by Lynn Austin
“I’ll get a waiter for you, Miss…”
“Quinn. Fiona Quinn. Thank you so much.” She ordered a cup of tea and heard the gentleman say to put it on his tab. He folded his newspaper closed, and after the waiter brought Fiona’s tea and refilled his coffee cup, the man settled back comfortably to chat. He was a nice-looking man in his early thirties, with wavy brown hair and a clean-shaven face.
“I noticed you have an accent. May I ask where you’re from, Miss Quinn?”
“My father and I are visiting from Ireland. He has business here in the city.” She had rehearsed the words so many times, waiting for this opportunity, that they no longer seemed like a lie. She remembered her goal. Her family was counting on her.
“And what do you think of our fair city?”
“It’s wonderful! I’ve been shopping all afternoon—which is why I needed this tea.”
“Are you shopping all alone?” he asked, regarding her with sympathy.
“I’m afraid so. My father is occupied with meetings and such. I’m afraid to venture too far from our hotel.”
“What have you seen since coming to New York? Have you been to the theater or the symphony orchestra?”
“I’m afraid not. We’ve only just arrived. But I’d love to go sometime.” She waited, hoping he would offer to take her. He didn’t. “So what brings you here on a Friday evening?” she asked as the silence lengthened. “Do you work nearby?”
“I work for a law firm down on Wall Street, but I’m meeting my wife for dinner here in midtown in about an hour. I’m just killing time.”
“I see.” Fiona smiled, trying not to let her disappointment show. “That’s an odd phrase, isn’t it—‘killing time’? Exactly how does one ‘kill’time?”
“I guess it is a strange expression. I never thought much about it.” He seemed very solemn and humorless, and she told herself it was just as well that he was married. She wanted a man who was charming as well as handsome and rich—and, she prayed, a man with a sense of humor.
She saw no sense in prolonging the conversation. Fiona finished her tea and thanked him again for allowing her to sit with him, then rejoined her father out on the sidewalk.
“Well?” he asked hopefully.
“He was married.”
“Oh. That’s too bad. For a while there, you looked like you were getting on.”
“No, not really. But he did pay for my tea.”
Neither of them spoke as they rode the subway back to their shabby apartment and colorless life. Fiona had never felt so discouraged. She wished they had enough money to return to Ireland. She could ask for her old job back at Wickham Hall, marry Kevin, have children. She remembered how much Kevin had loved her as she climbed the creaking stairs to their dingy rooms.
“We tried, lass,” Rory said as he shrugged off his suit coat. “We’ll try again another day.”
“Pretending to be rich is a stupid idea, Dad. It’s never going to work.” Her father ignored her pessimism. He sat down at the dilapidated table he’d disinterred from the dump and opened the newspaper to the entertainment pages.
“I’ve got it!” he said, looking up at her with a grin. “Next Friday night we’ll try the theater.”
Chapter
24
F iona knew that she and her father had made a mistake as soon as they reached the theater district. They’d timed their arrival to coincide with intermission, so the ushers would no longer be checking tickets, but they hadn’t taken into account that the people milling around in the lobby and streaming outside into the warm summer air would all be wearing formal evening clothes.
“We’d better leave,” she told her father. “You don’t have a tuxedo.”
“Never mind about that. Just hold your head high and walk into the lobby. No one will care.” She did as she was told, pushing past the people who were drifting outside to light up cigarettes and fat cigars. The lobby was crowded, as well, and she smelled the aroma of coffee.
“Now what?” she asked her father. He was glancing all around, taking everything in.
“Find a man who’s alone. Like that gentleman over there.” He tilted his head to one side, indicating where Fiona should look. A group of people had lined up to buy coffee at a kiosk off to her left, and standing all alone at the end of the line was a tall, elegant-looking man who appeared to be in his forties.
“He’s too old,” Fiona whispered. “Can’t you pick someone younger?”
“Go on with you, girl! Just meet him before you decide. If you make a good impression, maybe he’ll introduce you to a younger friend. Hurry up, now. He’s still alone. “ Fiona mustered all her courage as she made her way over to the man, telling herself that this was just for practice. Several more patrons had joined the line behind him by the time she got there, and she wasn’t sure what to do. It would be awkward to cut in line alongside him. But her father was watching; she felt she had no choice but to follow through.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said, touching his arm to get his attention. “Is this the queue for coffee?”
He turned to face her. “Pardon? The… what?”
“The queue—or I suppose they call it a ‘line’here in America.”
“Oh, yes. Yes, we do call it a line. But don’t go to the end of it,” he said, glancing back at the lengthening line. “Please, allow me to buy you a cup.”
“Thank you. That’s very kind of you, Mr. …”
“Bartlett. Arthur Bartlett.”
“Fiona Quinn,” she said, smiling. “How do you do?”
“Fine, thank you.” He smiled in return—a charming, lopsided smile that went all the way to his eyes. They were wide and expressive and a very deep shade of brown. “You have a lovely name, Fiona Quinn, and a lovely voice. Are you… English?”
“From Dublin, actually. I’m visiting America with my father.”
He studied her with interest while they talked, stroking his neatly trimmed mustache as if petting a small animal. Fiona studied him, as well. Mr. Bartlett had a pleasant, oval-shaped face, and he wore his thin, lightbrown hair combed back from his high forehead. His full, pouting lips and somber eyes gave him a mournful look—until his smile lit up his face. He had a nice voice, too, deep and resonant. But he was too old. Fiona wanted someone young and handsome.
“How many coffees would you like?” he asked. They had reached the front of the line.
“Just one—for me.” She was surprised when he ordered only one for himself. She would have guessed that he was fetching coffee for his wife or theater companions. Surely an elegant, well-to-do gentleman like Mr. Bartlett wouldn’t attend the theater alone. He paid for both coffees, then moved aside to the counter where the cream and sugar were served.
“How do you take yours?” he asked.
“A little of each, thank you.” Fiona hated coffee and wondered how she would manage to choke it down. She watched his hands as he stirred in the cream and sugar; the ring finger on his left hand was bare.
“Did you come to the theater all alone?” Arthur asked as he turned from the serving table, carrying her coffee.
“No, actually, I came with my father. He’s around here someplace, talking to friends.” She looked around as if searching for him, then turned back to Arthur. “I don’t see him right now.”
“Well, since your father is missing momentarily, might I have the pleasure of joining you for coffee? I hate to think of such a lovely woman sitting all alone.”
“I would like that very much.” He chose one of the little tables that surrounded the coffee bar and held the chair for Fiona before taking a seat across from her—a true gentleman. She scrambled for something to say.
“Are you enjoying the show, Mr. Bartlett?”
“It’s so-so,” he said, waving his hand. “There’s too much talking and not nearly enough action for my tastes. And the actors aren’t very good, either. But what do you think?” Arthur leaned toward her, giving her his full attention.
“I have
n’t seen many plays to compare it to. And it’s the first one I’ve seen here in New York.”
“I take it you haven’t been here very long. Are you enjoying the city?”
“Oh, yes—so far. I’ve been wanting to see some of the galleries and museums and attend some social events, but my father’s business has kept him tied up much of the time.”
“And you’re left on your own?”
“I’m afraid so.” She gave a little shrug and flipped her bobbed hair from her eyes, flirting shamelessly. She could see that he was smitten. She sat sideways in her chair with her legs crossed daintily, her exposed ankles where he could see them. His eyes wandered from her face to her figure and back again as if he were reading a map, memorizing her. She enjoyed the power she had over him, even if he was an older man.
“I’ve lived in New York all my life,” he told her. “I would consider it a privilege if you would allow me to show you around the city. Shall I speak with your father and arrange it sometime?”
“That would be lovely, Mr. Bartlett.”
They talked for a few more minutes before the house lights flickered.
The show was about to resume—and just when she was finally getting somewhere with a man. Arthur stood and held her chair again.
“May I escort you back to your seat, Miss Quinn?”
For a moment, Fiona panicked. She had no seat. He would find out she was an imposter.
“I… um… I haven’t been enjoying the play very much, either. Perhaps I’ll leave. But thank you anyway.”
“Then I would like to offer you and your father a ride to your hotel, if I may. It’s not often that I get to meet such a charming woman. I really don’t want to say good night.”
She took a moment to consider his offer and couldn’t see the harm in accepting a ride with him. “That would be very kind of you.”
“Wonderful. If you’ll excuse me for just a moment, I’ll tell my friends I’m leaving. I’ll be right back.”
As soon as Mr. Bartlett was out of sight, Fiona hurried over to where her father was watching from a distance. “He wants to drive us home, Dad. What should I do?”
“Exactly as we planned. Tell him we’re staying in the Chelsea Hotel and let him escort you as far as the lobby. Tell him you’d like to walk there—that it’s a lovely night and all that. I’ll follow you to keep an eye on him and meet you in the lobby. We’ll go back to the tenement when he’s gone.”
“Right, Dad. Wish me luck.” She turned to hurry away but he called her back.
“Did you find out if he’s married?”
“He isn’t wearing a ring.”
“Ask him.”
“Isn’t that a rather rude question to ask someone I’ve just met?”
“He looks to be in his forties. I don’t want to waste our time on him if he’s married.”
Fiona nodded and hurried back to wait for Mr. Bartlett, wondering how in the world she would find out if he was married. He broke into a wide smile, as if he couldn’t help himself, as soon as he saw her waiting for him.
“There you are. I’ve managed to free myself,” he said. “Did you find your father?”
“Yes, but he has decided to stay until the end of the show.”
“Splendid. I have you all to myself, then.” Arthur held the door for her and they walked outside. “I’ll hail a cab.”
“Wait… It’s such a lovely evening, isn’t it? Why don’t we walk? My hotel isn’t far.”
“That’s a wonderful idea. It will give us more time together.” He offered his arm, and she held it the way society ladies did when walking with their escorts. Arthur was at least a foot taller than she was, and Fiona had to look up to talk to him. She liked the feeling.
“Did your friends mind you leaving, Mr. Bartlett?”
“Please, call me Arthur. And may I call you Fiona?”
“Yes, of course.”
“No, my friends didn’t mind my leaving at all. I was the odd man out anyway, since the others came with their wives.”
“And you aren’t married?” He hesitated for a moment, and Fiona saw him wince.
“I was at one time. I’m divorced.” He looked down at her, his dark eyes sorrowful, and she thought she glimpsed pain in them. Her father would be glad to learn that he wasn’t married, but she wondered if she dared pursue Arthur any further, knowing her church’s position on divorce and remarriage.
“Divorce isn’t allowed in my country,” she told him. “Is it very common here in America?”
“No, not really. But our marriage was never a very happy one, I’m sorry to say. Our families arranged it when we were quite young—for social reasons, you understand. Love was never a factor. We both realized after only a few years that it was a mistake.”
Fiona saw the sadness in his eyes and quickly changed the subject.
They talked about New York City for the rest of the way, and after he escorted her inside the hotel, they stood in the lobby and talked some more.
“This has been so much more interesting than the play,” Arthur said with a smile. “In fact, I still don’t want to say good night.”
“Me, either,” she said, laughing.
“Then, shall we walk some more? I’ll show you some more sights of New York on the way. … Or am I being too forward?”
“Not at all. I’d love to.”
“Will your father mind?”
Fiona couldn’t think what to do. “I… um… I’m not sure. He’s still at the theater.”
“Why don’t you write him a note and leave it in his mailbox?”
“Yes… yes, of course.” Arthur walked with her to the front desk and asked the clerk for paper and a pen. Fiona scribbled a vague message on it and folded it in half, then wrote a random room number on it, shielding it with her hand so Arthur wouldn’t see it. She handed it to the desk clerk.
Arthur smiled and offered his arm again as he escorted her outside, and this time he rested his hand on top of hers. She felt the warmth of his touch all the way to her toes.
He walked with her around a couple of city blocks near the hotel, giving her a tour of the landmarks along the way, and she learned that he worked on Wall Street as an investment banker. Arthur was very charming and surprisingly funny. She began to forget that he was divorced and at least twenty years older than she was.
“Thank you for a wonderful evening, Arthur,” she said when they reached the hotel once again.
“I still don’t want to say good-bye,” he said, sighing as he took her hand. “Would you have dinner with me tomorrow night?”
“I would like that very much.”
“Good. Let’s say… seven o’clock? And please tell your father that I haven’t forgotten my manners. Perhaps I can meet him when I call for you tomorrow? It’s only proper.”
“Of course. Until tomorrow…? ”
“Until tomorrow.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it.
Fiona and her father were waiting for Arthur in the hotel lobby when he called for her the following night. They had both worked a full day— Rory at the docks and Fiona at the hat shop—and they had barely made it to the hotel on time after racing home, bathing, and changing into their stolen clothes and shoes. Fiona still felt a little frazzled as she introduced her father to Arthur. When Arthur asked Rory to join them for dinner, he declined.
“No, thank you, Mr. Bartlett. I have business to attend to this evening. Perhaps another time?”
“I’ll look forward to it.” Arthur had a beautiful 1920 Packard, and he drove Fiona to a little restaurant away from all the crowds and Saturday night activity. She felt a little disappointed that he hadn’t taken her someplace famous where the upper class dined, but the food was so delicious, the atmosphere so cozy and romantic, that she soon forgot her disappointment. They sat across from each other at a diminutive table, and Arthur’s long legs brushed against hers from time to time, sending a pleasant shiver through her. His eyes held hers as they talked, and s
he saw his admiration in them. He looked almost handsome as he stroked his mustache in the soft candlelight.
“Do you like to dance?” he asked as they finished their dessert. “I know a place we can go that has a wonderful band. And we can get a martini or a glass of wine there, if you’d like.”
“I thought all the pubs in America were closed. My father’s quite put out that he can’t have a pint now and then.”
“They are closed,” Arthur said, laughing. “Officially, that is. But you can get a drink in just about any building on Fifty-second Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues if you know where to go. They’re called speakeasies, and there are thousands of them in New York.”
“You mean, they’re all breaking the law? How do they get away with it?”
“Bribery, my dear. Most officials will simply look the other way if you pay them enough—federal prohibition agents, the police, district attorneys, they’re all on the take. Even the beat cop will turn his back when the beer is being delivered if you give him forty or fifty bucks.”
“Really.” She smiled. The idea of such widespread corruption made her feel a little better about her own wrongdoings.
“Sure. All the best clubs serve liquor on the sly. Club Gallant in Greenwich Village is one of the fanciest. I also have a membership card to Club New Yorker on Fifty-first Street. And you should see the elaborate system of alarm buttons they have at the Twenty-One Club. I was there one night when the place was raided, and it was amazing how quickly the whole place swung into action. They have trapdoors and secret compartments everywhere, and in a matter of moments, all traces of liquor had simply vanished.”
Fiona leaned across the table toward him, resting her chin on her fist. “And here I thought everyone in America was a teetotaler.”
“Hardly! Tell your father he can make an appointment with a doctor and ask for a prescription for alcohol for medicinal purposes. It’s perfectly legal for a druggist to dispense gin or brandy and so forth if you have a prescription.”
Fiona laughed with delight. “America certainly is an interesting place.
