by Gina Welborn
She was watching him with a curious expression. “Go on.”
“You’ve had twenty-five years of being taught one thing—law enforcement personnel are all corrupt. I can’t change your mind-set after only a few hours of our knowing each other.” She opened her mouth to speak, and Frank rushed out with, “It’s not a criticism, Miss Vaccarelli. I’m as much a creature of habit, upbringing and prejudices as you are, as anyone is. And not all habits, upbringing or prejudices are bad.”
Her lips pursed a bit. “I am not all you think I am either.”
That he doubted. She was as unveiled as they came.
He leaned forward, elbows on knees, fingers steepled together to form a hollow triangle. “All I ask is that you give me the benefit of the doubt until I can prove to you I’m trustworthy. I will extend the same to you.” He held her gaze, hoping she would see the sincerity in his eyes matched his tone. He didn’t know why her thinking favorably of him mattered, but it did. “Surely I’ve given you some reason to believe something good about me,” he said with a chuckle.
Her shoulders tightened; head shook.
Frank bit back from sharing the half dozen reasons that sprang to his mind. Twenty-five years had built a stronghold in her mind. He shouldn’t expect loosening a stone would be easy. “No offense taken. Would it be easier for you to list what I’ve done to justify your doubts regarding my good intentions?”
Her fingers nervously plucked at her skirt as they had in Cady’s office.
Frank shifted in his chair. Her discomfort was palpable. He could see in her body language her internal battle over how to respond. Change was hard enough without someone forcing you do it. He abhorred change himself, at least the kind thrust upon him by people seeking the best only for themselves. Contrary to what she believed, once she testified at the deposition, she wasn’t going back to her cozy Waldorf apartment and volunteering at the Museum of Art. In three weeks, Malia Vaccarelli would be dead. Explaining that to her would have to wait.
They sat for another minute or so.
She exhaled. Then she looked at him. “Mr. Louden, you evaluated me correctly in that I do like to have my own way. I can be terribly selfish.” She turned her face toward the coach’s front entrance. He could see only her profile. “Compounding the matter is that I’ve known for years the degree of my depravity. It is a battle I’ve yet to win.”
He understood. Selfishness infected him too, pointed out by every significant person in his life. But if a man wanted to climb a mountain, win a race, develop a successful invention, he had to make decisions for his best interest. What could a man accomplish if in all things he behaved selflessly and allowed others to move ahead of him in line? Starvation. Poverty. Last-place ribbon. A future processing evidence. The list could go on.
Frank grinned to lighten the mood, even though she wasn’t looking his way. “Selfishness isn’t the most appealing trait, but one I can relate to. I don’t fault you for taking the most comfortable seat in the coach, but be warned, if you leave it, it’s mine.”
She turned, gazing at him in confusion. “How is it you gained this epiphany about trust?”
“Personal experience.”
Pink tinged her cheeks. “I didn’t realize you were married.”
Frank walked to the side window and stared at the tunnel wall, the brick blackened with soot. So many safe, useless conversations they could be having, and yet Miss Vaccarelli ignored those in lieu of this one. In the windowpane he could see her reflection. She sat there, serenely, with her elegant hands folded in her lap, beckoning him to share his darkest secrets. It seemed the most natural thing in the world—their talking together.
“I was married,” he admitted, “for six months and fourteen days.”
Her lips parted with surprise. “I’m so sorry. Death is heartbreaking, and even more so when a loved one dies young.”
Frank released a wry chuckle. In a month, they would never see each other again. She didn’t need to know. He didn’t need to tell her, nor was he under any moral or ethical obligation to. Yet the words were there, already, on his tongue, waiting for breath to give them life. His heart pounded in nervous anticipation. The overwhelming need to confess to her was strange because he didn’t know her. He didn’t, but it felt as if he did.
“I’m divorced.”
“That must not have been an easy decision,” she answered without pause, or any judgmental underlying.
“For me, yes. She had no qualms.” Frank turned to face her, and with his hands behind his back, he leaned against the coach wall. The wood paneling vibrated against his palms. “I was twenty-two and didn’t know how to be the husband she wanted.”
“I’m sorry,” was all she said.
“Don’t be. Rose found another husband, and I found Jesus.” He let out a chuckle. “I say my life turned out for the better.”
She looked at him as if she wasn’t sure what to make of his comment.
“You can ask me anything,” he offered.
“My curiosity is piqued, as anyone’s would be, but it would be too forward to ask personal questions on such a short acquaintance.”
“Your response wounds me.”
Her brows rose, and he’d swear she was smiling—almost—because he knew he was.
“Yes, you do indeed look to be in pain,” she answered, and as he laughed, she continued on. “You must have marshally things to attend to, so I will leave you to court your melancholy.” Her gaze shifted from him to the table between the sofa and the chair. From the small stack, she claimed a book with a familiar green cover, opened it and began to read. Or at least pretend as if she was reading Dorothy lived in the midst of the great Kansas prairies...
Frank moved from the side wall to the connecting entrance to stand guard. Their conversation couldn’t end. Not like that.
“Miss Vaccarelli?”
She looked up. Her pink lips curved enough to count as a smile...on the Mona Lisa. “Yes?”
“I confided about being divorced because I want you to know you aren’t the only one with something in your life of which you’re ashamed.” He paused. “As a sworn officer of the law, I will give up my life to keep you safe. That’s the truth whether you trust me to do it or not.”
She nodded. He turned back to the coach door to listen. All he heard was her charming sigh and then her decidedly sociable voice. “Mr. Louden?”
“Yes?”
“Is this what Generals Lee and Grant felt like at Appomattox?”
The train whistled and started forward.
Frank looked over his shoulder. Her eyes, which had been so accusatory and antagonistic before, were softer. Kind. His feet itched to move back to the chair, to continue their conversation about him, about her, about the art exhibit this morning, if she wanted. Since making eye contact at the hotel, he had wanted to get to know her. Still did. But he held his ground because he was a marshal and she was a witness.
“It’s either a truce,” he said, offering her his most disarming smile, “or we’ve both passed out from starvation.”
Her lips twitched, he hoped, in amusement. “I choose your protection.”
That stunned him. “You don’t have a choice.”
The corner of her mouth eased upward. She gave him a look, one that needed no interpreting, but one quite familiar. He did, after all, have a mother, two grandmothers, four aunts, a sister, three wise-beyond-their-years (so they claimed) nieces and scores of female friends and acquaintances. None of them, though, appealed to him on the level this one did. Now that she wasn’t looking at him in hopes he’d fall off the face of the earth, her eyes reminded him of his grandfather’s prized cognac, imported from France and selfishly unshared. And that dot to the right of the center of her lips called forth all the wonders of her face.
She turned her attention
to the book.
Her smug grin was one Frank was glad he couldn’t see anymore. Keeping her alive, he could do. Ensuring he didn’t do something foolish yet typical to those of his gender...
Approximately thirty minutes later
Brakes squeaked, the whistle screeched and the train slowed.
Malia turned to the next engrossing page in The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. New Rochelle was the first stop outside New York City. On a shelf in her bedroom were four empty commutation ticket books that used to contain sixty passages between the two cities, leftover souvenirs from her years at Vassar. The station was nowhere near as interesting as poor little Dorothy alone among those strange people of Oz with nothing to protect her but a round shining mark on her forehead by the Witch of the North.
It’d taken her several minutes to start reading because questions about Mr. Louden had flooded her mind. But once she entered the world L. Frank Baum had created, she soaked in every word. She should have bought the book a year ago, when it was first published.
“Miss Vaccarelli?”
Malia reluctantly looked up, closing the book but holding her place in chapter four with her thumb. He lounged in his chair with his legs crossed, while she, as dictated by Society, was allowed less freedom of posture. Back straight, shoulders erect, long neck high, hands elegantly posed. Every moment of a lady must be full of grace and dignity, while a man could nurse his foot if he pleased. What she’d give to kick off her shoes or flop onto her stomach as she read.
Mr. Louden leaned forward in his chair, his hat fitted snugly atop his wheat-blond hair, his pocket watch in hand. His eyes—as blue as the houses, clothes, sheets and rugs in Munchkin land—were watching her with such concern. And she felt— She felt— Her skin prickled with awareness. She couldn’t breathe. It was as if they were back at the hotel. That moment when it’d felt as if they were the only two people in the courtyard. The moment—seconds, really—stretched for hours. She expected him to wink, as one of the Scarecrow’s eyes had winked at Dorothy. He didn’t.
“Did you speak?” she asked, then cringed at the inanity of the question from a brain still stuck in a book. She corrected with: “I mean, you were saying?”
He closed the lid of his watch with a click.
“I’m playing a game of odds.” His voice was devoid of its earlier levity, now sounding as it had in the special prosecutor’s office—work-focused. “Considering the precautions I took to get you on the Shore Line Express, the odds are mafiosi thugs aren’t also on the train. However, too many people in Cady’s office knew of the plan to take you to Boston, double back and then continue on to Long Island. I’m not willing to gamble that someone won’t squeal, either willingly or by force.”
“By ‘force,’ you mean ‘beaten until confession’?” Malia returned, expecting his answer yet hoping he wouldn’t say—
“Yes.”
She closed her eyes. This couldn’t be happening. But it was, and she could no longer ignore the reality of the world the cyclone named Giovanni had spun her into. She met his gaze again. “Then Irene is in danger because of me.”
“I’m sorry.” He actually looked apologetic. “The moment you stepped inside Cady’s office, you put them all in danger.” He slid his watch into a vest pocket. “Word will get around, if it hasn’t already, of what you’ve done. You made yourself an even greater target. Someone who wants to find you will track every person you spoke with today, beginning with Edwin Daly. Desperate men aren’t gentlemen to women with information.”
The train jolted to a stop.
Malia stared at the book cover; the image of the Tin Man and Scarecrow blurred. So desperate to rescue Giovanni and do the honorable thing, she’d never considered how her actions would affect others. Her throat burned with something acerbic and foul, condemning and true: she’d been—still was—disgustingly naive.
“If anything bad happens to Irene, Miss Barn, or—” her voice quavered “—anyone who knows me, I will never be able to forgive myself.”
“I can’t imagine you would,” he murmured.
“What’s that mean?”
“Kindhearted people assume burdens not their own.”
Malia’s eyes widened. She bit back her response, unsure if she was complimented or insulted, or both.
He slid the book out of her hands and rested it on the table with the others. “This is our stop.”
Malia looked longingly at the book. “We’re supposed to go to Boston.”
“Yes, we were.” He said nothing more as he walked to the back of the coach and reclaimed her traded straw hat and trench coat. His silence gave her time to think, because...because he wanted her to reason it all out on her own? That could mean he believed she was capable of putting the pieces together. After the day she’d had, she needed a chance to show she wasn’t obtuse, not for his benefit, but because he’d known she needed to prove it to herself.
“This was your plan all along—deboarding at New Rochelle.”
He walked back to her. “Why do you think that?”
Malia stood and allowed him to help her into the coat. “If the mafiosi questions Irene, Cady or anyone in his offices, everyone can convincingly speak the truth because that is the truth they know. So presuming no mafiosi thugs followed us to the train, if they find out about our plans, it would make sense for them to wait in Grand Central for us to return.”
Her reasoning made sense, and must have been in line with his because he didn’t answer. She’d promised herself she’d give him the benefit of the doubt until he gave her cause not to trust him. Now was the moment to take a step of faith.
She turned to face him. “Where is the yellow brick road leading us?”
He planted the hat atop her head, but because of the Apollo knot she’d twisted her hair into, the hat didn’t sit level. He lifted it off. “To wear or not to wear—that is the question.”
Malia looked up at him and couldn’t help smiling. He was a hand’s length taller than Mr. Daly, and taller than her brother too. He was more likable when he was being jovial Frank Louden than stoic Deputy Marshal Louden.
She took the hat from him. “To answer or not answer—that is what you’ve been avoiding.”
He chuckled. “That didn’t quite make sense.”
Malia shrugged. She’d never boasted of having the cleverest of wits.
“It’s nice to see you this way.” He began to button her coat—from bottom to top—as Giovanni used to do when they were children before they ran off for an afternoon of play in Central Park.
“What way?”
“Smiling. Relaxed.”
She supposed she was relaxed. Reading had soothed her spirit and taken her mind off her troubles. “I’ve done enough crying.”
He paused on the last button, the one at the collar. “You don’t deserve the situation your brother has put you in.” He lowered his hands but didn’t step back.
She’d been closer to a man, dancing at a ball and amid the huddled masses leaving the opera, but it’d never—never—felt like this. She could smell him, feel his closeness. She should be fearful and wary of this stranger who had invaded her life and, even more so, the bubble of space around her. But she wasn’t fearful. Or wary. For the first time since she received word of her parents’ and nonni’s deaths, she didn’t quite feel so alone.
“Whether I deserve this situation or not,” she said, “bemoaning will change nothing. I may as well make the best of my circumstances.”
He nudged her into motion to the door. “Not many people would have had the courage or rectitude to do what you did.” He flashed a smile that made her feel warm everywhere. “Even fewer would have the pluck to set aside ingrained fears and place her life in another’s hands.”
He believed that about her?
She intended to say “thank you” b
ut instead blurted, “That you were checking your watch leads me to wonder if the time is significant.”
He pulled his pocket watch out long enough to check the hour. “It’s now quarter after five.”
Malia paused as he unlocked the coach door and opened it a crack to look outside. “Sunset is at six-thirty,” she said. “It’ll be dark by seven. Are we taking the trolley to Glen Island?”
He shook his head. “You need to do exactly what I say.”
Chapter 7
[If], when she alights at her destination, her friends fail to meet her, she should on no account accept a stranger’s offer, whether man or woman, to deliver her to her destination. The safest thing to do is to walk.
—Emily Price Post, Etiquette
Frank kept his gaze casual as they strolled like strangers across the station’s wooden floor. With Miss Vaccarelli two steps in front of him, as he instructed, they were far enough apart to not look to be together, yet close enough that he could come to her aid if need be. His heart thudded in his chest, his nerves on edge. Upward of a hundred people were in the New Rochelle station lobby. Yet not a single person loitering near the plaster walls, at the ticket counter or on the benches looked suspicious. Nor was anyone trailing them.
He hated when things were easy. Not because they were harbingers of eventual woes—even though a fraction of the time they were—but mostly because when it was over, he ended up kicking himself over making a mountain out of a molehill.
Miss Vaccarelli walked with elegance, maneuvering through the crowd; one hand held her straw hat, the other halfway inside the coat’s outer pocket. Occasionally a man would give her an admiring glance. When she paid him no notice, he returned to his book, newspaper or conversation. All was going smoothly until a man with superb whiskers and a velvet morning coat stepped in front of her.
