On a Cold Dark Sea(79)
“Sounds like you’ve already put some thought into this,” Josef observed.
“You know how many people are suffering since the stock market crash. Losing their jobs and their homes. I could tell by Charlotte’s clothes that she wasn’t rich, and I can’t help wondering if that money might make a difference in her life. After all, we have been so blessed.”
Josef folded his arms tight across his chest, his face impassive.
“If I can find her, I want to give the money back,” Anna said. “Can we afford it?”
The Depression hadn’t spared Andersson Construction. There were fewer houses being built and less money coming in. But people still needed roofs repaired and windows replaced. Josef kept busy, and Anna never had to worry about putting food on the table or buying new shoes for her children. The debt she owed Charlotte went so much deeper than money, but this would be the easiest way to show her gratitude.
Josef considered the consequences of Anna’s request, in his usual thoughtful way. No one else would have noticed the flicker in his eyes when he made his decision, for no one else had spent as much time looking into them as Anna.
“It’s the right thing to do,” Josef said.
ESME
April 1933
“Hard to imagine, isn’t it? That soaked little girl as the mother of three children?”
Sabine nodded, the pins in her mouth bobbing along with the movement of her head. Esme tried to keep still. With any other customer, the assistant seamstress would be doing the hemming, but Sabine always saw to Esme’s clothes herself.
“She saw an article about Charlie in a magazine,” Esme continued. “Imagine that! Even out there on the prairie, people know who he is.”
Sabine deftly slid a pin through a length of shimmering silk. Navy blue, appropriate for a widow but not depressingly somber. Sabine had a talent for translating each woman’s personal preferences into a tasteful public image.
“It’s very nice she should write,” Sabine said, pulling herself up from a crouched position. She surveyed the hem, which fell to mid-calf. Just right.
“Oh, I haven’t gotten to the best part,” Esme said. “Anna asked if I knew how to reach Charlotte.”
Esme smiled, pleased by Sabine’s surprised expression.
“The English woman?” Sabine asked. “The one who came to your house?”
“Can you believe it? Apparently, Anna has been wanting to write Charlotte for years, but she didn’t remember Charlotte’s last name. And now it turns out I not only know Charlotte’s name, I have her calling card and can tell Anna exactly where she lives!”
“It is a sign from God,” Sabine said.
Was it? Both Charlotte and Anna had sought out Esme after hearing about Charlie. How strange, that his death should bring them together again.
“Anyway, I wrote Anna back this morning. My good deed for the day.” Esme twisted her hips from side to side, admiring herself in the mirror. “Oh, this is lovely.”
Sabine smiled, in her typically modest way. How many times had Esme seen her look downward, deflecting praise with a twist of her chin? It struck Esme that she knew Sabine’s expressions and gestures as well as those of her own children. Yet Sabine’s thoughts—her soul—were as much a mystery as they’d ever been. Though they were both past forty and had spent half their lives together, Sabine was in many ways still a stranger.
Esme felt unusually clearheaded that morning; she’d been out late at a concert with Rosie the night before and hadn’t taken her usual dose of medicine before bed. Yet she’d slept well, with no dreams. She’d forgotten how good it felt to sink into oblivion. To have her mind go blank, for eight blessed hours.
Sabine stretched out her hands as Esme slid the dress off her body. It was a natural reflex; Sabine was always ready to catch whatever Esme cast off. Only today, it felt different. Today, Esme looked over her shoulder as she shrugged away the silk and watched Sabine’s hands flutter amid the fabric. She noticed a streak of gray colonizing Sabine’s dark hair. It felt like Sabine had always been there, hovering behind Esme, picking up and carrying away and fetching whatever was needed. Her silent, self-effacing protector.
Esme pulled on her wool skirt and buttoned her blouse, waving away Sabine’s offers of help. With modern fashions, even the most spoiled woman could dress herself. Who needed a ladies’ maid? Then, with a clarity that caught her off balance, Esme remembered a moment from her wedding night with Hiram. How self-conscious she’d felt in her elaborate dress, until Hiram stepped up to unfasten the buttons, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. No fuss, no suggestive leer—just Hiram doing his best to put her at ease. She’d been so grateful, so relieved . . .
“Madame?”
Sabine was watching Esme, concerned, and Esme was surprised to feel her eyes sting with tears.
“I’m all right,” Esme rushed to say, as she’d done a hundred times since Charlie’s death. Then, looking at Sabine’s dear, familiar face, “I was thinking of Mr. Harper.”
Sabine looked sad, but also grateful, her pain mingled with relief. Esme never talked about Hiram, but she saw that Sabine still thought of him, too, and she realized their shared loss would forever knit them together. Whether Sabine felt the normal affection of an employee for a generous employer or something more intimate didn’t matter. Sabine wouldn’t mind Esme wallowing in the past. She might even welcome it.