Escapade (9781301744510)

by Susan Carroll

  But maybe it had more to do with Zeke, holding her almost too tight, making plans for their marriage. After typical Zeke fashion, he was telling, not asking. He seemed to have forgotten she'd never given him an answer.

  Rory listened uncomfortably as he detailed how she could spend any amount she desired redecorating the mansion. When he came to their wedding trip, outlining a whirlwind tour of Europe, she felt she had to stop him, interjecting, "It would be difficult for me to be gone that long, with my company on such shaky ground."

  She felt Zeke tense, but all he said was, "Oh, we'll find something to do about the warehouse."

  The warehouse- it was a cold way to refer to the business that to Rory was a rainbow array of silks, gusts of warm wind, the visions of both her father and herself. Zeke's answer disturbed her but he showed no more inclination to talk. His eyes closed, and in a few moments more Rory thought he had fallen asleep.

  She wished she could do the same, but the warmth that Zeke's loving had aroused seemed to have fled, leaving her to the cold comfort of all her doubts again. Wriggling away from Zeke, she slipped out of bed and scrambled back into the nightshirt. She ran her tongue over lips that seemed parched and made her way to the bathroom for a glass of water. Although the lamp had been left burning, that portion of the vast bedchamber was lost in shadow. Rory groped toward what she thought was the bathroom door.

  But as she turned the handle and shoved it open, she perceived no gleam of porcelain, no looming shape of that mammoth bathtub. She thought she had blundered into a large closet, but her eyes adjusted enough to the darkness to tell that she had stepped into a small sitting room of some kind, a place that she sensed was very unlike the rest of the house.

  She should have retreated, but the stirring of her curiosity was too strong. Retrieving the lamp, she carried it into the room. The light spilled off a dainty pattern of floral wallpaper, a braided rug covering a hardwood floor.

  The furnishings were few. A small table bore some gilt-framed photographs and a lace tidy that was a little crooked, as though fashioned by childish hands. Next to the table stood a wooden rocker, much scarred with age. It emitted a most comforting creak when Rory touched it.

  Setting down the lamp on the table, Rory directed her attention to the photographs. The smallest was of a plump woman garbed in her Sunday best, a suit of stiff black silk, looking not quite at ease dressed thus or peering into the lens of the camera. Yet not even the stilted pose could erase the love and patience etched into that careworn face. Rory had no doubt she was gazing into the eyes of Zeke's foster mother, Sadie Marceone.

  Next to her photograph rested an oval frame encircling three young girls in pink gingham dresses with white yokes, the children similar in their dark curls, but their expressions so different. The littlest one who was so bright-eyed, that had to be Zeke's youngest sister, Agnes, while the tallest one with her sweet, placid features must be Caddie. And of course, there was no mistaking the prim girl that was Tessa.

  Rory moved to the last picture, obviously one of Caddie grown, a handsome man at her side, three children tucked about her skirts.

  After Rory had studied it, she replaced the picture. She cast an uneasy glance about the room, feeling she had strayed into a part of Zeke Morrison's heart not even she had been invited to enter. Reaching for the lamp, Rory prepared to retreat, but it was already too late.

  She found Zeke blocking the doorway, watching her. She feared he might be angry at her prying.

  "I am sorry," she began. "I never meant to—"

  "It's all right." His voice was a little abrupt as he cut off her explanation. But far from demanding she leave the room at once, he stepped across the threshold himself.

  "It's not exactly as though you stumbled upon some kind of skeleton in my closet."

  No, Rory thought, only that part of his memories that rendered him vulnerable, that part of himself he tried like death to hide.

  He stepped over to the rocker, running his hand along the back. "These are only a few odds and ends I didn't know what else to do with. The rocker was Sadie's. I went by the old flat after Tessa had moved out. She was throwing this away, just because the arm was broken. It seemed so wasteful. So I carted it back here and mended it."

  "And the pictures?" Rory asked softly.

  "I never seem to be able to get rid of anything." He added almost defiantly, "Besides they are good pictures, good likenesses."

  He hid his face from her as he straightened the photographs, smoothing out the tidy as well, his large callused fingers snagging on the delicate lace. The awkward workmanship was obviously not that of his mother.

  "Did your youngest sister make that?" Rory asked.

  "No, Tessa gave it to me."

  “Tessa?" Rory echoed in astonishment.

  Zeke gave a grudging laugh. "Yeah, I know. It surprised me too. I always thought Tessa more apt to give me the business end of a knife. But the tidy was a present for my sixteenth birthday to decorate the washstand in my room. Tessa said that Sadie told her she had to give me something. So she wrapped this up in tissue paper and practically bounced it off my head."

  Despite Zeke's tone of wry amusement, Rory obtained a new insight regarding his relationship with the sister who seemed so to despise him. Maybe Tessa had to give him a present, but she hadn't had to labor such long hours over the tatting, a task which had obviously been difficult for her. Nor did Zeke have to keep it all these years.

  As he stood gazing at the pictures, there was a taut set to his mouth, but a wistfulness in his eyes.

  "You don't have any contact with your family now?" Rory asked.

  "I send presents at Christmas, birthdays, especially to Caddie's children."

  A smile escaped Rory. So Zeke really did have a niece.

  He continued, "I always wanted to help all my sisters, would've settled any amount of money on them. But they never would take it."

  "Maybe they would far rather have a visit from you than the money."

  Zeke shrugged. "Tessa's anger makes that difficult. It would put Caddie and Agnes in an awkward position, forcing them to choose sides. It just wouldn't be worth it."

  Rory didn't agree with him, but she merely remarked, "These are splendid pictures. It seems too bad to keep them hidden in here. Are you that ashamed of them?"

  "No, only of myself." He straightened abruptly. "You had best get back to bed, Rory, before you get cold."

  She could tell he wanted her out of that room, wanted to leave himself. She complied sadly, watching him pull the door closed. Zeke was shutting away too much of his life, but it was not something he was willing to discuss, even with her.

  She sensed his retreat from her, even before he brushed a kiss on her brow. "You'd best get some sleep while I go back to the guest room and do the same. I have a few details to clear up in the morning regarding the business with Addison."

  Rory regarded him anxiously. "I thought you said that was all over."

  "So it is, but before we can get on with planning our wedding, I have a funeral to attend.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Zeke Morrison scooped up a handful of dirt in his fist. He stood over the yawning grave that moments before had received the earthly remains of Stanley Marcus Addison. Opening his hand, Zeke slowly released the soil, watching the earth scatter over the gleaming surface of the mahogany coffin below.

  Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

  Zeke hated funerals. He would far rather have looked down the barrel of a gun than into the grief-stricken eyes of Addison's widow. She stood opposite him, on the other side of the grave, a delicate woman, too young to be in black, clutching the hands of her two small sons, one snuffling against his mother's sleeve.

  Zeke experienced a tightness in his throat and cursed his own folly in coming. He could have made some excuse. He had even avoided his own mother's burial, although his conscience had never given him a moment's ease since for that bit of cowardice. He had vowed never to make that mistake
again.

  So this morning he had endured the church service, the minister's endless eulogy, every word of it deserved by Addison, every word a sharp reminder to Zeke of the kind of man who had been lost. He reflected bitterly that the world would have been better off if that headstone had marked a reprobate like himself instead of the idealist young politician.

  As he stepped back from the grave, Zeke felt shamed by his relief that the funeral was almost over. He watched as Rory tossed in a handful of earth. Zeke hadn't asked her to accompany him, but he was glad she had, drawing comfort from looking into her face, those impish eyes for once sweetly solemn, her mouth tremulous with grief for a man she'd never even met.

  Zeke was not as pleased by the sight of Bill Duffy. This was one place the press didn't belong, the reporter's flaming red hair somehow an affront to these somber proceedings. Yet Zeke was forced to admit that Duffy conducted himself with decorum, his derby held respectfully in his gloved hands, no sign of the ever-present notebook and pencil.

  He edged close enough to Zeke and Rory to murmur, "Damned fine service even if it was a bit long."

  "I doubt that matters much to Stanley Addison," Zeke snapped.

  "Funerals are not for the dead, only the living," Rory said. “Just a way of saying good-bye."

  As far as Zeke was concerned, there would have been only one fitting way to bid Addison's memory farewell, and that was to have the man responsible beneath his fists. But that satisfaction had been denied him, his only consolation now to picture Charles Decker roasting in hell, his skinny buttocks seared by the hottest flames.

  Zeke fidgeted, trying to quell such thoughts. They didn't seem quite fitting standing in the shadow of a church. The funeral might be nearly over, but the worst part was yet to come, the moment to step up and mutter some final consoling words to the bereaved family. Zeke never could think of anything appropriate to say.

  When Rory walked up to Mrs. Addison, Zeke hung back. He couldn't hear all of what she said, something about Addison resting with the angels. Of course, Rory would believe in angels, the conviction in her voice bringing a sad smile to the lips of the widow.

  Zeke wasn't sure what he believed in. He only knew that such remarks had never afforded him much comfort. Maybe it was fine and dandy to think of the deceased stringing harps by the peace of the pearly gates, but that sure didn't help those left behind, trying to mend the hole torn in their lives.

  He tensed as he realized Rory had stepped back. His turn was next. Clearing his throat, he managed to mumble gruffly, "Very sorry." Which he was, but that didn't bring Addison back. Rather awkwardly, he offered the widow his hand, which she took, her fingers not much larger than a child's.

  Zeke had never really taken much notice of Clara Addison, a gentle shadow in her husband's wake. Now he felt appalled by what a wisp of a thing she was, too frail to be left to the task of raising two boys alone.

  "If there is anything you ever need—," he began, then broke off, embarrassed. "Though I am sure Addison's trust fund left you well provided for."

  "Oh, Mr. Morrison." She pressed his hand, and Zeke had difficulty meeting those brimming blue eyes. "My Stanley had many fine qualities, but being practical, planning for the future, wasn't one of them. I know that trust fund was set up by you two days ago."

  Zeke felt his face wash dull red. "Well, yes, but it was money that Addison had invested with me to—"

  She gently shook her head. "It was very generous of you, Mr. Morrison. But I fear I cannot accept such a gift."

  Generous? Why didn't she jab a red hot stake through his heart and be done with it. His own conscience was certainly doing so at this moment.

  "It's not a gift, madam," he said. "I owe your family that much. I feel a certain amount of responsibility for your husband's death. He didn't understand the risks that he was taking, but I did. I should have never helped him with his campaign and then maybe he would still be alive."

  But Clara Addison would have none of that either. "With or without your backing, Stanley would have pursued his reforms. It was what he believed in as much as any soldier who dies for his country on the battlefield. Surely you can understand that."

  Zeke didn't. He had always thought men were marks who died fighting for any cause other than their own. Addison's widow was just as starry-eyed as he had been. All the same, Zeke made one more effort to reason with her about the money.

  "You should take it," he urged. "If not for yourself, then for your boys. It's no more than I would have spent on your husband's campaign for mayor."

  She cast a wistful glance toward her two children, who had wandered off and gathered up a handful of dandelions to bring back to their father's grave. Her lip quivered. "For their sakes, then, thank you. But I can only accept a portion of the sum you proposed. The rest I would still like you to put into Addison's campaign."

  Zeke regarded her with a tinge of impatience. Didn't she understand that there could no longer be any campaign? One couldn't elect a dead man mayor.

  "With your husband gone, I am afraid—," he began.

  "Someone else will step forward to take his place. There are other good men who resent corruption as much as he did, who feel there is no reason people should be starving, living in tumbledown tenements, not in a city as bountiful as New York." She unnerved Zeke by staring directly into his eyes. "Yourself, perhaps?"

  "Me?" Zeke blurted out. "I'm no crusader, madam. I'm only the one who signs his name to the checks."

  But she continued to regard him hopefully. "I pray you will reconsider, Mr. Morrison. That is one of the hardest things about Stanley's death, my fear that all his dreams, his ideals, are going to die with him."

  Zeke tugged at his starched collar. He was vastly relieved when the widow's attention was claimed by the minister and his wife. He didn't want to add to the woman's grief by telling her exactly what he thought of her crazy notion. He felt he had said and done all that was necessary. Now he just wanted to escape.

  When he turned, he was disconcerted to find Rory and Duffy had been hard on his heels and apparently had overheard the entire conversation. They were both regarding him with that same hopeful expectancy he found so unsettling.

  "Say, Morrison," Duffy said, "that was a great idea of Mrs. Addison's. I can see the headlines now. Tycoon Throws Hat in Mayoral Race."

  “Go soak your head in your inkwell," he growled at the reporter, tucking Rory's arm through his. "I've had enough of politics and funerals. I just want to get out of here and go have a drink."

  "Suit yourself, Morrison. But you can't think this is over because Decker is dead. There's plenty more villains where he came from. I may take over for Addison and do a little more digging myself."

  "Dig away, but just don't go down so deep you end up like Addison, six feet under."

  Duffy stalked away in disgust, but Zeke took little notice of his departure, being more concerned with Rory. She had volunteered no remarks during this exchange, merely biting down upon her lower lip. Yet it was what she wasn't saying that Zeke found disturbing.

  He halted by the cemetery gate, gazing down at her. "Rory, you can't also be imagining that Mrs. Addison had a good idea. Me as a reform candidate, running for mayor!"

  "I think you'd make a very good mayor."

  Zeke gave a snort of contempt. "Oh, yes, I have such excellent credentials. A dockworker, a former gang member, a one-time gambling house operator."

  "But that's exactly what makes you so well qualified. You've seen life on both sides of New York, Fifth Avenue and the East Side. You wouldn't be all idealistic and impractical like Mr. Addison."

  "No, what I would be is smart enough to know better. It's hopeless to think you can ever change anything over on the East Side. The best a man can hope for is to look after his own interests and get himself out."

  "Then why did you ever finance Mr. Addison's campaign?"

  "That was different It's one thing to give money, quite another to-to-"

  "Give a
nything of yourself?"

  Her words were spoken softly enough, but he felt the sting of them like the lash of a whip. She didn't look angry with him, only unhappy, her eyes clouded with a look of disappointment that made Zeke's heart sink. He had seen that expression before. He would count it forever among his most haunting memories of his mother.

  He compressed his lips together. "The subject is closed, Aurora. I don't want to talk about it anymore."

  "Whatever you wish," she said primly. Her own mouth was taut as he handed her up into his open carriage. He sprang up across from her, and they sat facing each other in tense silence. He tore at his collar, which seemed to be choking him.

  He hadn't expected attending Addison's funeral to be pleasant, but he hadn't quite bargained for anything like this either. He dusted his hands as though he could still feel the earth from the grave clinging to them.

  He had hoped to put the morning's bleak event behind him by taking Rory on a drive through Central Park. Her engagement ring reposed in his front pocket, a huge chunk of a diamond, the biggest Tiffany's had had to offer.

  But when he suggested the outing to her, she demurred. "I would rather you just took me home, Zeke."

  He gave an exasperated sigh. "Why? Are you still sulking just because I'm not willing to make an ass of myself, following Mrs. Addison's ridiculous suggestion?"

  "No, it has nothing to do with that. I simply have things to do. I have a balloon company to run."

  "I have been endeavoring to forget that wretched fact."

  The corner of her mouth twitched with irritation, but otherwise she appeared determined to ignore his remark. "I have a lot of preparations to make for Friday."

  "Friday? What happens on Friday?"

  "I haven't been idle either since we returned to New York. I have been in contact with that man from Washington who handles the army contracts. He's coming back to New York, to give me another chance."