Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves(63)
He tucked his jaw in order to look down at her, his gaze locking on hers. “Are you safe? You know what I mean. Are you in the breeding time?”
At that, she laughed. Laughter that scoffed at her, him, the whole crazy world. “Ye dunna want any Gypsy-tainted bastards running around, do ye now? Oh, I am bloody well safe. As a start, the Nazis sterilized me female parts. Like an old woman drying up these past five years, me monthlies are . . . well, months and months go by . . . . ”
She left off, not adding that there was nothing to indicate she was a nubile woman except the occasional spotting and that pervasive wetness generated by this raging craving for him.
In the near dark, his eyes flared. Then they narrowed, scoring her features intently, one by one, as if studying tracks for clues as to what kind of critter had made them and when. But his words were infinitely gentle. “Now’s not the time to hold back, Romy. How did it happen, this . . . ,” his voice thickened, “ . . . this sterilization?”
She counterfeited a shrug of nonchalance but bit her lower lip to stop its trembling. Her words came out rather garbled. “The doctors, they make ye stand between their two x-ray machines. Me innards burned terribly afterwards. Luca, me brother, had it worse. They removed his bollocks.”
“God Awmighty,” he muttered.
Her face cracked with a fallacious grin. “Jews, Gypsies, homosexuals . . . we were not of the master race, ye see.”
Strangely, it hadn’t been the outrageous acts of the Nazi inhumanity but the rest of humanity’s silence she continued to find outrageous.
Oh, God, what if she went weak and blubbered again? Time for the stiff upper lip and all. Criminy, she had been doing that her whole life; she could do it now. “There isna a day that passes that I dunna feel guilt. Guilt that I escaped after that first time – and Luca dinna.”
His large hands framed her face, forcing her defiant eyes to meet his smoky ones. “Listen to me, Romy. If you want to stay on at the S&S, I’ll make sure you’re safe from people like Moe and Nazi doctors, if I have to build a goddamn wall to keep the world out”
She couldn’t hide the sadness from her smile. “But not safe from yuirself?”
He stared at her for a long moment, at her eyes, her mouth, then her eyes again. He shook his head, as if to clear it. “If that’s what you want. Yes, myself included.”
This time her grin was genuine, and she cooed softly in her best Judy Garland voice, “’Gimme, gimme, what I cry for. Ye know ye got the kind of lovin’ I’d die for.’”
“You’re one of a kind, Sunshine,” he said, shaking his head, but she had coaxed a smile from him.
So intent he appeared to be on achieving his goals for the S&S and all that they entailed, including a wife and bairns, that it seemed to her he rarely allowed himself the luxury of a smile; but, Sweet Baby Jesus, when he did, that slow smile that began with the slight tilt to the ends of his mustache – well, he could drop a lass in her tracks.
Best of all, though, when he smiled like that, it made up for all the words he didn’t say, all the words she wanted to hear.
Well, almost, made up for their lack, but she would take whatever crumbs he offered.
§ CHAPTER SIXTEEN §
She was living in mortal sin.
All because she was, hungering after a two-bit cowboy. Nay, she was only trying to make less of the man, so as her future hurt would be less. Duke McClellan was more male than all the men she had ever taken on, and that included Nazi doctors.
Spring cleaning had rolled around, and Romy tackled the grime and dirt, a task which was not normally a prerequisite for her housekeeping standards.
Keeping the house clean was a constant battle against the dust and sand that spring winds swept determinedly beneath doors and window sills. Once again, she requisitioned Bud’s tennis racquet to attack the dirt and dried mud that had burred into the parlor’s braided rug since last fall. Beating out the dirt was also an excellent method of beating out her frustration.
It was not like she didn’t have other options. According to Gideon, if she pursued a career in the music field, the world could be her oyster. But she hadn’t won the grand prize of a performance at the Millet Opera House.
Reflecting on this, she swatted the rug time and again, her face turned from the flurrying dust. She reminded herself, or, perhaps, rationalized, that a famous flamenco guitar player would be a repeat of what she had been – that of an organ-grinder’s monkey, only performing on a more majestic scale.
Blimey, she could always tell fortunes, if worse came to worst.
Nay, what she wanted was . . . she wanted to watch the gloaming through Ireland’s magical mist, surrounded by Eire’s blinding green. She wanted peace of heart . . . and a grand love affair. Not settling as a runner up.
She wanted a family . . . and children. All of which would never be, could never be, hers.
It was not in her cards.
Sure and begorra, she might be able to use her intuition and common sense when reading the cards for others, but whatever gods may be had not granted those gifts for her own personal use. They must have considered it would be giving her an unfair advantage.
Still . . . why did the Emperor, the Magician, and the High Priestess continue to turn up in their various interpretations in her own card layouts? Was it truly possible the cards, the spirits, were trying to tell her something?