by Gina Welborn
She turned swiftly, looked over her shoulder, blinking rapidly to dry her eyes.
After Mamma died, Grandfather DeWitt was free to end any duty he had to them. No more visits because Mamma invited—begged—him to come. No more pretending he didn’t despise Malia and Giovanni for being the offspring of a disobedient union. No more being anything in her life. For all that he wasn’t anymore, she still missed him.
Alone. That’s what she was. That’s all she’d ever be. She had no life within the mafiosi. How could she have any life outside it?
“Are you going to tell Grandfather DeWitt where I am?”
“It’s not my place, Malia.” Mr. Grahame’s hand covered hers. “Burying a loved one is as hard for a parent as it is for a child.” After a gentle squeeze, he walked away.
Malia looked to the sky, expecting to see clouds, dark and gloomy. But the sky was bright. The sky showed no fear. The sky carried no burdens. The sky was light and free and unchained. Any shadows there were had settled on her heart. Were they holding her, or, God help her, was she clinging to them? All coppers weren’t corrupt. She could see that now. Had she been poisoned, too, about her grandfather?
* * *
He wasn’t going to look at her. Not again.
Frank focused on drying—in a clockwise motion and with an Egyptian cotton towel—the leather bench. Whatever Miss Vaccarelli and Grandfather were discussing was between them. What she did with her time was her business. Hers. Not his. They had no relationship. None. They could have no relationship.
“None,” he muttered, keeping his back turned to the balcony. He moved to the backseat and dried it.
“Darling, I don’t see why you couldn’t have left that to the sunshine.”
Frank looked up to see his grandmother approaching with a crystal goblet of lemonade, her olive-green mermaid skirt sweeping the ground. She stopped next to him, kissed his cheek and gave him the glass.
Frank took a long sip. “How was Paris?”
“As expected,” she simply said. “I am not pleased you brought her here.”
Frank couldn’t stop himself from glancing up to the second-story staircase, where Miss Vaccarelli no longer was. She had to have Worth with her, and the dog wasn’t allowed access to the upper floors except his grandparents’ bedroom and, now, hers, out of fear of what he’d eat or use as a chew bone. It wasn’t as if she had many things to do throughout the day, so she probably needed help—
No, he wasn’t going to investigate. Or wonder. What she did with her time wasn’t his business. And he would cease thinking about her, even though she hadn’t left his mind since he saw her in the hotel courtyard. The prettiest flower there.
He looked back at his grandmother. “Since you feel that way, why did you tell us to stay?”
Her head tilted as she looked at him. “I did so because she is a charming young woman whom you find quite attractive.”
Frank drank until the glass was empty, and his mouth, at least, felt refreshed. He could argue that her comment—and accusation—wasn’t true, but considering it was, he saw little point. He gave her the empty glass, which she took and held with both hands.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Hmmph.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You know.”
He stared at her as if she’d lost her mind. He now understood why his grandfather said it was pointless to argue with a woman because women expect men to understand what they were unable to communicate. Any other conversation, he’d let it go. But this had something to do with Miss Vaccarelli, and he couldn’t let that go. She was a witness. His responsibility.
“If I were a woman,” he began slowly, “I would know what you mean because those of your kind speak in grunts, sighs, single syllables and facial expressions that you all inherently understand.” He laid the damp towel across the floorboard for the sunlight to dry it. “Grandmother, I love you—you know I do—but I’m a thirty-year-old man who needs a translation.”
She regarded him coolly. “She is not in your class.”
Frank rubbed at the growing tension between his brows. Somehow what she was saying made sense, at least, to her. “Thank God she isn’t a pariah because her spouse left her for someone else.”
“You aren’t a pariah.”
Frank saw little point in responding.
“James and Cora Brown Potter divorced last year.”
Their divorce, and Cora’s affairs, didn’t make him feel any less shame over his divorce or Rose’s amorous intrigues. Society’s code, established by H.R.H, the Prince of Wales, permitted seeking a soul mate outside the boundaries of marriage. After all, Americans had the right, as Rose had claimed upon informing she was seeking a divorce, to “the pursuit of happiness;” therefore, she was not “obligated to be yoked for life to an incompatible husband.”
Grandmother didn’t look any more pleased to add, “Rumor has it the Tailer-Lorillard marriage is ending too.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you like her,” she said even though that had already been established.
“I like pie,” he snapped, “and you aren’t lecturing me over that.”
“I don’t mind if you have pie. I do mind—” Her eyes narrowed, her voice lowered. “Frank, you can be a real pill when you want to be.”
“Thank you.”
She leveled a flat stare in his direction.
“I’m sorry,” he rushed out. “I thought you were complimenting me.” He gave her a smile, the one that always won her over.
This time she looked away. Her lips pursed, and he knew it wasn’t in an attempt to hide a grin. When she looked back, her light eyes brimmed with tears. She patted them dry with the tips of her fingers just as Malia had in Cady’s office.
She released a breath. “Once Miss Vacca— Once she testifies at the deposition hearing,” she said firmly, “you will never see her again.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Frank gritted his teeth.
Malia appealed to him, and on too many levels, yet knowledge of what lay before her twenty days from now was ever present in his mind. She had no future in New York. None. Malia Vaccarelli had to die to this life, for her own safety. He was a deputy marshal for the United States, on his way to rise to his full potential and become chief marshal of the Southern District of New York. There was no possible way he could have a future with her, even if he wanted one. Attraction did not equate to marriage.
Frank gave his grandmother a hug. “I appreciate your concern.” He held her until he could feel her relax. Her violet-and-vanilla perfume took him back to his childhood and youth when she initiated the hugs after he’d been punished for something that didn’t bring honor to the family. “Save your worry for a more worrisome cause.” He drew back. “Please.”
She looked at him as if she wasn’t convinced, yet she said, “I trust you to do what is best.”
That struck him as odd.
Why best? Why not right or wise? He’d ask, but, really, could a man ever understand a woman’s reasoning?
As she walked back inside the house, Frank checked his pocket watch. He had enough time to grab a bite to eat and warn Miss Vaccarelli that the police were coming.
Chapter 10
If you know one who is gay, beguiling and amusing, you will, if you are wise, do everything you can to make him prefer your house and your table to any other; for where he is, the successful party is also.
—Emily Price Post, Etiquette
Grahame Receiving Room
An hour or so later
Mrs. Grahame on her right, Malia sat in the middle of the quite firm sofa. Per the dictates of the etiquette books she’d studied tirelessly during her teen years in hopes of learning correct Society speech and behavior, she
sat straight-backed, shoulders level and hands clasped demurely in her lap to hide her nervousness. Worth lay on the ground at Mrs. Grahame’s feet, snoring to his contentment.
On the matching red sofa across from them sat Gillmore “Gil” Bush, Tuxedo Park police captain, and Charlie Patterson, park superintendent. From the moment Mr. Louden and his grandfather were called from the room by the butler, the captain and superintendent spoke to Mrs. Grahame and looked everywhere except at Malia. She hoped that was because they didn’t want to make her feel like a zoo animal on display. They could be trusted, though, or so Mr. Louden and his grandfather had said. Since she trusted—
She schooled the smile that wanted to grow. She trusted Mr. Louden. She felt safe here with him and his family. The Grahames were a true godsend.
“No, ma’am,” Superintendent Patterson was saying to Mrs. Grahame. “With the Orange Turnpike the only real means of escape, even professional burglars have shunned Tuxedo.”
“It’s too easy to get lost in the woods and hills,” Captain Bush explained before Malia or Mrs. Grahame could question why.
Mr. Patterson eased forward, clearly excited to elaborate. “In one rare instance, a perpetrator wasn’t caught on the turnpike. We apprehended him in the woods two days later. He was lost, half-starved, and still had the loot on him. There’s no safer place in New York than Tuxedo.”
Mrs. Grahame patted Malia’s clenched hands. “See, you have nothing to fear.”
She wanted to believe.
She had no reason not to believe.
Right now she would feel better if Mr. Louden would return and tell her all was well. Malia looked longingly to the empty front foyer. What was so pressing they had to discuss it now?
* * *
“Frankie, my boy, you have a problem,” Grandfather said, cutting into the silence that had lingered for several minutes, giving them time to make sense of the literal news the butler had called them out of the parlor to impart.
Indeed, this was unexpected.
As they sat on the marble staircase next to each other, Frank stared at the announcement in the Wednesday edition of the Times.
Mr. Edwin Craig Daly
Miss Malia DeWitt Vaccarelli
Engaged At Home
Sunday, April 7, 1901
826 Fifth Avenue
It wasn’t a real announcement. The Malia Vaccarelli he knew would never willingly agree to marry the conniving assistant D.A. She certainly wouldn’t have spent Easter Sunday with him, at his bachelor residence, unless a chaperone was present, which Malia had to have insisted upon in addition to her brother. Daly’s parents would have been there too. What was he thinking? The announcement wasn’t real. She was never in Daly’s home.
Frank crumpled the newsprint. Jealousy made his mouth sour. He could never have a future with her himself, but until this moment, he didn’t realize how deeply he wished things were different.
“This isn’t a problem,” he said, forcing pragmatism into his thoughts. “This tells us something.”
Grandfather’s brows rose. “What is that?”
“When an engagement is made between two socially prominent people, reporters are sent to get further information,” he said, and his grandfather began nodding as if was catching on to Frank’s reasoning. “Details, such as entertainments to be given or wedding plans, will be asked for.” Frank paused. He waited until his grandfather’s gaze leveled with his.
He then added, “What does every reporter desire the most?
“A photograph of the happy couple.”
“More specifically...a photograph of the future bride.”
Grandfather spoke with quiet amazement. “When Daly can’t produce a photograph of Miss Vaccarelli, the reporters will go in search of one. It’ll be a contest to see who can print one first.”
“Hopefully it’ll take time to find a photo.”
“Could be days.”
“Could be weeks,” Frank offered, trying to be hopeful.
“Once one society page has a photo, all the dailies will follow suit.”
“And still it could be days, weeks even, before someone connects Leah Carr, dog governess, with Malia Vaccarelli. Time is still on our side.” Frank took a deep breath and let it out slowly, the exhale whiffling away his tension. “Daly needs that picture because his bosses need it. The mafiosi can’t find her if they don’t know what she looks like.”
Grandfather grinned. “If they don’t know what she looks like, it’s even more unlikely they know she’s here.”
* * *
Malia breathed a sigh of relief the moment Messrs. Louden and Grahame reentered the parlor looking rather smug—yet so utterly alike—in their three-piece suits. Were it not for forty-six years between them and Mr. Grahame’s white beard, they could be brothers. Even their walk, with the slight hitch to the left leg, was the same. Mr. Grahame returned to the chair he had vacated in the bottom of the U-shaped furniture arrangement facing the hand-carved stone, floor-to-ceiling fireplace. He stretched his arm out, and his wife grabbed his hand.
Instead of returning to his chair next to his grandfather, Mr. Louden took the empty seat on the sofa next to Malia. He sat back, crossing his right ankle over his left knee; thus, his thigh pressed against hers. “Thank you for waiting on me.”
“Is anything wrong?” inquired Mrs. Grahame.
Mr. Louden shook his head. “The mafiosi are desperate to find Miss Vaccarelli. We believe they don’t have a photograph of her but are now in the pursuit of one. Once an image hits the dailies, the risk of someone here recognizing her increases.” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, focusing on the men on the sofa opposite them. “How much access do the immigrant laborers have to the park?”
“Before they can enter the gate,” Superintendent Patterson answered, “they must show a numbered work permit, which gives them access to the park during the day. They are only allowed to use the side roads—the main Tuxedo Road being reserved for gentlemen and ladies.”
“With our police crew patrolling the park day and night,” Mr. Bush put in, “it is unlikely any of the workers will trespass onto Grahame land. I do advise Miss Vaccarelli to stay inside when any deliveries are made to the house.”
“I shall send word rescheduling tea and bridge,” Mrs. Grahame announced.
“No,” blurted Messers. Louden, Grahame, Patterson and Bush.
Mr. Grahame looked to his wife. “Josie, we need to maintain a semblance of normality. When any of our friends visit, Frank will ensure Miss Vaccarelli stays out of sight.”
Mr. Louden shifted on the sofa, his knee bumping against hers. “Look at the captain and superintendent.”
She did as he asked. The two men couldn’t be more opposite. In his navy blue police uniform similar to what the Metropolitans wore, Mr. Bush was a fine figure of a man, over six feet tall with broad shoulders and an important-looking mustache. Mr. Patterson, in his dress blues—the shade closer to Egyptian blue than navy—was a stocky, sandy-haired, energetic man, who’d all but glowed when he’d spoken of park security. Both seemed genuinely sincere about keeping her safe.
“You know art.” Mr. Louden leaned close, his shoulder against hers, his head tilted slightly toward her ear. “You have an artist’s eyes. Study their uniforms. The hat...” he said softly, and she could hear the roughness in his voice, feel the warmth of his breath, smell his cedar-and-spice cologne.
He was saying something more, but she wasn’t listening. Couldn’t hear anything over her heartbeat. She felt fluttery, and warm, and if she turned her head—and it would be so easy to—their lips would touch. The first time she desired to kiss a man, and, how ironic, it had to be the man charged by the courts to guard her. An honorable man. A good man. A man she could trust not to hide the truth—good or bad—from her. She could lo
ve a man like him.
She gave her head a little shake. She was being fanciful. Details. Pay attention to the details. To his voice.
“...and the color of the cloth,” he was saying. “The texture and weave. The number of buttons. Is there any difference between the badge on the hat and on the lapel? If so, find it.”
She kept her eyes on the men yet turned her face a fraction, and whispered, “Why do I have to know this?”
“When you know the original, you won’t be deceived by the forgery.”
Malia swallowed. This was a test, and he believed she had enough of an eye for detail to spot a fraud. He believed she could do it. He believed in her.
He handed her his badge, then relaxed back against the sofa, his right foot crossed again over the left knee. Messrs. Patterson and Bush gave her their badges to study also.
Once she’d finished, the Grahames walked with the men to the door.
“Malia?”
She looked to Mr. Louden, his arm stretched across the sofa back and armrest. Someday it would be nice to scoot back on the sofa and curl up next to a man. They’d sit by the fire, and talk, and read, and enjoy just being together. She could do it now. She wanted to even though she knew it wasn’t proper and knew his grandparents could walk in and see them.
Leah Carr would do it. Leah Carr was brave and adventurous.
But Leah Carr wasn’t her. New clothes and a new identity didn’t change the fact she was Malia Vaccarelli, daughter of and sister to the mafiosi.
His lips moved into a wry hint of a smile. “The dailies all posted engagement announcements between you and Edwin Daly.” She must have looked mortified because he said, “I know it’s not real. The mafiosi are desperate to find you.”
She nodded. Really, there wasn’t much to say in response.
“The estate is protected from view by heavy trees and rocky terrain.” He checked his watch then returned it to the pocket in his waistcoat. “I’ve made a decision.”
She waited. He sounded so final...and foreboding...and serious.
