Grim Shadows (Roaring Twenties #2)(76)

“I think I’ve narrowed the third canopic jar down to a handful of names.” He cut off a nub of butter into the pan. “You ready to get back to our task?”

“We can start tomorrow, if you’d like. My weekend is free.” What she really meant to say was that she wanted him to stay here with her. That all of this was so wonderfully new, and now that she’d broken her touching phobia, she felt like a child who’d tasted sugar for the first time—buzzing with joy and delight and a glorious sort of satiated warmth.

And it wasn’t enough.

She wanted more. Both more of what she’d already had and the promise of new experiences. She wanted to know what it felt like to wake up in his arms. To bathe with him. To walk to the market and buy bags of food to fill up her empty icebox and cupboards.

Silly things.

Lowe cracked eggs into the hot butter and rattled off the names he’d matched to the pictograms. They debated the meanings behind one of the symbols. And when their humble late-night dinner came together, she pried Number Four from her shoulder, happy to have a plan for tomorrow.

They set steaming cups and plates down on a small round table sitting beneath a window that framed a view of the sleeping city. Lowe glanced at the pair of polished café chairs sitting beneath the table and tested their mobility, shifting one chair closer to the other. “Well, what do you know. Looks like you’ve got a few things around here that aren’t nailed down.”

“Don’t laugh,” she said. “You’d be surprised what the Mori can do with two chairs and a glass window.”

“I’m more concerned about the frying pan and the knives in the drawer.”

“You’d be wise to confine any arguments with me to the bedroom.”

“More than happy to test that later,” he teased, directing her into a chair.

As they dined on their impromptu meal, she fed scraps to Number Four under the table while asking Lowe about his family. He told her how his parents emigrated from Sweden and founded a small fishing company that grew into something successful. How his father decided to risk everything when he traded half his fishing fleet for rumrunners after Volstead. But when she asked him about his childhood, and then about Adam Goldberg and his daughter, something in his posture changed.

“I don’t mean to pry,” she said, sopping up orange egg yolk with a corner of toast.

He didn’t reply for several seconds. “I think I need to tell you something. Well, I don’t need to, but I want to.”

When he didn’t continue, she prompted, “Something about Adam?”

“More about Stella, actually.” He tapped the tines of his fork against the plate. “There’s a small chance she might be mine.”

Shock halted her next breath as his words sunk in. “Your . . . child?”

He sighed heavily. “Adam and I were in the same class in elementary school. Miriam was a grade younger. We were all friends, but as we hit our teens, things changed. My father was making more money, so we moved into a nicer house, different neighborhood. I made new friends. And Miriam and Adam began dating. After graduation, I went to college. They stayed and got married.”

He pushed his plate away. “Within a year or so, everything was different. Bootlegging made my family wealthy almost overnight. Adam resented that, I think. He threw himself into his work and he and Miriam went through a bad patch. The two of us exchanged letters while I was studying at Berkeley, and during a holiday weekend at home . . .”

Hadley blinked at her plate, unable to look at him.

“It was only the one time—never happened again,” he said. “But it was absolutely the stupidest thing I’d ever done.”

“Did you love her?”

“Not in a romantic way. I don’t know if I was trying to hold on to a life I didn’t have anymore, or if I was jealous of them. They were adults. Working, married. Paying rent. I was still a boy, getting drunk at college and playing stupid pranks, not knowing who I was or what I wanted to do with my life. And then Miriam began reaching out to me.”

“And you didn’t push her away.”

“Adam was my best friend, and I . . .” He shook his head. “The guilt ate me up. I nearly quit school. And then Miriam announced she was pregnant. And, well, give or take a couple of weeks, either one of us could’ve been the father. She begged me not to say anything, and I tried to keep my mouth shut. Usually I’m pretty good at lying.” He forced a stilted laugh.

“But you told him.”

“I’d want to know if it were me. And he wasn’t happy, of course. Half my size, but the man’s got a wicked hook,” he said, pointing to his nose. “He told me plainly that no matter if the child was blue-eyed and blond, it was his, not mine. They worked out their problems, and eventually he forgave me, too. I didn’t deserve it, but there you go.”

“And Stella . . .”

“Looks like Miriam, through and through. Even the curls could be Miriam’s.” He gave her a brief, tight smile. “And Stella’s only four. They say you can better see resemblances when they’re a little older.”

“There’s the new test—it matches blood types.”

“And that test is what? Not even fifty percent accurate?” He shrugged. “Adam wouldn’t want to know, so I have to respect that. And I’m not sure knowing would change anything. I’ve tried to offer financial help over the years—for doctors and special schools, you know? But he won’t take handouts.”