“What’s that?”
“My sister had a gift.”
“A present?”
“No, like your ability to run. A gift from God, a talent.”
Rain began to fall in light bursts. They needed to get down. Maude bit her lip.
“You think God made me fast?”
“Ja. And he made my sister a gifted writer, and when Magdalena died …”
“Yes?” Jack moved closer to Ben and used his bare toes to nudge him.
Ben continued his reverse crawl toward Maude, and she exhaled in relief. “I missed her stories.”
“I don’t miss Virgie’s stories.” Jack looked just like a banty rooster up there, strutting toward the end of the arch.
“You will when she’s gone.” Ben looked up at her brother.
Tears welled in Maude’s eyes.
“Maybe. Ya know, Dad says your gift is music.”
From behind her, Maude heard Father’s and Ada’s voices. When Ben’s back foot descended onto the platform and Jack hopped down beside him, Maude hugged both of them close to her. She couldn’t lose either one. Whatever Ben had done, couldn’t she find it in her heart to forgive this man she’d grown to love?
Father rushed up the stairs and pulled Jack into a bear hug and then gestured for him to go to the carriage.
Maude kissed his cheek. “Ben, do what you need to do. Search your own conscience. Then let me know. But realize this—I forgive you no matter what.” She’d have to pray about these words that were put in her mouth from something, Someone, besides herself.
He pulled her into his arms, and as the rain pelted down, Ben covered her mouth with his, his masculine scent and the warmth of him, the solidness, lulling her into a sense of protection that she never wanted to end.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ben smacked the return on the typewriter in resounding satisfaction. Completed. Finished. Likely to net him a huge bonus, an advancement, and perhaps a bit of respect.
Someone rapped at the door. “Message for you, sir.”
He rose and neared the door. “Slide it under, please, Ray.”
A rose-tinted envelope passed beneath and onto the carpet. Ben plucked it up from the floor and opened it.
Maude’s perfume wafted from the missive as he opened it. “I’m waiting downstairs. Come for a ride with me.”
Another faint knock sounded. “Sir?”
“Yes, Ray?”
“Miss Welling wants to know if you’ll be coming down or not. What should I tell her?”
Ben opened the door. “Tell her five minutes.”
“Sure thing.”
When Ben arrived in the hotel lobby, he found Maude waiting, dressed in a brown boxy day suit, her hair upswept beneath a boater hat banded with a matching cocoa-colored ribbon, eyes serious.
“Come along, we’re keeping my cousin waiting.” A faint smile curved her beautiful lips.
Maude circled her arm through Ben’s and commandeered him out the door to a waiting cab, her cousin Stanley the driver.
Soon, they’d entered the carriage and rounded the Grand and then continued down the hill. Other drivers allowed Stan’s cab out into traffic, busy this warm sunny day as they headed toward the main street. Only a faint breeze stirred the air. The sapphire waters of the straits lay calm. Waiting.
“How’s Jack today?” To have Maude so close, so warm and comfortable beside him, unnerved Ben.
“He’s fine, now, thank God.” When he pressed his hand over hers, she slid it away, clutching both her hands together in her lap and avoiding eye contact.
“Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise.” She arched an eyebrow at him. “I thought you might want to see this before you leave the island.”
On they traveled through town and past the harbor, seagulls diving to feast on bread crumbs tossed by tourists at the park.
The cab soon turned down a side street nearby. Slowly they climbed the hill, and then Stan parked the cab beside a simple square-framed house, standing three stories tall.
The whitewashed building’s peeling paint made the house an eyesore. Scaffolding surrounded the building, up to the second story. The silver-gray wood on the top level revealed a complete absence of paint. A young man spread paint on the side corner, his back to them, while two other men worked below.
“Greyson! Be careful up there, do you hear me?” A woman’s voice carried to them and up to the man, for he paused in his brushstrokes.
“Yes, Mother.”
The lady sat on a porch quite a ways from where the man painted.
“Why doesn’t she move to where he might hear her better?” Ben whispered to Maude as she lifted her skirts to disembark the carriage.
She turned and cast him a withering look. “You’ll see.”
The young man removed his hat and wiped his forehead, blond hair glistening.
The door to the home opened, and Anna emerged, her apron barely covering the babe that surely was growing within her. Mrs. Forham’s words ran through his mind, “Please watch out for my daughter—I love her so.” He drew in a slow breath and followed Maude into the overgrown yard.
“Good morning, Mrs. Luce. Anna …” Maude’s breezy voice held no scorn, no anger, only peace and grace and acceptance.
The older woman remained seated. Anna moved toward Mrs. Luce.
As Ben stepped toward the porch, he heard Greyson descending the scaffolding.
Mrs. Luce sat upright in a wheelchair.
“Mother?” Greyson pushed past Ben, sidestepping Maude, to join his wife and mother on the porch.
The three of them looked at Maude, then Ben.
“Welcome, Maude—we’ve not seen you in some time.”
Maude turned toward Ben, her soft features begging him to understand.
“We mean to remedy that, Mrs. Luce. You see, there is no reason for you to miss church just because Greyson has come home for the summer and Anna is …”
Greyson’s eyes widened.
Maude continued, “… unwell at present. And congratulations, by the way.”
What an amazing woman Maude was, to extend such Christian charity. Ben took a step closer and cupped her elbow, watching as the two other men ascended the stairs to paint.
“Come sit in the chairs, Maude. This must be your Mr. Steffan—I’ve heard so much about him from Anna.”
Anna’s cheeks reddened, and Greyson cast his wife a look of surprise.
“Mr. Steffan? I think you mean Mr. König.”
Ben cleared his throat. “No, Steffan would be the correct name. Ben Steffan.” The journalist who’d planned to write an article documenting all your sins for public consumption. His face heated.
A furrow formed between Greyson’s eyebrows. “Anna’s mother thought a reporter named Ben Steffan hung the moon.”
“A kind and gracious lady.” Kind and gracious—unlike himself.
“So that’s you?” Greyson frowned at Ben and then directed his gaze to his wife, who appeared nonplussed.
Mrs. Luce clapped her hands together and rotated her wheelchair slightly. “Now, come sit beside me, tell me all about yourself, and I’ll decide if Mrs. Forham should have thought of you like I do of my Greyson.”
A smile jerked at Ben’s lips. “No man can accomplish that, save with his own mother, Mrs. Luce.” He bent over her hand and pressed a kiss to the dry skin.
She giggled like a girl. “Oh, Mr. Steffan, I think I see why Mrs. Forham cared for you so.”
Later, as the sun hit full high noon over the house, and Ben’s story had slipped away like the magnificent sunsets did every night on the island, Anna brought out a tray of sandwiches and a pitcher of lemonade. “Mother Luce, would you like to eat inside or out?”
“Inside of course. I must see if this whippersnapper really can carry me as easily as he claims.”
Heat climbed up Ben’s neck. “Madam, I assure you my boast is good.” His article, however, was shot. He rose, dusted off his
hands, and stood in front of the woman. She appeared about Maude’s size. He bent.
“Do you give me permission to place my hand and arm beneath your knees?”
“Do what you need to do, young man, but I’d be ever so happy to sit in a regular chair at the dining-room table, if you please.”
Maude held the screen door open. Inside, Greyson pulled a heavy mahogany chair from a long oval table, covered in an expensive linen tablecloth. Silver had already been set as though for dinner, and china and crystal sat at seven places.
“Would you call in the men for lunch, please, Anna? Give them the soap and those towels, and they can wash up at the pump outside first.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Anna Forham Luce—essentially the servant of her mother-in-law. Remarkable. Or was it an act?
Regardless, not only did Ben no longer have any belongings, but he couldn’t in good conscience turn in his story. No story—no work. No work—no money. No money … Then what?
Back at the Grand, Ben pulled his watch from his vest pocket. He grabbed his valise with a change of clothes. If he caught a cab right now, he could hightail it to Mackinaw City while the sun still shone. The note he’d received back from the music hall said he could stay over the night he auditioned.
The boat from the island seemed to have just departed when Ben already found himself at the dock in Mackinaw City. On the way over, he’d sat there contemplating his two marketable skills: his writing and his music. If the boss fired him, he might even cancel his steamship fare back to Detroit. Knots turned to rock-hard stollen loaves in his stomach. If he turned in his story, which he knew he couldn’t, he’d have an assured future.
He could imagine the telegram he’d receive back from his boss:
GREAT ARTICLE Stop PROMOTION TO ASSISTANT EDITOR Stop IMMEDIATE RAISE IN PAY Stop
New desk, new title on the door, new assignments, a nice little house near the paper. All of that up in smoke, like the boardinghouse that had held his meager belongings. This trip to the mainland was out of desperation. If he destroyed his article, then he must have some way to live. All the nightmares of the hunger and degradation in Chicago had flooded his sleep.
Standing at the Mackinaw City dock, he closed his eyes, allowing the misty morning to wash over him, to mourn what could have been his. It could have been theirs. His and Maude’s.
Amazing how empty he felt. If he’d had the promotion, all would have been meaningless without someone to share it with. Without Maude there beside him, what point was there? He’d never felt more alone in his life. He headed off in the direction of the music hall that the Grand’s songstress, Lily, had spoken about, and from there he’d visit the newspaper office. He’d definitely stop in the tavern that offered the overnight stay. He could play all the popular songs by ear.
Lord, if it is Your will that I abandon my article and face the consequences, then show me. He first sought out the post office and mailed the copy of the Edmunds article to Banyon. The public interest would likely be minimal, but at least his boss couldn’t say he’d had no return on his money. This article, was, after all, what he and the editor had originally agreed on. Before Banyon had slipped in his underhanded plan for someone to expose Anna Forham Luce and her new husband. Doubtful that Banyon even realized his rival had spitefully cut off his own daughter—leaving her with no dowry.
The late afternoon passed in a blur of meetings with managers, the editor of the newspaper, and the owner of the music hall. With each affirmation of interest in hiring him, Ben had breathed easier, his tie seemed less tight, and his palms not so damp.
A foghorn tooted as Ben made his way to a nearby coffee shop. With the heavy mist rolling in so thick, so deep, would he be able to make it back to the island that night?
He pulled a note from his pocket—one from the owner of the Mackinac Express newspaper with the salary amount notated on it. Not very much. He fingered it. If he taught piano on the island and he wrote for the paper, he could afford a tiny house in the center of the island.
Ben opened the door to the café, inhaling the scent of freshly baked pasties and sugar cookies, and entered the square room, it’s pine plank floors squeaking as he moved toward a small round table.
“Sit where you like, dear,” a red-haired matronly woman called over her shoulder as she poured coffee into a gentleman’s cup.
As the waitress moved aside, Ben realized her body had shielded Adelaide Bishop from his view. He sucked in a breath and almost rose to leave, but Ada’s pointed look held him in check. She sat with a slim ebony-haired man—the physician from the Grand.
The waitress moved to his table. “Coffee?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“You want the meat loaf special or the pasty?”
“The pasty, please.”
“I’ll throw you a little taters and gravy on the side. You’re a big man, and I ’spect you’ll need a big-man’s meal.” She chuckled as she poured his coffee. “My husband can put away three of them pasties by himself. He’s a lumberjack, though.”
All Ben could manage was, “Oh.” And as quickly as she’d arrived, the woman was off and headed behind the counter to the kitchen, which was shielded from the interior by a pair of checked curtains.
He sipped the bitter coffee then poured some cream from a chipped tinware container into his mug. He dipped his dented teaspoon into the small crockery bowl of sugar cubes, managing to snag two, and plunked them into his coffee, trying not to let his discomfiture show when the physician rose from the table and made to leave.
Ada also rose, but she carried her coffee mug and a plate of what looked like cookies smothered in hot fudge and topped with whipped cream. A lot of sugar for a tiny woman.
The duo made their way toward him.
“Mr. König, how are you?”
Ben made to stand, but Ada and the man gestured for him to remain seated. “My name is actually Steffan, Ben Steffan.”
“I see. I’ve heard of cases such as yours, but I’ve never met someone with multiple identities.” Dr. DuBlanc tapped his index finger against his pants leg.
Ada let out a low, rich laugh. “He means he’s used a pseudonym—he’s a journalist. Aren’t you, Mr. Steffan?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Good. I think I’ve had enough psychiatric cases for the day.” He exchanged a glance with Ada. “Well, I’m off to the docks. Hope they’ll take me back over.”
“I think I’ll catch the next ferry, Dr. DuBlanc.” Ada extended her hand. “You’ll be returning tonight, won’t you, Mr. Steffan?”
“Yes, after dinner. Please sit down and join me.”
“Thank you. And Doctor, again, thank you for your help and for having your mentor meet with us. I feel a great relief.”
“You’re very welcome. I’ve never had anyone be so grateful to have a psychiatric ailment.”
“Much better than heart problems.” Ada’s features bunched together as she lowered herself into the seat across from Ben.
DuBlanc grabbed his hat from the stand and departed.
Ada leaned in. “Did you send it?”
“My story? Yes.” He gritted his teeth.
“The one about Greyson and Anna?”
“No.”
“Ah. Are you going to?”
“No.”
“I see. So then, you have nothing to give your editor.”
“Not exactly. I sent him an article about Marcus Edmunds.”
“Little toad, he deserves to be exposed.” She sniffed and sat taller in her chair.
“He’s charming, even if he is a toad.”
“Yes, he’s that all right. But how would you like to be the parents of the girl who has been charmed out of her inheritance?” She arched an eyebrow at him.
“I wouldn’t.”
“Exactly. You’re doing someone a good deed.”
“I hope so. I pray this article will be a warning.” He truly did.
“So what do you suppose will
happen now?” A crease formed between her eyebrows.
“I’ll probably be dismissed.”
“Worst-case possibility? What would that look like?”
He chuckled. “This morning I’d have given you a litany of woes, including the fact that my boardinghouse burned down—along with all my belongings.”
She gaped.
Ben continued: “But now from where I’m sitting, things are looking manageable.”
“Manageable? You’ve given up your dreams?”
He drew in a long breath. “I don’t know. I’m starting to think those dreams were that of a very frightened boy, and I don’t want to be him anymore.”
“Ah. So Jack’s episode brought some good, did it?”
“Not just that. Many things.”
The waitress whistled as she crossed the floor, juggling a plate piled high with a pasty, gravy, potatoes, another plate piled with rolls and bread, and a crock of butter. She set them down with startling efficiency then brushed her hands against her apron. “Now, enjoy.”
“Thank you.”
Ada eyed him, eyes direct and piercing. “While you eat, I’ll talk.”
Ben nodded, silently prayed a blessing, and then tore into the fantastic-smelling beef, potato, carrot, and turnip pie that he’d ordered.
“I think I have a story that could get you that coveted assistant editorship spot you’ve wanted.”
“I’m listening.”
“Fine. Eat and listen. I’m going to give you the scoop of the century.” She laughed.
Prickles of apprehension worked their way up his neck.
“There was a little girl named Ada whose parents died from typhus. She lived in Detroit. The social welfare agency matron found her guarding the bodies of her parents and little sister.”
Ben stifled a groan, the food in his mouth turning bitter.
“The nice lady took her on a train far out into the countryside, where Ada lived on a farm. There were many people there, all different ages of children, some adults even. It was what you call a poor farm.”
The wealthiest woman in America had grown up on a poor farm.
“In Shepherd, Michigan.”
My Heart Belongs on Mackinac Island Page 25
