by Tess Oliver
There was a touch of melancholy in Jackson’s expression, and I silently chided myself for bringing up the topic of war. Just as the subject of my mother’s death was a bitter topic for me, France was obviously a distressing subject for him.
He took my hand again. I found myself enjoying the small sense of proprietorship that seemed to come with the way he held me. I’d never wanted to belong to any man, but having someone like Jackson around to feel loved and safe would make it worth giving up a smidgen of independence. But it was a fleeting thought. This was a short term, frivolous friendship and nothing more. It was entirely possible that he would bore of me much sooner than the six weeks. There was always that dreaded possibility that his interest would wane by the time he dropped me back at the carnival tonight. I hoped not, but I had to expect it from a man like Jackson.
He led me to a soft, clean spot of grass near the riverbank and beneath the shadow of the old mill. He took off his coat and was about to place it down on the grass for me to sit on.
“No, please,” I said, “this is an old dress. Your coat will be ruined.”
“It’s an old coat.” He stretched the coat out and waved his hand for me to sit.
He leaned his forearms on top of his knees and stared out at the water. “On nights like this, sometimes you can spot a blue glow, swamp gas, coming from that green marshy area around the mill. Comes from some of the plants and animals beneath the surface. It happens usually when we’ve had a long stretch of hot weather. Not sure if it’s been warm enough.”
“The weather is certainly changeable here. After that rainstorm, Buck was worried we wouldn’t be able to open on time. But the ground soaked it up quickly.” I looked around at the picturesque surroundings. “This spot is lovely. But I don’t think it would be as beautiful without that mill perched out on the riverbank.”
“That old place, what most people would call a relic and some would even prefer to see torn down, has so much character. Lots of stories to tell. It’s more than a century old. It has seen this river swell up and over its banks, and its seen the water withdraw, starved for a current, its critters wandering aimlessly on the nearly parched riverbed waiting for relief.” He removed his hat, placed it down and leaned back on his hands. “This might sound odd coming from someone who has lived in a rural setting all his life, but architecture has always been fascinating to me. By far the best part of being a soldier was getting to travel through Europe. The architecture is astounding, and it’s different in every country.”
“And those countries are so much older than our own. I imagine there was a sight to see on every corner.”
“It kept my mind off of the real reason I was there.” Jackson looked up toward the dark sky. The moonlight cast shadows on his perfectly sculpted face. He was so handsome it almost hurt to look at him. Especially now, with the solemn expression, an expression that seemed to indicate that he was about to spill something painful, something that was constantly eating at him but that he’d buried, just as I’d buried the horror of my mother’s death. There was a deepness in his soul that I would have never guessed existed. It seemed I had judged him too quickly. An unfortunate set of circumstances always seemed to land me in his path at times that didn’t place him in the best light.
He sat forward and rested his wrist on his raised knee as he gazed out at the mill. “There was this soldier named Ben. He was a member of my regiment, and we bunked in the same barracks in Camp Upton. It’s where we finished our training before being shipped overseas.” His deep, rich voice had already imprinted itself in my mind, and the sound of it now, as it coasted out over the flowing water, made my throat tighten. “He was one of those nervous, fidgety types,” he continued. “Even moved around in his sleep.” He laughed quietly. “Ben was always scratching his head, and I would kid him that he should have left his fleas at home with the family dog. He managed to pick up a postcard at every stop, Paris, London, even small farming villages in the middle of the country. Some were pictures of famous churches or rivers, others were pictures that went with the war, patriotic slogans, the Red Cross flag, even soldiers washing their faces outside the barracks.” He looked over at me for the first time since we’d sat. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this story. I never talk about the war.” He reached up and brushed a strand of hair off my face. His fingertips touched me briefly, but it felt like a caress.
“I want to hear it. Please, go on.”
“Ben wasn’t much of a writer.” He chuckled. “He’d scribble out just a line or two. He was a terrible speller, so he’d always give me the card to double check before he handed it off for mailing. ‘We made it safely to camp.’ ‘Saw this and thought of you.’ ‘Just off to bed’. ‘Best regards from Ben’.” Jackson smiled. “And my favorite, ‘send money, I’m busted’. That was when we were still in the states. Those notes were short but cheery, as if we weren’t heading into anything worse than a trek across Europe.”
I picked up a blade of grass and twirled it absently in my fingers. “Was he writing to a sweetheart?”
“Someone named Barbara. He didn’t say who she was, but it seemed pretty clear she was his sister. I think he would have preferred to have me think it was his girl back home. On one note he wrote—” Jackson stopped to think, “something about his mother. ‘Tell mama not to throw away the old wine press in the cellar. Uncle Don wants it’. And then there was the comical exchange about the boots they’d sent him. He complained on the first card about them being too stiff and couldn’t they have found a better pair. Two cards later he was saying that the boots had been softened by wear and that he could probably do all right with them.”
“I imagine with all the walking soldiers do, the comfort of boots is pretty important. I couldn’t even manage a one mile walk in these shoes.”
He reached down and touched my ankle with the pretense that he was looking at my shoes, but my half bare legs seemed to be his real focus. His fingers grazed along my ankle and lower leg for just a second, but the heat of his touch spread all the way up my thighs. A breath caught in my chest. I released a disappointed, silent sigh as he drew his hand away.
“Once we got to Europe, he continued writing the postcards. Made me feel pretty guilty for not writing more myself.”
“To your sweetheart?” I teased. I’d said it lightly, but from his reaction, it wasn’t a light subject. He shook his head in response. It seemed, once again, I’d prodded too far.
“The tone of Ben’s notes, still just as brief of course, had darkened. As we got nearer to the front-line he wrote ‘pray for me’ at the bottom each time. He knew. We could all sense how brittle our existence had become in the midst of the war.” A weak, forlorn smile broke out on his face. “On one card he wrote ‘thank god for the boots you sent me’.” Jackson stared down at the grass below him and ran his palm over it. “We were in a trench in the middle of a French battlefield. The artillery had come to a lull and things were tense but quiet. There’s plenty of waiting in battle. But it’s a hard wait, not like waiting in line at the butcher shop. You wait to see if that was the day that would change your life forever, or if it would be your last day on Earth. Extreme hunger had turned our minds to home cooking, and we talked about how much we missed it. We were both having a smoke.” He paused and his story seemed to have taken him back to that moment in time. Crickets peddled their noisy legs in the grass near the riverbank and the water swooshed quietly along. Suddenly the setting seemed as melancholy as the man next to me.
“Ben was telling me about his ma’s cherry cobbler. Like always, he took his helmet off to scratch his head. There was an explosion, a grenade. Shrapnel flew at us. Ben was still smiling about his ma’s cobbler when a shard split his skull open. If he’d had his helmet on, it might have saved his life.” He sat still for a second, then looked at me. “See, you’ve already cast a spell on me. I’ve never told that story to anyone
. Not sure what it is about you, but I feel like I can tell you everything. I’m comfortable talking to you, like we’ve known each other for a long time.”
“I feel it too. It’s nice. My strange lifestyle makes it impossible to have friends other than the people who travel along with us. And sometimes, strongmen and snake charmers don’t make the best confidantes. Even Buck and I rarely see eye to eye on things. Rose is my closest friend, but we’re so different. Which reminds me, we should be getting back to them. Rose and I have to be up early to help with the clean-up. Those crazy carnival goers barreled through the midway like a hurricane. We had a good turnout today, but I’m worried Buck picked too remote of a location. People around here will tire of the shows and run out of spare money, sooner rather than later.”
“You might be right. Once the novelty wears off, ticket sales might slow. But there are still some of the nearby cities, Alexandria and Arlington. If Buck put posters up across the bridges, you’d get visitors from across the Potomac too.” Jackson stood up. His white shirt looked bright against the dark backdrop of the mill. He held out his hand for me to take. I picked up his coat as I stood. I brushed it off and handed it back to him with a nod of thanks.
I kept my hand in his as we hiked back to the car. His grip was strong and warm and protective. It was a good hand hold.
“I’m sorry about your friend, Ben.”
He nodded. “Yeah.” A thin layer of clouds had blocked out some of the moonlight, but the shreds of light coming through gleamed off the slate gray car. We stopped before getting in, and I glanced back at the scenic place we’d just left.
“Trees and moss and water sure beat the midway. Sometimes it feels like I’m growing up in an artificial world of striped canvas and carnival posters. Thank you for bringing me out here. It’s much more my cup of tea than the speakeasy.”
He held his hat but hadn’t put it back on his head yet. I wondered if, and even hoped that he had plans to kiss me. I peered up at him, and that winning smile shot up on one side of his mouth.
“I’m never hesitant when it comes to kissing a girl,” he said, as though he’d read my mind. “But standing here with you, the exotic, fearless Enchantress, who had an entire crowd of people on their feet tonight, I’m feeling a little intimidated. Of course, that also might have to do with the fact that you are quite the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”
“More sugary words, Jackson Jarrett. You’d better watch yourself, otherwise you’ll sweep this Enchantress right out of her glitzy shoes.” I hopped on the toes of my sparkly shoes.
“I sure as hell hope so.” He reached up and placed his hand on the side of my face. His mouth hovered just an inch from mine. His warm breath tickled my lips. Then he lowered his mouth over mine and kissed me. It wasn’t a chaste kiss, but it seemed he was holding back.
My knees weakened as his kiss deepened. My legs felt rubbery, a sensation I’d never felt before. His hand dropped from my face and he took hold of my waist. Then, with some reluctance, he lifted his mouth from mine. I opened my eyes.
He was gazing down at me. “Can I see you again, Charli? I’d like to take you out again.”
I knew starting a relationship with someone on the outside, someone not part of my bizarre little life circle was silly and could only lead to heartbreak. This time, it could very well be me instead of Emma crying for the first five hours of our journey to the next location. But there was something about Jackson that made me think I needed this. And with his face and that deep whiskey voice and the many layers that seemed locked away under the extraordinary exterior, I was sure I would regret not knowing him more than I would regret losing my heart to him. “I’d like that, Jackson.”
Chapter 9
Jackson
The white facade of the federal style mansion loomed down over the rolling green lawn. I took a moment to admire the building with its hipped roof, brick chimneys and array of six-over-six windows. It was a popular style home on this side of the river, a balanced but different version of the common Georgian style. The house belonged to Clarence Albert, a prominent lobbyist, a somewhat controversial figure on the Hill.
Mr. Albert had grown very fond of Walter’s corn whiskey, and with his connections, he didn’t worry much about having me walk right up his brick lined driveway and past the gleaming white balustrades of his front porch to deliver my crates. I’d been leery of rolling my illegal goods up his driveway in broad daylight. He might have been safe from the law, but I wasn’t. He’d assured me I was under his protection when I was on his property. I had no choice except to take him at his word.
The normal routine was to leave the crate just inside the back gate of his yard. I reached over, opened the latch and pushed the gate open. The backyard was shaded with cherry trees that would have been dripping with white and pink blossoms just a month before. A maze of perfectly trimmed boxwood lined a brick path to the back of the house. The screen door opened, and Mr. Albert stepped out in a blue dress shirt with a contrasting white collar. The buttons on the shirt strained over his barrel chest. Without his hat, his hair looked especially sparse on top. His thin black moustache flicked with a grin as he strolled across his back lawn. “Just leave it there. I’ll have my butler carry it down to the cellar later.” He stopped in front of me. The short, quick walk across the grass had left him slightly breathless. “I’ve been thinking, J.J.—” He stopped to catch his breath. I’d shortened my name to initials while I was working. I figured no one needed to know my name.
“Having to deal with this man, Griggs, leaves a sour taste in my mouth,” he continued. “His reputation in this town, as I’m sure you know, is not good. He’s a cutthroat and a racketeer, and, frankly, as much as I like my whiskey, having to deal with Griggs leaves a bitter aftertaste. Now, I’ve asked around and I understand that you are not just the runner but you are the connection to those sweet jars of honey you just left at my gate.” He pulled out a cigar and offered me one as well. “What do you say about working up a deal to cut out our rather unsavory middleman? More profit for you and your brilliant spirit maker. I can keep the revenuers off your back, and you can replace that old jalopy of yours with something more suitable to a first class runner like yourself. What do you think? I can get you more clients as well.”
As a lobbyist, the man, himself, was involved in plenty of shady business, not to mention his love for illegal liquor. Yet he was worried about his connection with Griggs. It was almost comical.
“Actually, we just upgraded to that truck.” I smiled thinking how Gideon would take to someone calling his new vehicle a jalopy. I looked around somewhat suspicious of his offer. It occurred to me that this could be another of Griggs’s tests. Albert seemed to understand.
Cigar smoke puffed out of his nostrils as he snorted a laugh. “I’m not in cahoots with Griggs, if that’s what you’re thinking. A scoundrel like that would never be my partner.”
I stuck the cigar in my pocket for Gideon. “You might be able to keep the revenuers off my back, but they wouldn’t be my main worry. Griggs has people all over the damn place. The only new ride I’d be buying myself would be in the back of a horse-drawn hearse.”
The thick cigar stuck out from between his even thicker fingers as he put up his hand. “Right, right. I understand. But give it some thought. You seem like a smart cookie. I’ll bet you could figure something out.” He turned to go back inside, and I walked out the gate.
I slid into the passenger’s seat and handed the expensive cigar to Gideon. “A little gift for my chauffeur.”
“Right, bodyguard is more like it.” He pressed the cigar under his nose to breathe in the scent and then shoved it in his pocket. He glanced casually at the side mirror. “There’s been a plain black T following us since we got to the bridge. Something about the man looks coppish.”
I laughed. “Coppish? What the hell is coppish?”<
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“You know, the look of a cop or some kind of official.”
I leaned slightly toward the door, and my gaze brushed the passenger side mirror Gideon had welded on just for occasions like this. “Hmm, that punk looks familiar. Drive on. Let’s see if he stays on our tail. It might jog my memory. Either way, let’s get out of here.”
Gideon pulled the car out onto the road, and we headed back to the bridge. His eyes flicked to the mirror. “Our friend is turning around too.”
“Fuck this,” I pulled my gun from its holster, leaned out the passenger window and stared straight at the man. He glanced off toward the houses as if they held interest for him. “He’s not very good at being inconspicuous, that’s for sure. He’s young, maybe twenty, and I’ve seen that sharp, clean shaven chin before.” Seeing no threat, I shoved my gun back in the holster. “You’re right. He is a cop, but he’s getting a granny fee from Griggs to look the other way.” No longer concerned with the weasel behind us, I turned back to the front and lit a cigarette. “Griggs is just keeping an eye on things. It seems he hasn’t quite put his trust in the Jarrett brothers yet. Which is fine. Mistrust is a two-way street. Which brings me to an interesting conversation I just had with Mr. Albert.” I took a long drag on my cigarette and pointed out the window. “Turn on Reservoir Road. I’m meeting someone at the canal.”
