Missouri Magic

by Charlotte Hubbard

  “Damon has a sense of perspective that comes from making a serious mistake and enduring its aftermath. He’ll not err that way with a woman again.” She regained control over her emotions and finished the tarts with delicate latticework, painstakingly perfect for her dear Mr. Frye. “Does Eula know?”

  “I—I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since they were here.”

  It was the end of that topic, but it was by no means the end of her troubles concerning Patrick Perkins. Celesta woke early on the morning of the picnic, smiling confidently at the rays of sunlight streaming through her bedroom window. She’d waited a week to feel the caress of that silk lingerie against her skin . . . was eagerly anticipating Patrick’s furtive, questioning gaze when he came for her, and the challenge of not letting him have so much as a peek at those scarlet ruffles all day.

  But when she went to the steamer trunk, where she’d layered the underthings between Mama’s clothes, they were gone!

  Celesta let the lid fall shut with a whump, totally bewildered. Surely Justine wouldn’t have the nerve to ... and Katherine wouldn’t have rifled through her things to. ...

  Her mouth pressed into a grim line. If Damon Frye showed his face today, he’d get the trouncing of a lifetime.

  Central Park was alive with children shrieking as they sack raced, and polka dotted with ladies’ parasols, and ringing with the clang! and cheers as men competed at horseshoe pitching. Never had Celesta seen a bigger crowd or more festive decorations for this annual event. The fence railings and light poles were festooned with red, white, and blue streamers that flapped in the breeze, and the United States flag rippled proudly over the arched pagoda that served as a place for patriotic speeches and a band stand. She herself was wearing a blue dress with a white sailor’s collar and red trim, which set off the red choker she’d put on to please her escort.

  Patrick, in crisp white linen, gazed at her as though he could see red silk through her clothing while they walked between the various contests and events. His hair glistened like gold beneath his jaunty boater, and his smile, too, was radiant. He had his eyes on a prize, and Celesta smiled secretively, knowing it would egg him on ... knowing he’d never get close enough to discover she wasn’t wearing the finery he’d given her.

  “I should call you Mona Lisa,” he said as he put an arm around her waist. “Is that little grin because you liked my present?”

  “Yes. Very much,” she replied coyly. Celesta glanced around, wondering where Damon was hiding himself in this crowd.

  Perkins also looked at the jovial faces around them, nodding proudly to his friends when they gawked at the woman on his arm. “Was Frye peeved that you came to the picnic with me?”

  “We didn’t discuss it.”

  “Oh.” Patrick saw a shady spot ahead, near a vendor selling iced drinks, and steered her toward it. “Well, he by God better behave himself if he’s here. This is our day together—the first of many—and I won’t have him spoiling it for you.”

  She, too, sensed that the roguish architect was lurking behind the scenes, watching them, but as the afternoon glare softened into the first rosy shades of evening, Celesta relaxed. Damon hadn’t appeared, everyone else had gotten over their initial surprise at seeing her with the illustrious Mr. Perkins, and they were ready to enjoy the hamper of chicken, biscuits, and cherry tarts she’d packed. All that remained was a concert by the Thompkins Troubadours, a local group Patrick played the string bass in, and a fireworks exhibition. Perfectly public. Perfectly safe.

  After he spread a blanket beneath a tree, Patrick sniffed appreciatively at the packets she was pulling from her basket. “I do miss your fine cooking, Celesta,” he said, “but if I have my way about it, you’ll soon be out of the kitchen for good. I can’t understand why your aunts don’t have help, at their age.”

  “Katherine’s hardly ancient,” she teased, taking a crispy chicken thigh, “and Justine will do her own cleaning until she drops. They live that way by choice.” She could tell the conversation might get intimate now that they were out of the crowd, so she distracted him with a different topic. “Has your mother found anyone yet?”

  “She’s hired a bedraggled young girl who sought shelter at the Home, on a trial basis, but I can’t think it’ll last. Mother’s not the most patient teacher, you know.”

  Celesta nodded, sympathetic. After spending her life under his mother’s hawklike supervision, she still quailed whenever Eula criticized each minor flaw in the food or laundry. “If you find a black fountain pen trimmed in gold, I’d like it back,” she said, watching his reaction. “It wasn’t among the writing supplies you packed from my desk, and it was a special gift from Mama.”

  “Well, of course I’ll—I can’t imagine where it could’ve gotten to,” he replied with a puzzled frown. He chewed on his chicken, as though sincerely perplexed, and then brightened. “I’ll find it, though. And if I don’t, I’ll take you to select a new one. You’ll need a fine pen to write notes for all our wedding presents, you know.”

  His boyish grin endeared him to her, and as they recalled previous Fourths and picnics in their lives, Celesta wished she could forget that her mother had died under unsettling circumstances in this man’s house. Patrick was generous and charming; they knew so many childhood secrets about each other and shared some of the best memories she could ever make. Every unattached female in the park had eyed her with disdain when they saw him keeping her such close company. This was a fairy tale in real life, so why shouldn’t she take advantage of the luxuries and elevated station he was offering her? It meant security for the rest of her life—decency rather than decadence, which was all Damon Frye had offered her.

  Patrick interrupted her reverie by reaching across her for a tart, laughing low when his boater nearly skimmed her breasts. “I’ll have to leave you after I enjoy this. Bill and the others are setting up,” he said with a glance toward the gaily decorated bandstand. “And after our concert, I know a special spot where we can enjoy the fireworks.”

  It was probably the same spot he’d ushered other girls to over the years, and she looked into his sparkling eyes. “You’re a rake, Patrick Perkins. If you thought about it, you’d know that Ransom Manor’s by far the best vantage point for—”

  “I will not take you where Justine can watch everything we do,” he stated, tweaking her nose. “How you can live with that busybody is beyond me. Just because nobody ever kissed her, she thinks everyone else should suffer chastity as well.”

  Celesta raised an eyebrow. “And how do you know she was never courted? Mama’s album has a few photographs of her that are surprisingly good. She wasn’t breathtaking when she was young, but Justine was by no means ugly.”

  He grunted and tucked the last large bite of tart into his mouth. His clean-shaven cheeks glowed golden in the sunset. He was shaking his head good-naturedly as he chewed—until he grimaced, grabbing his jaw. “Did she make these tarts?”

  “No. Why?”

  Patrick slid his thumb and forefinger gingerly between his lips and pulled out a large cherry stone. “Chipped a tooth on this sucker. Damn, that hurts!”

  “I—I’m sorry—”

  “Never mind, honey,” he said, regaining his smile as he brushed her cheek with a kiss. “Better me than you. After the concert, I’m sure you’ll find a way to make it feel all better.”

  Celesta picked up the remains of their meal, chuckling. By rights, it should’ve been Frye whose tongue would scrape a jagged tooth for the rest of the evening, but he’d apparently found a better way to spend his day. People were spreading their blankets in the grass closer to the pagoda now, preparing to listen, while Bill Thompkins and his small orchestra set up their chairs and music stands. The burly postal clerk’s brow glistened with sweat as he tapped his baton against the top of his stand and gave a few last instructions.

  At the sound of his pitch pipe, the instruments squawked to life. It was a cacophony Celesta always enjoyed. She stood to the side of th
e audience with a few others, where she could watch each musician tuning up. Cornets ascended showy, brassy scales while the violins droned on open fifths and then burst forth into bits of melody. Flutes, like shrill birds, twittered at the front, and beneath this chaos throbbed the heavy tones of Patrick’s bass fiddle as he plucked out a syncopated passage. He winked mischievously at her, and Celesta felt herself flush despite her misgivings about him.

  There was a hush as Thompkins raised his arms. He marked a silent four beats with his wand, and then the spirited strains of “Yankee Doodle” filled the air. People nodded happily, but it wasn’t until the medley moved into “Dixie” that these Hannabalians, still southern at heart, began to clap in time. A few men sang the chorus, and by the second time through everyone in the crowd was joining in with a gusto brought on by patriotic fervor, or perhaps a sip of whiskey taken on the sly.

  “I wish I were in Dixie—hooray! Hooray!” Celesta sang out. And then she sucked in her breath when a broad hand closed around each of her shoulders.

  “If you don’t want to see your crimson drawers flying like a flag from the Cruikshank mansion, you’ll come with me,” a familiar voice crooned near her ear.

  “You—demon!” she exclaimed in a hoarse whisper, turning to glare at him.

  “Damon’s the name, demon’s my game,” he replied with a chuckle that smelled like liquor.

  “Where have you—? You wouldn’t dare take my underthings to—would you?”

  Frye’s face assumed a Cheshire cat grin as the last rays of daylight dimmed around them. “There’s only one way to find out before my men do.”

  “You—”

  Her protest was stifled by a quick kiss that tasted of spiked lemonade, and Celesta quickly pulled away to see if anyone was watching. By now people were on their feet, accenting their hoorays! with uplifted fists, and Damon grabbed her hand. He led her behind the crowd until they were passing through the park gates, walking so fast she could barely keep up with him.

  “Of all the—let me go! I came here with Patrick, because he was gentleman enough to ask!” she hissed.

  He turned suddenly so that she would run into him. “Surely a woman who revels in red underwear has time for a little scandalous behavior. And afterward, if you’re still worried about your reputation with Mr. Perkins, I’ll return you to him. Underwear and all.”

  “You have no intention of—”

  “You’re right. I’ll keep you for myself,” he breathed, and he pulled her close for a kiss that was a prelude to the night music yet to come.

  Celesta gasped for air when he released her. “You’re drunk!”

  “No, merely intoxicated after watching you all day from my former room.” He nodded toward the Park Hotel, which overlooked the festivities, a chuckle rumbling in his chest. “You were hunting for me, gazing about like a little girl lost, while poor Perkins looked half-afraid you’d find me. I couldn’t bear to let you continue that way—not when the view from the Cruikshanks’ observatory will take your breath away, once the fireworks start.”

  They already had. Celesta’s temper threatened to flare like a rocket, and her breath was hissing like a fuse in her dry throat. His dark hair fluttered in the breeze as he gazed down at her with eyes that shone wickedly, reflecting the street lights around them. His shirt was unbuttoned nearly halfway, and he smelled of citrus and alcohol that hadn’t come in a cologne bottle.

  “You went into my room, stole my underwear, and now you’re telling me you’ve stashed it on the topmost level of John Cruikshank’s house?” she demanded tersely.

  “That pretty well describes it, yes.”

  “Don’t you get tired of setting these little traps?”

  Damon chuckled, pleased she was warming to the subject. “About as tired as you get falling for them, sweetheart.”

  He massaged her shoulders, savoring the lamplight on her face and the defiant gleam in her eyes. “If you can tell me, honestly, that you’d rather spend the rest of the evening not letting Patrick find out you’ve lost your underwear, I’ll let you go. You’ll have a lot of embarrassing questions to answer, but if that’s what you want, I’ll—”

  Celesta pulled away from his embrace and stalked up the street ahead of him, muttering. Only Damon Frye would treat her this way—and he would fly her unmentionables from atop Rockcliffe, probably with a banner proclaiming their ownership!

  Behind them, the Thompkins Troubadours launched into a magnificent rendition of “The Star Spangled Banner,” but Frye barely noticed. He allowed Celesta to remain several feet ahead of him as they ascended the long hill that led up to the mansion, his eyes following her strident sway. Even though she was accustomed to this vigorous pace, she’d be panting by the time they reached the door—and she’d have to wait until he was good and ready to guide her through the dark, unfamiliar house. All day he’d been planning this escapade, and the thought of holding her firm, agile body against his again made him suck in his breath.

  Celesta turned, gasping for air. “Was that a sign you’re ready to quit this ridiculous game, old man? At this rate you’ll be having heart failure when we reach the top floor.”

  “Yes, but not for the reason you mean,” he replied huskily. “The choice is yours, though—as always. If you want to go back, I can think of a couple men on my crew who’d get quite a hoot from finding those silky underthings. You’ve worn them, so they’ll still have your scent. One can only imagine what sort of scene must’ve taken place, if a young lady became so ... agitated she forgot to put her drawers back on.”

  “Agitated? I’ll show you agitated!” Celesta stalked on up Bird Street until she topped the knoll and was on Cruikshank grounds. A huge, golden moon cast a shadow in the shape of the house, and an evening breeze stirred the trees around them. It was a perfect summer night, but if Frye thought he was going to seduce her with this little joke, he was in for a big disappointment.

  “We’ll enter through the back,” he said quietly. “Don’t go tearing ahead of me, or you’ll crash into things. We obviously can’t turn on the lights.”

  Celesta grunted. “It would serve you right to get caught, Frye. This is even more despicable than luring me to the cellar with my manuscript.”

  “More exciting, too,” he teased, as he swung the door open. “We’ve got the whole place to ourselves. With more than twenty rooms, we could make love a different way in every one of them, if we have the stamina.”

  “Only in your dreams,” she retorted. “Let’s get my things and get out of here. This is trespassing.”

  “Forgive us our trespasses,” he intoned, shutting the door behind him. After his eyes adjusted to the

  dimness, he groped for her hand. “Let me lead you on, sweetheart. Can’t have you getting hurt or frightened, now can we?”

  Whatever he’d been drinking had certainly lubricated his tongue. Since he was twisting her phrases into the most damning innuendo, Celesta decided to keep quiet rather than fueling his lewd imagination. She’d be out of here faster.

  They’d entered what must be the kitchen, and as he led her into a large, rectangular room—the dining room, she assumed—the odors of varnish and freshly sawed wood floated around her. All the rooms seemed cavernous, and the moonlight spilling through the large palladium windows cast eerie shadows around the ladders and scaffolding.

  “... and this little nook’s Moorish in flavor,” Damon was saying, gesturing toward its arched doorway. “We copied it from a room in the Waldorf Astoria. If it were light, you could see the domed ceiling. And this is. ...”

  If it were light, we wouldn’t be here, she thought, yet the rooms he described as he led her around the entire ground floor astounded her. Rumor had not done the mansion justice, Rockcliffe exceeded all her expectations even though it was far from finished and too dark to be fully appreciated.

  Frye paused before a massive staircase that dwarfed Ransom Manor’s. Celesta had made no effort to free her hand, her breathing had returned to nor
mal, and she was as awed as he hoped she’d be. No reason to waste any more of this night touring sawdusty halls and empty, echoing rooms when the object of both their desires awaited them beyond the third floor.

  “We’ll skip the bedrooms—this time,” he teased, “and climb on up to the observatory. If we’re lucky, the music’s still playing and we’ll have the best seats in town for the fireworks.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “But we can’t stay—”

  “Why not?” He stepped closer and brought her hand to his lips, caressing each knuckle as though he had all night to please her.

  She had no answer. By now Patrick would realize she was gone, and she couldn’t rush back to the park clutching her silk underwear for the whole town of Hannibal to see—couldn’t tell anyone, least of all Perkins, where she’d disappeared to so suddenly. It was a long walk home alone, along deserted streets where worse types than Frye might be lurking in the shadows.

  “I’m trying to show you, away from prying eyes and eavesdropping ears, that our first time together was only the beginning,” he explained. “Sending you away with such harsh, uncaring words was the worst mistake I’ve ever made. Well—one of them. Despite what you might think of the way I treated Lucy, I was shocked and deeply wounded by her death. There are things I can’t tell you now, Celesta. But until the truth comes out, you’ll always have the choice of accepting my affections or walking away.”

  It was an eloquent plea for her understanding, mysterious and incomplete though it was. Damon might be a bit under the influence, but the liquor had mellowed his arrogance and allowed him to confess flaws he wouldn’t admit to in bright, sober daylight.

  Celesta sighed. Mama hadn’t taught her how to read a man’s mind or look into his heart. “Are you asking for another chance, even though you tricked me into it? Again?”

  He nodded solemnly.

  “All right. But the choices are mine,” Celesta warned, “and if you hurt me that way a second time, I won’t wait for Justine to throw you out, whether the papering’s complete or not. Understand?”