he handed to me.

“What is it?” I undid the string clasp and opened it. Inside were letters of inquiry to the Brooklyn Company, in care of the Bulletin. Dozens of them.

“They’ve overtaken our mail. Older’s ordered me to tell you to start redirecting them or we’ll throw them out.”

The first I saw was a missive from a Mrs. Elliot Longmire, who wrote:

I’m no good with finding something peaceful for the eye, and have a bad hand at decorating. I thought your parlor was the most calming thing I ever saw, and it makes me think that you might be the one to design the crypt for my father, who loved peace above all. I have no eye for beauty, but I don’t want my father spinning in his grave for all eternity because I’ve put him into some grotesque. He was a lovely man in life, but I just know he would haunt me. I know you must get dozens of requests a day, but if you could find it in your heart to provide me with taste, when I have none, why, I’d pay any expense.

I stared at it, suddenly breathless.

Dante said, “Look at this one.” He leaned over my shoulder, shuffling through until he found it, and pulled it out for me to read.

I was very impressed with your design and I think you might know the perfect thing for my wife, Sukie, who is a cripple who dreams her days away, and I would much appreciate you making her a beautiful place to spend her hours. I have the money to get her whatever she needs.

I said, “Are they all like this?”

“Not all of them. Some are from the likes of those in there—” He gave a sidelong glance behind us, into the crowded tent. “But it’s not just the rich who want beauty in their lives. Though, now that you are rich, I guess no one can expect you to do anything more than toil away at small talk.”

“I’m not very good at small talk,” I said, staring down at the letter. A beautiful place to spend her hours . . .

“No, you’re too clever for it.”

“I can’t believe it worked,” I mused. “I mean, I hoped, but . . . After your article came out, Mrs. Oelrichs asked to look at my drawings. She’d donated money to help build the Parson Library for the Arts and she was horrified by what Ellis did. She’s asked me to design her a new parlor. She particularly likes bright colors, she said, and no one wants to oblige her. Everyone is too serious.”

“Big globe lights,” he suggested. “Geometrics mixed with paisley.”

“You have terrible taste,” I said.

“I’m better with gowns,” he joked.

“I imagine that will come in handy on the waterfront beat.” I wrapped the cords around the portfolio and handed it back to him. “Will you hold this for me until we leave? I’ve nowhere to put it.”

He took it obediently and tucked it back into his coat. “So you’ll take it up, then?”

Oh, that possibility . . . The flare it lit within me, the joy it raised . . .

“Someone once told me that I had a gift, and it would be a sin to waste it.”

“Whoever said that was a genius.”

“Or perhaps it’s only that he knows me very well.”

His smile became strangely shy. “Maybe he’d like to know you even better. I know it’s not really acceptable. Not for someone of your set, and I’ve tried to stay away, and we could be friends, if that’s all you want, but I thought, if you have time in between all your society commitments for a drink or . . . I don’t know . . . a walk or something . . .”