It Had to be You

by Susan Andersen

  Luckily, Booker’s hard voice redirects my attention. “You have fifteen minutes. I do not intend to keep the officer waiting.”

  That gives me enough time to do up the dishes, brush my teeth and apply my lipstick, even if I have to fall back on an old color for the last item. My teeth clench all over again at the reminder my new tube is yet another thing Sticky Fingers Rodale pinched.

  Still, at least I have an itty bitty hope of getting it back. And at precisely two-fifteen, we pull up behind a black squad car marked Seattle PD parked in front of my former residence. A policeman gets out of the car and Booker introduces him to me as Officer Miller. We follow him up the path to the rooming house.

  Booker glances up at the dwelling as we approach the front door and swears under his breath. “The bitch already has a Room to Let sign in the window.”

  The look on Mrs. Rodale’s face is priceless when she opens the door to the policeman’s firm knock and sees Officer Miller standing there clad in his pristine uniform and a stern expression. She divides a quick glance between me and Booker, who is dressed in his usual elegant attire, before turning her full attention bck to Office Miller.

  The policeman doffs his hat. “Mildred Rodale?” he says in a deep, commanding voice.

  The older woman pales but recoups to say, “Yes, I am Mrs. Rodale. What can I do for you, officer?” As if she doesn’t know perfectly well why we’re here. I have to hand it to her, though. Mildred Rodale is one chilly broad.

  From his chest pocket, Officer Miller fishes out the list Booker had me compile. “You are hereby ordered to return Miss Lena Bjornstad’s unused rent, her new black cloche with bronze ribbon detailing and a metal leaf pin, and assorted personal grooming products too numerous to read—but which have been itemized, so I suggest you don’t try your hand at keeping any. And I want you to explain why the aforementioned items failed to be included in the two suitcases and one box you packed, given that all Miss Bjornstad’s belongings were in the same room. The one she rented until you evicted her this morning.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Mrs. Rodale declares indignantly. Both her eyes and her voice, however, show the strain it must be taking not to panic beneath the unyielding policeman’s authoritative demands and not at all sympathetic regard.

  “Then I have no choice but to search the premises,” Miller says, stepping forward in a manner that forces the matron to step back. The officer gives her a hard look. “The entire premises. And be warned, ma’am, should I go to this effort and find so much as one of the items on my list, I will arrest you for petty theft and unlawfully breaking Miss Bjornstad’s contract.”

  “Now wait one damn minute.” The older woman straightens her spine. “I had every right to eject her. I gave Miss Bjornstad a key and allowed her to come home past the regular curfew from the goodness of my heart, strictly due to the hours she keeps at that place she works at.” Mrs. Rodale’s upper lip curls in clear disapproval of said place. “But this morning it was a good two hours later than her usual arrival when this man—” She waves a hand at Booker, but for the first time she falters when she really takes in his impeccably tailored suit. I can actually see the impact of his breeding and air of authority sinking in as she realizes Booker is precisely who I told her he was: my employer.

  She gathers herself once again, however, her shoulders squared and head held high. “When this man brought her home.” The look of distaste Rodale then transfers to me would likely have made me want to crawl into a hole and pull it closed behind me, were it not for Booker’s hand landing lightly against the small of my back. I know I should probably step away from his touch. I am hardly some wilting Daisy who needs tending, after all.

  But I don’t move.

  His touch is warm, warm, warm, heating my skin against the brisk fall air even through my layers of day clothing and outerwear. Plus, the weight of his palm and long fingers resting against the base of my spine gives me a very real sense of security. That is not exactly something I’m accustomed to. But I sure can’t deny I could get used to it in a mad rush.

  Rodale turns to Officer Miller again. “Why don’t you arrest him for selling liquor instead of harassing a hardworking citizen?”

  Miller raises his eyebrows. “Have you ever been to his establishment, Mrs. Rodale?

  “Of course not,” she says huffily. “I am a law-abiding woman.”

  “Then what makes you think illegal liquor is being sold there?”

  “It’s a speakeasy!” she snaps, as if it ought to be self-evident.

  “It’s the Twilight Room,” Booker refutes coolly. “A club where elegant people come to relax and enjoy in comfort the best blues by the best singer on the West Coast.” His voice drops as he says that last part, and he gives me a nod and a warm smile. When he turns back to Mrs. Rodale, however, his voice is colder than a lamppost after an ice storm. “Mayor Bertha Landes, herself, has been to hear Miss Bjornstad sing. And if you know anything, you know Mayor Landes has continued the city-wide cleanup she began as acting mayor. I don’t know if you realize Seattle was considered one of the most corrupt cities on the West Coast before her terms in office, but under her guidance it is now much more lawful. Which is more than I can say for you.” He glances at his watch, then at Officer Miller. “Do your duty. We don’t have all day.”

  “No, we don’t.” Miller pulls out a pair of handcuffs and levels a hard-eyed glance at the dragon of the Women’s Residence. “Mildred Rodale, you have five minutes to comply with the return of the items I have already listed. If you do not comply within the given time frame, I will have no choice but to arrest you.” He looks her in the eye. “And I will drag you out of here in handcuffs for all your neighbors to see.”

  The old biddy attempts a stare down with the man. It lasts for less than ten seconds before she looks away, sniffs indignantly, and ultimately says, “Fine.” She whirls away and disappears into the depths of the Residence.

  Seconds before her allotted time is up, she appears with a box. She holds it out for the officer to take.

  He drills her with a cold look. “Give it to Miss Bjornstad, so she can verify all her stolen belongings are accounted for.”

  She thrusts it at me and I accept it, then carefully inspect its contents. The minute I come across my new cloche, I put it on. I finally look up and nod. “This appears to be all of my things.”

  “And the unused rent?” Booker demands.

  “The nine dollar bills in the envelope I handed over to her are in the box, as well.

  Officer Miller pins Mrs. Rodale in his sights once more. “Be warned, ma’am, this is your one and only free pass. If I get so much as a whiff of a complaint against you, you will go to jail.”

  Rodale slams the door in our faces.

  I turn to the officer. “Thank you so much.” I touch fingertips to my newly donned cloche. “I know it’s probably silly to get all worked up over a hat, but this is the first brand new, not absolutely necessary thing I have bought myself in, well, forever.”

  His eyes soften as he looks down at me. “You’re welcome. I have a sister who often has to struggle to make ends meet, so I know how I’d feel if someone treated her the way that woman did you.”

  Before we all get in our respective vehicles I see Booker discreetly slip Officer Miller some money. “What do I owe you?” I ask as soon as Booker seats himself behind the steering wheel.

  “What?” Booker’s expression looks genuinely baffled.

  “I saw you give Officer Miller some money. You shouldn’t have to pay him for my stuff. How much do I owe you?”

  “Fifty bucks.”

  My mouth drops open. I jerk upright. “Are you crazy? I could have paid for everything we just recovered—including a month’s rent instead of just a week’s—and had money left over!”

  “Yeah, but didn’t it feel good to watch that bitch squirm?”

  It did. Oh, it really did. The tiny smile I can’t bite back must answer Booker’s qu
estion loud and clear, too, because he laughs.

  Full throttle, exactly the way he used to laugh. It echoes in my heart, softening all the hard edges with happy memories.

  No! I simply cannot go there. Sobering, I protest, “Why is it again I’m paying four times more than all my belongings put together are worth? Because I have to tell you, Booker, for people like me—who obviously don’t run in the highfaluting circles you do—” I shake my head to rid myself of the topic detour “—well, for me, anyhow, not paying more than something is worth tends to make a lot more sense than scoring points against the opponent. It feels less like being robbed twice.”

  26

  susan andersen

  One lollapalooza of a brainstorm

  BOOKER

  My laughter dries up. Hell. It’s moments like these that make me realize how much I take my wealth for granted. Sure, I have the satisfaction of knowing I put copious amounts of work into amassing it. The blood, sweat and tears I invested in getting the Twilight Room up and running translates into a far greater feeling of accomplishment than I ever had when it was my father’s dough paying my way. I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished with nothing more than a fairly good brain and good, hard work.

  Yet apparently, I still accept the privileges of my upbringing—a polish that opens doors firmly closed to those without breeding and manners—as my God given right. All were instilled in me from boyhood, so I suppose I did absorb a sense of entitlement from my parents before I learned to make my own way.

  Lena wasn’t born with my advantages, and God knows she has had damn little handed her. Yet, like me, she’s not afraid of hard work. From everything I have gleaned, it’s clear she’s worked hard to get to this point in her career. Reaching across the seat separating us, I touch my fingertip to the little wave in front of her temple. I tip my head to look her in the eye. “I’m sorry. I was focused on getting your stuff back—and, yes, maybe sticking it to Rodale a little.”

  “But fifty dollars!”

  “I gave it to Officer Miller because I like the way he handled the situation. I do not expect you to pay me back. I was just teasing, but it was in poor taste. After the war, I had to make my own way for the first time in my life and it kicked most of my big fish in a small town attitude out of me. But I guess I still sometimes take the prerogatives of the wealthy I was born into for granted.”

  “Oh, heck.” Lena blows out a wistful breath, her features softening. “I’m just jealous. I would love to take dealing out fifty dollar bills for granted.”

  And that right there, Lena’s honesty, her lack of self-pity and live and let live outlook on life, is exactly why I love her.

  I freeze for a second. I love her. My honest shock has me swallowing a snort. Hell, I probably never stopped loving her.

  Acknowledging my feelings for a change instead of dancing around them, I abandon my former vague, if sincere, plan to stake a permanent claim in Lena’s life. The minute Plan A gets tossed, however, I assume the mantle for Plan B. It aims for the same end result, but is more realistic. It just this instant flashed through my mind and, sure, it isn’t exactly fully formed.

  But damned if it isn’t, in my not so humble opinion, one lollapalooza of a brainstorm all the same.

  27

  susan andersen

  I remember damn near every conversation we ever had

  LENA

  Booker is staring at me with such intensity, I shift in my seat, goosebumps spreading as I feel his regard like a finger trailing down my spine. My face heating up, I glance out the car window at the trees lining the street. They have begun whipping in a newly kicked up wind. Peering up at the sky, I see clouds, which earlier had been thin, pale and high, growing thicker, darker and lower by the second as they ride the wind northward.

  Then my gaze is drawn irresistibly back to Booker. I manage not to shiver when I find him still studying me with that penetrating gaze. “Um, I should probably go rustle up a newspaper and see what the Rooms to Let situation is. Maybe I can check into one or two before work.”

  “You don’t have a helluva lot time for that today,” he says. When I stare at him in confusion, he adds gently, “It’s Saturday, doll.”

  “Oh, shit!” I promptly cover my mouth with my fingers, appalled at my language. Then I jut my chin. Sometimes swear words are the only ones to properly cover the way a girl feels. Booker’s right, of course, I won’t have enough time to find a new place. Washington State has a Blue Law on the books going back to when I was a kid. It prohibits most businesses from operating on Sundays so their workers can observe the Sabbath with their families. This means bars close down at midnight on Saturdays. For those of us drawing our paychecks from the Twilight Room, the early shutdown means starting at the lounge three hours earlier than our usual time.

  Impulsively, I scoot along the seat until I’m close enough to reach across Booker’s hard stomach and grab his left wrist. Turning it toward me, I peer at his watch. I can’t help but notice his skin is, as usual, toasty warm beneath my fingers and—oh, my—incredibly sleek on the underside of his wrist where my fingertips pick up the strong pulse of his heart.

  Ho-ly crow. I have a sudden urge to fan myself, and touching him makes me highly aware that once you feel something like this, it is simply not possible to unfeel it.

  Giving myself a mental shake, I actually read the watch face I’ve been wasting my time staring at, considering I couldn’t state the time to save my soul. “Drat,” I say again as the time finally sinks in. “Drat, drat, drat.” Releasing my hold on his wrist I sag back against the seat. Try to reorganize my thoughts. “Okay, Plan B.”

  Booker’s lips curve up and I hear him murmur, “A woman after my own heart.”

  Whatever the heck that means.

  “I should at least call Dot and Clara to tell them what’s going on. I’ll see if I can stay with them until I get my room situation straightened out.”

  He looks at me. “Or you can just stay with me again tonight.”

  For a moment, I think my heart stopped. If so, it certainly isn’t stopped now—the darn thing is stampeding like a herd of mules through my chest. And in a moment of clarity I realize that, my goodness, I want that! I probably shouldn’t, but, oh, I do. The smart money says this very reaction is precisely why it’s the last offer I oughtta accept. Straightening up smartly, I wiggle back into my space on the passenger side of the front seat. And give myself a stern warning to stay there.

  As if he can already read the refusal I’m working up to speaking aloud, Booker shoots me a look so soft it rattles my will power. “Why not give yourself one more good night’s sleep? Then you’ll be fresh to jump into the hunt for a room tomorrow. Hell, we can pick up a copy of the Seattle Daily Times on our way home, so you can at least cull out the best prospects to interview on Monday.”

  Refuse, Lena. You need to refuse. You know it’s the only thing to do!

  It’s just—

  Home. My, how that word grabs me. I can feel it prying open my deepest, most heartfelt desire the way Will and I once tried to do with one of the clams we’d dug up over on Alki Point (before we discovered the trick of steaming them open). And even admitting to myself how the word is one huge trigger for me—

  Well, it doesn’t do a darn thing to shoo away the boatload of emotion it stirs up, now does it?

  “Okay,” I whisper. Then clear my throat and hurriedly add in a stronger voice, “But just for tonight.”

  “Sure.” He starts the car and turns on the heater. “Look, I owe you a nice meal and we owe each other that talk we were going to have last night. Let’s go see if they’re serving yet at Top o’ the Town.”

  I blink. Then I’m pretty darn sure I stare at him stupidly. But, oh, my God. Booker is talking about the Sorrento Hotel’s seventh floor restaurant! “I would like that.” I am so proud of the way I manage to say this calmly, as though eating at Top o’ the Town is an everyday occurrence for me. Heaven knows, inside I’m spinning in c
ircles, kicking up my heels and screaming, Yes, yes, yes, yes, YES!

  “I don’t believe I have ever been there,” I murmur. Another proud moment because, hell’s bells and hallelujah, I don’t even wince a tiny bit at discovering my new-found talent for swooping around the truth. As if I don’t know perfectly well I have never been there.

  “It’s settled then. Let’s go.”

  We arrive atop First Hill a short while later and Booker parks on Ninth Avenue not terribly far from the Sorrento’s elegant corner courtyard. He escorts me into the hotel and across the lobby to the elevator, which we ride up to the seventh floor.

  Disappointingly, we learn the rooftop restaurant is closed and won’t open with enough time for us to both enjoy a meal and make it to work for our early start. Well, not that Booker, as owner, can’t do whatever the heck he wants. But I’m glad he doesn’t suggest it. Because, how embarrassing would it be for little ol’ employee me to come trailing into the lounge late in his wake?

  Uh, no. I don’t think so.

  In any case, a friendly hostess directs us to an open tearoom on this floor. And since we have a few minutes while they refresh the two-person table that another party is getting ready to vacate, we brave the cold and blustery late afternoon weather to go out onto the loggia to take in the spectacular views. Getting hit in the face by the wind, I am happy for my warm, if not exactly the height of fashion, coat and the close fit of the pretty hat Officer Miller helped me recover from Mrs. Rodale.

  Everywhere I look, there is something to gawk at, and each new sight to greet my eyes seems more appealing than the last. Below us to the west, lights wink on one after another in the downtown area. Beyond the city buildings coming to life, white caps churn up a froth in Elliot bay and on Puget Sound, even as one of the higher peaks in the Olympic mountains across the water is lit by a pale sunbeam breaking through the cloud cover. To the south is the amazing Smith Tower—the tallest building west of the Mississippi—and beautiful Mt. Rainier. Okay, so maybe the eastern view isn’t as gorgeous as it could be, since we’d ordinarily have a pristine territorial view of the Cascade mountains. The storm clouds currently piling up against the foothills block a good portion of the range, but the taller snowcapped peaks thrust their tips through the cloud cover. That glimpse of their power and the sheer beauty of the remaining views threatens to overwhelm me.