For the first time, Trissa eyes focused steadily on the social worker. "Nicholas saved my life, Mrs. Pulasky. He saved me. How can I not be safe with a man who would have given his life for mine?"
"I understand what you're saying. You've had a traumatic experience. It's only natural that you look to this man as your savior. But I can't understand what led up to this... this accident. I can't understand why you would be out in the dark, in the cold, on the railroad tracks, alone."
"I can't explain. It would hurt people I care -- used to care about, and I can't do that. But believe me, Nicholas was not to blame. Nicholas had nothing to do with it."
"I believe you, Trissa. I'll talk to Dr. Edmonds. He will probably release you as early as tomorrow, maybe."
"Do you think it could be today? I'm worried about the expense."
"Don't worry about that. That's one thing I can take care of. And if there's anything else, if you just need somebody to talk to, here's my card. It has my extension here at the hospital. and if I'm not here for some reason, someone will answer and take a message. I'm never more than ten minutes away from getting my messages."
A knock at the door interrupted them. "Flowers."
"Come in," Georgia called, and a tall, bespectacled volunteer entered with a vase of pink roses and daisies.
"For Trissa?" the volunteer said. "Sorry, these are a little late."
"That's me," answered Trissa, hopping to her feet as the vase was delivered into her outstretched hands. "There's no card."
"No, he didn't leave one. He seemed in a hurry."
"It can't be Nicholas." Trissa said. "He already brought flowers."
"Maybe they're from your parents?" Mrs. Pulasky said.
The vase slipped from Trissa's suddenly trembling hands and crashed to the floor, splattering water and shards of glass. "My father?"
"Don't move, Trissa, you'll cut yourself!" Georgia cautioned, reaching for her elbows to hold her in place. Slivers of pink glass surrounded Trissa's bare toes. "Quick, see if there are some slippers in that suitcase over there," she instructed the volunteer, who jumped to the task.
"I have to get out of here. My father -- my father knows." Trissa's words came in quick, panicked gulps.
"What is going on here?" bellowed a voice from the doorway. In three quick strides, Dr. Edmonds was upon them. He whisked Trissa from her feet and deposited her on the bed. "Well, don't just stand there. Get that mess cleaned up," he yelled at the now quaking, young volunteer.
"Oh, dear. Oh, dear," she fretted. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." She tossed the slippers she'd found to the bed and raced from the room.
Trissa made a grab for the slippers and tried to clamber off the bed again, her terror giving her a strength and purpose she had not had before. Edmonds pulled her back and held her down with one strong hand. "Lie still," he ordered her.
"Let me go! I have to go!"
"Not until this glass is cleaned up and someone tells me what's going on here."
It was useless to struggle against his strength and Trissa was flagging quickly. "I won't go back to him. You can't make me. You can't," she whimpered. She sank back to the pillow, her shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs.
"Don't worry. I won't let Brewer touch you!"
Trissa responded with renewed determination. "No! Let me go! Nicholas! Nicholas!" she screeched as she tried, in vain, to twist away from him.
The social worker intervened. "Doctor, let me try," she said firmly as she placed her hand on his forearm. Edmonds eased up almost immediately and a fleeting look of chagrin crossed his face.
"It's all right, Trissa," Georgia tried to soothe her. "I'll explain to Dr. Edmonds. We'll be right outside the door. No one will get past us to harm you." Two orderlies entered with broom, mop, and bucket. Georgia pulled the covers over Trissa's oversized garments disheveled by the struggle. "I'll be back to help you dress when these guys finish up, okay?" Trissa nodded, the new audience giving her no other choice.
"Could you step out into the hall with me for a moment, Doctor?"
The orderlies went about their business then exited as both Mrs. Pulasky and Edmonds reentered Trissa's room to find her already sorting through her suitcase for clothes to wear.
"Any more headaches or dizziness, Trissa?"
She looked up and self-consciously clutched her gown and robe tighter around her. "None since this morning, Doctor."
"Is there not some relative who could take you home? An aunt? A grandparent?" he asked.
"Relative? But -- Nicholas will take me. Didn't Mrs. Pulasky explain?"
"She did. I guess I'm just too pigheaded to let go of my prejudices. But I have decided to let you go. However, you must promise to come back for a check up in a week, and to call me anytime you need me, day or night."
"I promise."
"Then I'll get the paperwork started. I suppose Brewer is lurking about somewhere," he muttered.
"He told us where he'd be," Mrs. Pulasky said. "I'd like to talk with him first."
"Be my guest," he said. "Trissa, I wish I'd been able to help you more than I have. Remember your promise."
*****
When Nicholas found that a cigarette or two did nothing to calm his nerves, he gave up and found a place to pace in the hospital reception area. That was where Georgia Pulasky found him. "Mr. Brewer, you've been very patient, and I think I have some good news for you."
"Then it was worth being patient."
"Trissa is being released and you can take her home in about an hour."
"I can? I mean, have you asked her if that's what she wants?"
"She and I had a long talk. She revealed a little more about last night than she intended to, I believe. And I have guessed at the rest. You are quite a hero to her, Mr. Brewer."
"I am?"
"Anybody who knew the story would say so. But I am afraid, considering the circumstances, only the three of us will ever know it. You saved her life."
"I think I saved my own life, Mrs. Pulasky."
"But you are not her husband."
"Did she tell you that?"
"No, in fact, she said the opposite. It's just part of what I've guessed. Whatever your motives for this lie, I suspect they were goodhearted ones. You know Dr. Edmonds does not share my belief."
"I know that."
"I also want you to know that his motives are goodhearted as well. I've seen her with him. He only wants to protect her. And she needs protecting. She may be more fragile than any of us know. She might not survive a tug-of-war between you two. Be careful."
"I will."
"And keep her from her father."
"I intend to."
"I gave Trissa my card. I want you to have it, too. She mentioned some concern about expenses."
"I'll take care of them. It may take time, but I will."
"I can work something out for you, if you'll let me. Call me tomorrow and we'll discuss it. And if you have any other questions or doubts or needs..."
"Thank you, Mrs. Pulasky." He reached out to shake her hand just as the elevator door opened to reveal Trissa with a volunteer at her elbow. She was dressed in a soft, dusty rose sweater and dress. She had brushed her hair forward to cover the cheek that bore the worst of her bruises. She looked like some frail and battered angel as she took two hesitant steps toward them, unwilling it seemed, to interrupt their conversation. Nicholas forgot there was anyone else on the planet. He left Georgia without a sideward glance.
"Are you ready to take me home?"
"Yes, Trissa, I'm ready."
*****
"So you're leaving together?" Edmonds found them on the verge of exiting the building.
"As I told you we would. Together. As we arrived," said Nicholas.
"I wouldn't allude to the condition of your arrival, if I were you, Brewer." Edmonds shouldered his way between her and Nicholas, and Trissa realized at that moment the size of the doctor. He was half a foot taller than Nicholas and his chest seemed twice as broad.
With his lean waist and well-muscled thighs, he seemed almost overpowering to her.
Beside him, Nicholas was a neat package of coiled strength and energy, compact and well proportioned. Both men seemed ready to growl and bristle like two dogs, a Great Dane and a terrier, contending over a bone. And that made her the bone. Almost unwittingly, she'd edged toward the terrier.
"Trissa, there's still time to change your mind," Dr. Edmonds said with the portent of a final warning.
Both pairs of eyes pierced hers and in her moment of flustered silence, she saw Nicholas' soften and sadden. She closed her own eyes against them, afraid to see what change her words might bring, regret or relief. "No, I'm going home. With Nicholas." Nicholas took her hand and squeezed it, tugging her away to break the circle of tension.
"I'll be watching you, Nicholas Brewer," Edmonds barked after them.
"Fine, but do call for an appointment first, Doc," Nicholas snapped back with a complacent grin "My wife and I will try to squeeze you in."
The easy-listening station on the car radio emitted a slightly staticky stream of Andy Williams, Peggy Lee, and Acker Bilk. Without really listening to it, she let the music soothe her. Between each song the deep and mellow voice of the announcer intruded to sell Chevrolets or vacations in the Ozarks, give a weather report, or wish a happy birthday.
"And now, from out of the past, the powerful pipes of pint-sized Teresa Brewer singing 'Let Me Go, Lover'."
"Teresa Brewer," Trissa murmured.
"Hmmm?"
"Teresa Brewer. That's me now, I guess. Teresa Marie Brewer. Sounds okay."
Nicholas glanced sideways at her, then mirrored her smile. "Sounds just fine to me." His smile faded a bit as he looked back at the road. "Do you understand why I had to lie now, Trissa?"
"You had no other choice."
"I don't want you to think I had some other motives. That stuff between Edmonds and me, don't pay any attention to it. He suspects we're not married, and it galls him that he couldn't prove it. I had to rub his nose in it. Can you understand that? It's what men have to do sometimes, just because they're men and don't know any better. I should have thought. Your reputation--"
"Don't worry about my reputation. It's silver plate at best, worn down to base nickel in some spots already, I'm afraid." She tried to sound lighthearted but managed only wistful.
Nicholas frowned and pulled the car to the curb, provoking a honk from the old Mercury wagon behind them. Surprised, Trissa looked around them. "Are we there already?"
"No, we have to talk." He reached down to cut off Teresa Brewer's belting voice in mid-chorus, and turned to face Trissa. "I have to tell you that I know I was wrong to call you my wife and I regret it. Anything would have been better -- sister, niece -- I don't know. I should have used my head. I never meant--"
"Never mind. It doesn't matter anymore." There was a strange exhilaration welling up inside her, as a butterfly might feel as it emerged from its cocoon and reached for the sun to dry its wings. "Oh, how far are we from your place? Let's hurry. I feel like I'm becoming a whole new person."
"I was getting to like the old one pretty well." Nicholas slipped the car into drive and steered it back into traffic.
"You didn't really know her. You're lucky, trust me." She flicked the volume back up and hummed along while Dean Martin sang about how you're nobdy 'til somebody loves you. "You know, Nicholas, I think we're stuck with this husband and wife thing. For appearances sake only, of course."
A bemused grin crinkled his cheek. The one that faced her as he kept his eyes on the road was unblemished by their mishap and had the most charming dimple. "Of course."
"I'm thinking about your reputation now," she said earnestly. "What will your neighbors think when you bring me home? I look nothing like your sister except for our matching bruises. And niece sounds very fishy to me. Nope, wife is best. Trissa Brewer. It has sort of a ring to it, don't you think?"
"Music to my ears. I notice you didn't bring the flowers I sent. Didn't they arrive before you left?"
"The flowers? Oh, you sent the flowers? Thank you." She couldn't help it. She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "They were beautiful. I broke the vase. But they were beautiful. Now that I know they were from you, it makes them all the more beautiful."
"I'm glad."
Trissa smiled contentedly and turned her head toward the window. "Oh, I know where we are now. My great grandma lived down that street. There's a little park with a fountain. She died when I was seven, but I remember playing in that park. My brother Lonny took me there when we visited her. Having little kids around made her nervous."
She hadn't been in this part of town in years. Though it was just a few blocks south of St. Mark's, her high school on Page and Academy, for four years the limits of her world had extended to the bus stop on that corner and not a block beyond. The big, old houses and solid, brick apartment buildings row upon row down the streets branching off Kingshighway Boulevard seemed less intimidating than they once had to a little girl, but they were no less impressive. Kensington, Enright, and Delmar slipped past and the high rises, hotels, and hospitals loomed as they approached Forest Park.
Trissa caught her breath as Nicholas turned down Lindell, whose mansions faced the park, then, amazingly, right on Lake Avenue in the very midst of those mansions to Westmoreland Place. Westmoreland and its neighbor, Portland Place, were two of the remaining private place streets of the city, enclaves of the rich and the great brick bastions they erected. The private streets were established in the late eighteen hundreds to shield the high and mighty from the riffraff of common traffic.
Massive stone and iron gates guarded Westmoreland and Portland Place from entry at the main thoroughfares of Kingshighway and Union. Riding down those streets as a child, Trissa remembered gazing down the private places as long as the moving car allowed, wondering what it would be like to be a cherished child growing up there. She imagined the great black gates swinging open to admit her, her chauffeur joking with the guard, and both of them calling her Miss Trissa.
She had never known this Lake Avenue entrance existed, and as the sheltering trees that formed a canopy of budding branches overhead began to seal off the noise and bustle of the city, she thought Nicholas might be driving her to some hushed and secret world. She scooted forward in her seat to get a better view of the huge and stately houses that they passed, built in brick or stone to resemble Tudor manors, Georgian mansions, or Italian piazzas, styles that reflected the changing fancies of the rich over the years this place was in its prime. In her starry-eyed daze, Trissa barely noticed that some showed signs of neglect as their owners grew old and died, servants became too expensive to keep, and estates became entangled, wrangled over by children and children's children.
"Here? You live here, Nicholas?" she whispered as he pulled up the drive of a white stone fortress flanked by round towers with conical, slate roofs, lacking only fluttering banners to mimic a miniature Romanesque castle.
"Only when I'm in town," he yawned. "So hard to find a decent place for the polo ponies in the city."
For just a moment her eyes went round with wonder until she realized he must be teasing her. "Come on, where do you really live?"
"Here. Really. I rent a room upstairs. Some of the houses on this street take boarders now to make ends meet. It's against the deed restrictions but the owners are very discreet and clever in finding ways around that. Officially, I'm listed as the gardener, I think, though I couldn't tell a weed from an orchid." He leaped out of the car and hurried to the passenger side sweeping the door open with a flourish. "Welcome to Portland Place where the haughty hobnob with the hoi polloi. May I carry you across the threshold of our humble abode, Mrs. Brewer?"
Chapter Eight
Though he usually used the rear entrance and the back stairs to his room, Nicholas escorted Trissa to the front. He wanted her to get the grand sweep of the foyer as the original owner intended for his honored guests. He only regretted
that it was not those few moments in the early morning when the sun poured through the stained glass panels of the front door to set the grand staircase shimmering with rainbows. But that would be a revelation for some other day.
Right now it gave him joy enough to feel her hand so confidently in his as she followed him down the flagstone walkway, through the overgrown side garden, and up the steps to the arched stone porch that sheltered the front entrance. The massive oak door, carved with thistles, had bold, brass hardware and a lion's head knocker tarnished to verdigris. Dwarfed by the door, Trissa tilted her head back to admire the stained glass transom and panels on either side of the door, which repeated the thistle pattern of the carving in shades of amethyst and emerald. Nicholas set her suitcase down and pushed his key into the lock. The rusty mechanism gave reluctantly and the door groaned open. He turned expectantly toward Trissa.
"You're not really going to carry me over?" she asked with surprise.
"If you will allow me that honor." Before she had a chance to decline, he quickly added, "For appearance' sake only, you understand," and he effortlessly gathered her in his arms. "Now close your eyes." When she did as he asked, he leaned against the door to shove it open and whisked her over the threshold. "Open them," he whispered.
"Oh! Oh my!" was all she could say as her eyes took in all of it. As he had hoped, Augusta had done her duty and lit the crystal chandelier and wall sconces at the first hint of dusk, and they filled the foyer with dancing light. It set afire the gold filigree of the wallpaper, turned the veins of the marble floor into gilded rivulets, and gave a warm glow to the ivory painted woodwork. Above them, the embossed copper ceiling twinkled back the light from a thousand diamond-cut edges. The foyer was Augusta's labor of love. She fussed over its care, shining and dusting and polishing incessantly.
"First impressions are so important," she'd told Nicholas on the day he came about renting the room. As he lowered Trissa to her feet, he wondered what his landlady's impression would be of her, battered and bruised as she was. He wished he had thought to call her and prepare her for this. It was too late now. The smell of fried chicken and the faint clatter of dinner in progress filtered out from the kitchen.
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