Rossiter drew her back into his embrace. He couldn’t lose her again. Not again. “Callie, darling, we have to talk. There’s so much to say, so many things you must forgive, understand.” He moved into a doorway, taking her with him, bending to find her mouth with his own.
Callie stiffened against the contact. Was she wrong, or had she seen him glance covertly up the street as though he were ashamed of being seen with a tea-shop waitress? If anyone should be concerned about being observed, it was she. She was a married woman, and she was known in this neighborhood, not Rossiter. It was her reputation that would suffer. “Rossiter, let me go! Please!”
He released her, his confusion mingling with relief at having found her. It had never occurred to him that Callie might be satisfied with her life, that she might no longer want him. “Callie, what’s wrong? Aren’t you glad to see me?”
The hurt in his eyes was so real, so much like her own Rory’s, that Callie’s heart gave a little leap and her fingers reached up to touch his cheek and graze upward to the golden curls over his ear. So much like Rory. “Of course I’m happy to see you, Rossiter,” she intoned softly. “It’s only that I’m late and must get home to Rory.”
“But I’ve got to talk to you, to explain! Oh, Callie, I was never so glad to see anyone. Tell me how much you’ve missed me,” he pleaded, drawing her close again, reinforcing his embrace.
“I’m very glad to see you, Rossiter,” she smiled.
He looked down into her face, his eyes lingering on the softly waved chestnut hair shimmering with golden lights, the gentle curve of her cheekbones, the newly molded hollows beneath drawing his glance to the fine structure of a perfectly sculptured jaw and chin. He would have known her anywhere, recognized her immediately. There was the same prettiness—no, he corrected—there was beauty come to fruition. The changes time had wrought were subtle but at the same time startling. Callie was a girl no longer; she was a beautiful woman. The bright blue eyes, once filled with innocence and trust, were still the color of a summer sky, but there were mysterious shadows in their depths. The slim, girlish body had been transformed into new curves, new voluptuousness. Her mouth, once full almost to the point of petulance, was now a woman’s mouth: soft, full, ripe. She couldn’t leave him this way. He had to see her, he had to have her again. He sensed her wish to leave, and that made him want her all the more. She said she had to get home, to her son. Their son. “Stay with me, Callie. Don’t go!” He heard the desperation in his own voice.
“I can’t, Rossiter. I mustn’t.”
“At least tell me where you live. Where I can find you?”
Callie laughed, a soft, throaty sound. “Even if I told you, you’d never find me. Rory and I live in Shantytown.”
Rossiter marveled at her directness. There was no shame, no defense or explanation that she and their son lived in the most notorious slum in the city. And she was right; he would never find her in that rabbit warren of alleys and shacks.
Callie saw the disappointment cloud Rossiter’s eyes. What had he expected? That she would have an apartment on Fifth Avenue? There was a roaring in her ears as confusion pounded in contra-rhythm to her pulses. The only emotion she could feel, could recognize, was anger. Anger for the life she’d been living, for the things Rory should have and didn’t, for Hugh’s generosity that had turned to resentment. Nothing seemed clear any longer. Nothing seemed to have purpose except Rory. Questions were exploding in her brain. Where had Rossiter been? Had he married his socialite heiress? What did he mean he’d been searching for her? He said he hadn’t known about the child. Why hadn’t he received her letter?
“I have to go, Rossiter! I have to get back to Rory!” She struggled away from his grasp, swallowing great gulps of air. She couldn’t think straight. Everything was muddled and blurred. “I have to get back to Rory, and there’s two baskets of ironing to be done before the night is out.” It was the truth, and yet it was a feeble excuse. Rossiter would never understand about duty or work or obligation.
“I can’t let you go. I won’t,” he said stubbornly.
“You must!” she saw the distress she was causing him and softened her tone. “Tomorrow. It’s my day off. If you like, I can meet you right here. Three o’clock?” Her words were hesitant; she knew they stung. There was the same crestfallen expression on Rossiter’s face that she’d seen so often on their son’s face when she had to leave him to go to work. In many ways, Rory was as demanding as Rossiter. Or was it that Rossiter was as demanding as her infant? She didn’t know, she couldn’t think! In some ways she was so happy he had found her, and in others she wasn’t. She’d been managing her own life for so long—hers and Rory’s and even Hugh’s. And she’d been doing a damn good job of it, too. What right had he to come back into her life this way and make demands on her?
“Make it in the morning, Callie,” he said, trying to infuse her with his eagerness. “I won’t be able to wait another whole day. Why can’t I come with you now? I want to see my son.”
Instantly Callie bristled. How easily those words seemed to come to him. “My son,” he had said as though the biological relationship entitled him to Rory. Rory was her son! Hers alone! She was the one who had cared for him from the moment of his birth, who had held him through the long nights, who worked her fingers to the bone to provide for him. “You can’t come home with me, Rossiter. Hugh will be there, and I won’t have him upset. You can wait until tomorrow afternoon. We’ll have a long talk then.” She turned, not wanting to see the pleading on his face. He was so much like Rory that denying him anything tugged at her heart. “Three o’clock,” she promised.
“Callie, don’t go! Wait. Stay here with me. Don’t leave when I’ve just found you.”
“I must go home to Rory. He needs me. I’m all he has—”
“At least let me walk with you. I promise not to come into your house—”
“No,” Callie said firmly.
Rossiter hardly recognized the word, but he knew the tone. It was one his Mamán used to make a point. He had to be satisfied.
He watched Callie walk away from him without a backward glance. He hadn’t known exactly what to expect when he found her, but this certainly wasn’t it. This wasn’t the old Callie, the girl he knew back on Todt Hill. What was that nonsense about two baskets of ironing? Surely she wasn’t taking in laundry! She had almost said it with pride. Rossiter shuffled his feet like a schoolboy whose selfish desires had been denied.
Rossiter spent the night vacillating between exhilaration and depression. He was a father with a son who, according to Callie, looked just like him. Rory. She had called him Rory. But Callie was different, all grown up with a woman’s face and a woman’s body. Where had the girl gone? She was stunningly beautiful, and just the thought of her excited him. He wanted her and meant to have her. It would be as though these past two years had never been. He needed her now, more than ever. He needed her strength to help him find his own direction.
Still, it annoyed him when he remembered the control she had exercised during their brief meeting. He had come away with the feeling that she didn’t quite approve of him, and wasn’t that one of the reasons he had searched for her so desperately? Since his rift with his mother, he needed a woman in his life who could give him that loving approval. A strong woman. A woman in whose eyes he could see himself reflected in the most flattering light. He needed Callie, and he wanted his son. She possessed the serenity he needed in his life, and that would enable him to paint. And always beneath that serenity there was vitality and soundess and purpose. He had sensed her strength even when she was a girl, and that, more than her sky-blue eyes looking adoringly into his, had drawn him to her. It was the kind of strength his mother possessed, but it was tempered with love and an assuring calm.
Thinking about his mother depressed him. A vision flashed before him of Callie and himself and a small son living in a cottage, attempting to eke out an existence. He almost gagged. If he could barely support himself, ho
w could he support Callie and the child? He might make amends with his mother, but she would never come to terms with the fact that he had found Callie again, much less accept his son. Apprehension and self-doubt roiled his innards. Reconciliation with his mother might be impossible. No, he would have to depend upon Callie. Callie loved him. No thought to the contrary ever crossed his mind.
It was well past midnight when Callie folded Mrs. Rawlings’s intricately pleated camisole and placed it in the basket. Her arms were stiff, and the back of her neck and shoulders ached. Callie’s reputation and clientele had grown because of the exactness of her work and her knack for handling the narrow, ridged pleating iron she had trained herself to use. It was said she had the talent of a French lady’s maid, and the compliment never failed to please her.
Her legs and back were practically numb, but she still had three shirts to iron before she could crawl into bed. Her eyes went to the small, low bed in the corner of the one-room shanty. Seeing it was empty didn’t alarm her; Rory lay curled into a ball under his bed. She would pick him up and lay him back under his covers. She had no idea why the tyke crawled under his bed. She supposed it gave him a sense of security, being curled into the small space. He’d outgrow it, she knew with the certainty of one who had a long association with children.
Callie’s eyes went to the double bed; Hugh still wasn’t home. Most likely he would stagger in toward morning. She had ceased to worry about her husband and his drinking. He had become only a minor inconvenience, someone else to feed and look after. Her own life and work was going well. She was satisfied with the small savings she had managed to put away. Soon, very soon, she would make the move out of Shantytown into an apartment.
Callie’s eyes widened, and she was brought up short. Would her plans change now that Rossiter was back? Rossiter was back. Simple and declarative. How strange, uncanny really, that she should meet him again as she had. As she tested the flatiron before applying it to one of the shirts, she allowed Rossiter into her mind. In her daydreams she had always known exactly what she would say, exactly how she would act if she should ever meet him again. How many times she’d rehearsed her little speech. And then, when confronted with the reality, she had done none of the things she’d planned. She still could not resolve the anger that was like a hidden well inside of her. Until meeting Rossiter again she had direction in her life. She had plans and knew exactly where they would take her and Rory.
Upon reflection, she thought she had behaved rather well. She had quelled her questions, stifled her anger and resentments, and controlled the situation. She had been the one to take charge, to make the decision. She was the one who had put him off, suggesting a meeting the next day. Her heart fluttered and then stilled. Did she love Rossiter? Or had she picked up the pieces of her life, examined them, and found them satisfactory? What about her plans for the future—a difficult future, true—but one in which she was in charge of her own life and Rory’s?
Callie slammed the iron down onto the shirt front. She recalled how on first sight she had fallen into his arms. That had to mean something. Relief? But what were her deeper feelings? Was there room in her life for Rossiter? And what about Hugh? Whatever the circumstances, she was his wife and he was her husband, not something Callie took lightly. If she had, Hugh would have been out on his ear long ago. No, she couldn’t think about Hugh, or herself for that matter. Rory had to come first; he was the only one who counted. There were so many feelings she had to sort out before she met Rossiter tomorrow!
Naturally Rossiter wanted to see his son. But how would Hugh react? Lately he had been more snarly and nasty than usual, often ignoring Rory completely. Twice during the past months he had been physically abusive to her. There wouldn’t be a third time. She hoped Hugh remembered her words as she backed away from him and reached for her flatiron. No man, regardless of who he was, would ever lay a hand on her. She wouldn’t permit it. The gratitude she had felt for Hugh at first had diminished bit by bit until there was nothing left. This saddened her. She knew that she was in some way responsible for his change from a good friend who enjoyed a nip or two into a slovenly drunkard whose eyes were filled with bitterness.
Callie glanced once again at Rory, admiring his sleep-flushed cheeks and the pink rosebud of his mouth. Maternal protectiveness and love welled within her breast. Rory was the one who mattered. Only Rory. Her own feelings for Rossiter weren’t important. Rory’s chance for a decent future was not here in Shantytown or in a tiny, cramped apartment with a mother who was overworked and exhausted. If there was any hope for Rory, only Rossiter could give it to him.
The last shirt was finished and carefully folded. She quickly washed her face and hands, changed into her nightdress, and crept between the covers. She was exhausted. She couldn’t think about Rossiter or Rory or even herself and Hugh. Tomorrow would be time enough to deal with it all. Almost before her cheek touched the pillow, Callie was asleep.
Rossiter arrived outside Sylvia Levy’s Tea Room at two o’clock, eager to see Callie again. He had supposed that her eagerness matched his and that she would arrive early. Three o’clock came and went. Rossiter paced the busy sidewalk, becoming more apprehensive as the hands of his pocketwatch approached four.
At ten minutes to four Callie walked briskly down Columbus Avenue. While she didn’t dawdle, neither did she hurry. She had dressed carefully for her meeting with Rossiter, more out of pride than from any intention to impress or seduce. From her meager wardrobe, she had selected her best dress, a castoff from one of her customers’ daughters. It fit a bit snug in the bosom and she’d had to nip in the waistline, but the clear lavender blue accentuated the ivory tones of her skin and brought out the shimmering dark of her hair. White gloves and a white straw bonnet tied with ribbons to match the dress completed the outfit. Her only jewelry was the gold locket Mary had given her on her eighteenth birthday. Callie was twenty now, a woman. Girlhood, if she had indeed ever been a girl, was left behind. The sorrow of Mary’s death was also behind her, and not long ago Callie had realized she could open the locket and gaze upon the little girl’s sweet face without recrimination. Now she was going to meet the other face in the locket. Rossiter.
Rossiter recognized Callie coming up the avenue. She walked with her chin held high, shoulders squared, hips swinging lightly with that same gentle grace he remembered and which never failed to excite him. He was so glad to see her, he almost forgot his disappointment that she didn’t break into a run or approach him breathlessly, offering excuses for her lateness. She merely smiled at him and waited for him to open the door to the Tea Room. He noted that she was greeted by name by the proprietress and several women patrons, which she acknowledged graciously. She waited for Rossiter to hold her chair. He was slightly put off his stride by this formal, grown-up Callie.
“I’ve been waiting around outside since two o’clock. I thought you’d be as eager to see me as I was to see you.” While not actually a complaint, the message was clear. Rossiter was annoyed.
Callie smiled, waiting for him to give the waitress their order. of tea and cakes. “I’m sorry to be late, Rossiter,” she told him gently. “I had certain things that required my attention.” It wasn’t an excuse nor an apology, he realized, only the facts. “How is your family. How is your father?”
“Papá is fine; so is Mamán. Anne is married, you know. Callie, you’re so beautiful. I can’t quite come to terms with the fact that the lovely, simple girl I knew has become a grown-up lady.”
Callie laughed, a musical trill. “Time changes all of us, Rossiter.”
“I’ve dreamed about you, missed you! You must know, Callie, I still love you, I never stopped loving you!” There was such earnestness in his tone, such emotion in his eyes, that Callie was suddenly shaken with the memories of those nights when he had come to her room and looked at her the way he was doing now, saying her name as he had just said it. “I can’t believe that after all my searching I should come upon you by the sheerest of acc
idents.”
Callie steeled herself, keeping her control at great cost. She wanted to rant and rail and beat upon him, cursing him for leaving her alone and never thinking to inquire after her until nearly two years later. It stung to suddenly discover this anger; it hurt to know how little she had meant to him after all. Biting back the sharpness from her voice, she faced Rossiter directly, willing herself not to see her own Rory’s dear face in the face of his father. “Evidently thinking and dreaming and longing were enough for you, Rossiter. You never came home to see me, you never wrote. I wrote you, Rossiter; you didn’t anser.”
Was this Callie, his Callie, speaking to him this way, with such cool control in her voice? Accusing him? “Lena said you wrote. I never received it,” he defended. “If I had known, I would have returned immediately. You must believe that, Callie!”
“Do you believe it, Rossiter? Would you have gone against your Mamán to come back to me? Last I heard, you were busy courting a lovely young heiress. Did you ever marry her?”
Rossiter hung his head, remembering the scandal he had caused and his mother’s final rejection of him. “No, I was engaged to her, but we never married. I had a change of heart.” He lifted his head, looking into her eyes, willing her to believe him. “I couldn’t marry another when it was you I loved.”
The waitress chose that inopportune moment to bring the tea tray and cakes, forcing him to restrain his words. As he watched the delicate china pot and teacups placed upon the white cloth, he had time to think. He remembered Jasper’s coolness when he had made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with his son. If Lena knew about Callie’s child, was it possible Jasper also knew?
As soon as the waitress left, Rossiter reached across the table, grasping Callie’s hand. “Does my father know about the child?”
Callie sensed his need for reassurance. “No, I didn’t see any need to . . . to burden him at such a painful time. He had only come back for Mary’s funeral, you know. I couldn’t go to him for help; I couldn’t hurt him that way. I’m married, and Rory bears the MacDuff name.”
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