Under a Gilded Moon(37)

Shaking off the men who’d gripped his elbows, Tate rounded on Sal. “Listen here, dago. You think nobody saw how you was talking to Kerry MacGregor at the train station? First thing I heard when I come back to town: how you was talking to her like you had some kind of right.”

Sal shrugged good-naturedly. “She has the liking for the Sicilians, yes?”

Tate was in full flight, arms extended, reaching Sal’s neck. Bratchett lowered his shoulders and caught Tate at his midsection, laying him flat.

At Tate’s cry of fury and the thud as he landed, Schenck reined his horse in an about-face. “Vat is this?”

Bratchett reached his hand down toward Tate. “Edge of the hole’s a bit slippery from yesterday’s rain. No reason to worry, Mr. Schenck.”

Red-faced, Tate was livid as he staggered up. He did not look at Sal. But it was clear who his words, low and menacing, were meant for. “There’s some that’s suspected of murder. There’s some got a hell of a reason to worry.”

As Sal returned to his shovel, he could hear his mother’s voice echo in his head, as clearly as when she’d stood the last time, sickled sideways in pain. The air had smelled of the market: the oregano, mint, and rosemary, the almonds and pistachios and pine nuts, the lemons and sun-dried tomatoes. She’d spoken as she’d sunk to the ground.

I beg you, my son, protect our little Nico. You are strong. Your heart is big and good. You must promise me this.

Sal shut his eyes at the memory.

Here was the chance for him and Nico to make another fresh start in this country together.

But even here, he was surrounded again by suspicion. On a list now for the murder at the train station in addition to Hennessy’s in New Orleans.

And even here, Sal could be tracked down for that killing of the police chief four years ago.

The mist on his face, Sal lifted his eyes to the ring of shrouded blue mountains. Maybe this would be a refuge. A haven. The place where he could finally make good on his promise to keep Nico safe.

Or it could be the place Sal would finally be caught.

The death of the promise. The end of the line.





Chapter 14

As Kerry trudged up Patton Avenue to Asheville’s center with Tully and Jursey, the riot of fall color that circled the town seemed to be mocking her, a spectacular party she could not join. Like the Cinderella of the twins’ spine-splintered storybook, Kerry was not invited.

But Cinderella hadn’t been worried about two younger siblings. She’d only needed to charm herself a prince.

The owner of the general store in Best—now Biltmore Junction—had shaken his head. After the Panic a couple years back, times been hard. Hire you if I could.

Shopkeepers all over Asheville told her similar things:

Since the recession in ’93 . . .

Try down the street . . . Did you check . . . ?

Tully looked up with rounded eyes, her hair springing out of one braid. Carrying a large, lumpy burlap sack slung over one shoulder, she occasionally patted its side. But she didn’t volunteer what it held. Tully was thirteen and responsible to a fault. She probably deserved to have a small secret or two.

Kerry smoothed her sister’s hair. “You’re hungry, Tuls. And you don’t want to tell me.”

Jursey, though, flopped against Kerry’s side like he could no longer hold himself up. “I could eat a wild boar. Only just me.”

Tully blinked at him. “You wouldn’t share none with me?”

“Any,” Kerry said. “Share any.”

Jursey blew air through a rounded mouth. “Well, hell. Like a twin ever got a choice about sharing.”

Kerry drew two hard biscuits from the pocket she’d sewn on the underside of her skirt. She handed them to her siblings.

Jursey tore into his. Then, guiltily, blinked. “What about you?”

Kerry waved this away. “I’m not hungry, sweet boy.” Which was partially true, but only because her nausea had grown along with the rejections. “Maybe you two had better run on back to the farm. I could be a little bit longer here.”

Tully, mulling something over, nibbled at her biscuit. “Aunt Rema’s started her new job in the kitchens. Maybe there’s more jobs at Bilt—”

Kerry held up her hand. “And they are lucky to have her.”

“How come you don’t like even hearing the name Biltmore?”

“I just hear it plenty these days.” Kerry stopped there. The twins didn’t need to be infected with her resentment. Because resentment, she knew, once under the skin, festers. And spreads. “Bushels of other places who’ll hire me.”

Jursey’s face lit with bright expectation. “Where you headed to now?”

Tully, just two minutes older than her twin, could be years more skeptical. “Mighty seldom I’ve seen you look this discouraged.”

Kerry had just been remembering her classes at Barnard. Miss Hopson’s proud smile as she sometimes passed by in those high-ceilinged halls. The world of poetry opened to Kerry: Wordsworth and Spenser and Tennyson. Breaking down why a poem soared: its alliterations, its assonance, its rhythms, sometimes its rhymes. The pictures it painted.

Pictures, Kerry reminded herself now, of fields and cliffs and copses and glades that so often caused me to ache for my mountains back home.