The Unknown Beloved(43)

“No.”

“No, you haven’t, or no, you don’t want a home of your own?”

“No, I haven’t. And this is my home.”

“You don’t have anyone?” he pressed. He couldn’t believe that.

“I’m odd . . . and I’m usually uninterested. That combination seems to be hard on men.”

He laughed, surprised. She was right. How intuitive of her. Men needed a great deal of encouragement, and an average woman was difficult enough. Add odd onto beautiful, and most men would steer clear. Partly out of respect. Partly out of self-preservation. He laughed again, her honesty and perception delightful to him.

Dani was gaping at him, and his smile faded. “What?” he asked.

“I thought that might happen.”

“What?”

“When you smile, your whole face changes. It’s like the sun breaking through the clouds or . . . or a log catching flame. Whoosh.” She emphasized the word with her hands, making a starburst motion. “Please do it again.”

“I can’t just smile on demand.”

“Of course you can. You must have smiled on demand a million times.”

“When?”

“It’s just like playing a role . . . and you have played so many. Michael Lepito must have smiled at Al Capone. A smile is a language all its own.”

He frowned at her.

“You told me you once worked for Al Capone,” she said.

“Yeah. But I don’t recall telling you about Michael Lepito, though he was one of the plastic monkeys, if I remember.”

“I touched your suit. Your . . . suits. They are beautiful. My grandfather used to make silk suits for John Rockefeller, but those . . . those are lovely.”

He looked at his wardrobe. He’d left it open when he’d prepared for bed.

He sat back in the wooden chair and rubbed his eyes.

“I was not trying to pry . . . I promise.”

Had it been anyone else, looking at the quality of a fine suit, it wouldn’t have been a big deal. But it was Dani, and it felt a little like he’d caught her reading his journal, and he didn’t keep one on purpose.

“What did you see?” he asked. “And you better tell me all of it.”

“May I please look at them again?”

He shot his hand toward the suits. “By all means.”

She rose, invigorated, and threw the door of the wardrobe wide. Taking a suitcoat from its hanger, she slipped her hands into the sleeves so it was hanging from her forearms.

“The stitching is perfect, and the color is sublime,” she marveled. “Nothing feels like silk. Nothing in the world.”

“Dani.” He didn’t want to hear the tailor’s opinion. He wanted to hear the soothsayer so he could assess the damage. He rose and stood in front of her. “Tell me.”

She was quiet for several seconds, gazing up at him but not really seeing him at all. Her pupils grew so large the iris of her blue eye was reduced to a narrow ring. The brown eye just got darker. It was the first time he’d looked directly into her face, close-up, while she’d done her thing. The hairs rose on his arms.

“You make yourself be still and read the paper. But you aren’t reading, you’re watching. You tell yourself to turn the page. You know better than to use the paper as a prop. They’re watching you too. You have to be natural. And patient. You are so patient.” She paused and he swallowed.

“You like the suit. It makes you feel safe. Good clothes do that. Make us feel safe. Seen, but unseen. It’s magic, really.” Her voice was dreamy, like she was interpreting a painting on a gallery wall.

“I can smell newsprint.” She inhaled deeply. “And cigars. You do love them. The best part of the job, you think.”

“You can smell a memory?” he gasped, unable to help himself.

“That’s what makes it so clear. And it is . . . so . . . clear. You must have sat in this suit, in that hotel, reading the paper and smoking many times.”

“That suit and a few others. What hotel?”

She blinked several times, thinking, and then handed him the suitcoat.

“That’s all I see . . . for now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can only see in pieces. Or parts. One layer at a time. And I grow desensitized to the fabric the longer I hold it. The way you notice a smell when you first walk in the room but don’t notice it the longer you’re there.”

He glowered at her. He hated it when she made perfect sense with such nonsensical things. He hung the silk suitcoat back in his closet.

“It’s not there in the suit, but I think I know where you were. It was in all the papers. Al Capone lived at the Lexington Hotel,” she said.

“Yes, he did.”

“Will you please tell me about it?” She sounded like a kid begging for a bedtime story.

“Oh, what the hell,” he relented on a gusty exhale.

She turned and scampered to his bed and sat down, folding her hands in her lap and crossing her bare feet. He supposed that meant he got the desk chair. He sat back down, but he didn’t really know where to start. He admitted as much.

“I’m not as good at . . . stories . . . as you are.”

“How did you come to work for Al Capone?” she asked, coaching him along.