The Unknown Beloved(28)

“And the rest of the family?”

“My grandfather and my great-grandfather both claimed to have a sense for the cloth, though they described it differently. Vera too. She always said the fabric told her what she should make. The style and the size. She said, ‘The fabric knows what he wants to be. The fabric chooses.’”

“But she didn’t sense things . . . about people.”

“No. My great-grandfather, Daniel Kos, was a little more like me. Vera said he knew where the cloth had been—saw it—and liked working with bolts that were as new and pristine as possible.”

“Why did she die? Vera?” he asked. The irony was not lost on her. Death was a more comfortable subject for him than her abilities. Maybe it was more comfortable for her too, and she answered his question.

“Her heart just stopped beating. She sat down in this chair, a dress in her lap, and she drifted off. It was easy. Quiet. It was a good death. Hard for us. But not for her.”

“I hope it is not a burden to have me here,” he said. “I would not want that.”

“No. It is a relief. We need the money,” she confessed. “Nobody is buying expensive clothes right now. My grandfather used to dress the Rockefellers, and we still benefit from his reputation. We have a few wealthy clients; it is the reason we have a roof over our heads and food in our bellies. But even the wealthy make do with less, and the Rockefellers hardly come back to Cleveland anymore. Most of the houses on Millionaires’ Row are empty or gone. All those beautiful houses, all those beautiful clothes . . . gone.”

He didn’t seem to know what to say to that, and she hadn’t meant to say so much. It was a bit of a soapbox topic for her, when someone would listen, and he seemed intent on listening. It was intoxicating, his attention. She wasn’t used to it, and before she knew it, she was talking again.

“Cleveland is well-known for its garment districts. The factories have rows of sewing machines and giant presses, and they spit out hundreds of cheap suits every day. We can’t really compete with that. The aunts have always worked hard, but they aren’t particularly good at rustling up business. That was never their responsibility, and they are proud. I am not.”

“No?”

“No. I think they’d rather die than do some of the things I’ve done.” She laughed softly. She wasn’t ashamed. Not at all. And she didn’t think she was even especially defensive, but her words hung in the air, and Malone studied her, his eyes solemn. She expected him to leave, to retreat, but he stayed put.

“Tell me some of the things you’ve done,” he insisted.

“I’ve gone to every business in this town, every business where uniforms are worn, and I’ve made them deals they can afford. I’ve sewn shirts with logos and badges and buttons. I’ve made aprons and caps and hairnets. It’s boring, but it isn’t hard, and I don’t mind making the uniforms. No one’s ever worn them before. It makes it a bit easier on me.”

“No stories?” he asked quietly.

“No stories,” she repeated. His understanding made her throat tighten, and she returned her gaze to her lap, composing herself. And still, he didn’t bid her good night.

“There are also locals who bring me their mending,” she added. “The church has sent me business as well.”

“And your aunts are not too proud to help you with the work once you’ve acquired it?”

Dani picked up her mending again. She didn’t know what to do with her hands. “There is one contract that my aunts refuse to help with. They are horrified by it. But sadly . . . it’s steady work.”

He raised his eyebrows, waiting. She bit her lip, wondering how she’d backed herself into this corner. She’d had no intention of telling him every detail of her dreary life. It was as if he’d turned a spigot inside her.

“There’s a funeral home next door. Did you notice?” she hedged.

“Of course. And a doctor’s office on the other side.”

“Terribly crass, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Pragmatic. If the doctors can’t help you, do they just send you next door? Toss you over the fence?” His tone was dry, and she laughed.

“You sound like Zuzana.”

“Oh no,” he grunted, and that made her chuckle again.

“But only those that can afford the funeral home go to the funeral home,” she explained. “This city has a great number of dead that are indigent. Often they are never identified. Some are, but there isn’t any money for burial expenses, so even if they are known, the families do not claim them to avoid getting saddled with the cost. It is very sad.”

His brow had furrowed while she talked, and she began to talk faster, fearing she was boring him to tears.

“The city has a small fund for the indigent dead. Mr. Raus, the owner of the mortuary, has a building over on Mead Avenue where those dead are brought. I clean them up, tidy their clothes, and keep a record before they are buried in a potter’s field or donated to the Western Reserve University for medical study.”

Malone’s mouth dropped open. “You look after the dead?” he gasped.

“I don’t look after them. No. I just keep records and . . . dress them . . . for burial.”

“Good God, Dani.”