The Bridegrooms

by Allison K. Pittman

  Mrs. Capstone took a step back and surveyed first the green hat, then the woman, then the blue, then the woman, and said, “Take the blue, or buy nothing at all.”

  Minutes later it was Vada’s turn. She offered her hand to Mrs. Capstone and wished her a good morning.

  “Good morning. Aren’t you one of the Allenhouse girls?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Vada felt like she’d somehow stumbled back into school.

  “And are you looking for anything special today?”

  “Just something…” She had no idea how to ask for a hat that would erase the ravages of a sleepless night, so she simply stared straight into Mrs. Capstone’s eyes and said, “…something that will go with this dress.”

  “And will you be wearing the hat out today?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Capstone pointed to an upholstered bench along the window that looked out into The Arcade. “Then sit. I’ll be right with you.”

  She obeyed, leaning against the cushioned back and allowing herself to close her eyes for just a moment…

  “Miss Allenhouse!”

  Vada scrambled to her feet, a bit disoriented, and blinked several times before the woman in front of her had any meaning.

  “Are you all right, Miss Allenhouse?”

  “Yes, I—” She interrupted herself with an enormous yawn. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  “So I gathered. Here.” Mrs. Capstone thrust forward a beautiful piece—midnight blue felt, the brim, with an alluring iridescent quality, lifted up along one side creating a flattering angle. Shooting up from the crown was an array of peacock feathers. The feathers gave a much-needed shot of bold color to counteract the rather dull color of the fabric of her dress, while the hat itself perfectly matched the piping.

  Vada followed Mrs. Capstone’s pointing finger to the straight-backed chair in front of an oval free-standing mirror and sat down. Her reflection in the artificial light of the store was even more depressing than what she’d seen outside, and somehow plopping a shock of peacock feathers did nothing to brighten it.

  “I’m not sure this is exactly—”

  “Just wait.”

  Then Mrs. Capstone did the most amazing thing. Working her fingers along the brim of the hat, she showed the iridescent quality of the brim to be the result of a layer of fine, gray silk netting that, when not wrapped around the brim, created a lovely, encompassing veil that could be cinched and tied just below her left ear.

  “What do you think now?”

  “Oh, it’s perfect.” And it was. Her face was now a beautiful, mysterious blur. “I, um, didn’t see a price.”

  Of course, that’s because Mrs. Capstone never advertised her prices on any of her merchandise. She crouched down behind Vada and connected their gazes in the mirror. Then, as if some kind of sideshow medium, she squinted her eyes, thought for a minute, and said, “Four dollars and twenty-five cents.”

  Thrilled but suspicious, Vada turned in her seat. “You can’t be serious.”

  “You will buy this hat for four-twenty-five, or you will buy nothing from me today.”

  Minutes later, another woman was in the chair, and Vada, renewed, walked out of the shop. The stunning headpiece garnered more than one admiring glance from the women she passed, though to be true, some of their whispered comments might be due to the eccentricity of wearing such a veil in this setting.

  Despite the generous light allowed in through The Arcade’s glass ceiling, the sheer gray fabric proved to be cumbersome—as did a few low-level plants—so she decided to brave baring her face a little while longer and folded the veil back up over the hat’s brim.

  Any time she and her sisters came shopping here, the tradition was that whatever shop was officially declared the “last” of that outing, they would walk the entire circumference of that level before taking the stairs to the bottom level.

  Perhaps it was a matter of stalling before heading out on such an unpleasant errand, or perhaps it was a feeling of guilt for her outburst this morning. Or for her behavior the night before. Whatever the motivation, she’d paid such a surprisingly reasonable price for her hat she felt she could splurge on a little something for each of her sisters.

  So, as she made her way along the second-floor balcony, Vada stopped at her favorite stationers and bought a box of pretty letter paper for Hazel and a box of pretty painted pencils for Lisette. For Althea she found a beautiful tiny notebook with gold-winged cherubs painted on the cover. Nothing seemed appropriate for Doc, but she reasoned she’d done him no wrong, and an unexpected gift would bring more questions than anything.

  Satisfied, she took her paper-wrapped bundle and listlessly strolled the rest of the second story before heading out to the street. Once there, she paused long enough to bring down the veil before fixing her steps toward the Hollenden Hotel.

  Although she had no way of knowing precisely, it must have been after noon when she walked into the lobby. The lunch hour. The sheer gray netting made it more difficult for her eyes to adjust to the dark, rich interior of the lobby; still, she made her way to the restaurant without mishap.

  Bad enough that she hadn’t planned exactly what she was going to say when she came face-to-veil with Mr. Triplehorn; there was one other confrontation she hadn’t planned on. The minute she saw the large podium outside the double doors leading into the dining room, she remembered the stubby maître d’ who seemed so smugly satisfied to escort her and her little party out of here three days ago. And there he was.

  All the weight of anxiety she’d carried all day settled in her shoes, and by the time she arrived at the podium, her feet were too heavy to pick her up and run her away. But it was too late to turn back as his face had already folded into a broad smile.

  “Are you meeting somebody for lunch, mademoiselle?” The cordial reception indicated a total lack of recognition on his part, as he stretched mademoiselle into five syllables, much different from LaFortune’s compact mam’zelle.

  “Do you know if Mr. Triplehorn is luncheoning in the dining room today?”

  Either her voice or the mention of Triplehorn’s name brought a spark of recognition, but still, he consulted the enormous book on the podium before responding, “I’m so sorry, mademoiselle. Monsieur Triplehorn has not made an appearance since breakfast. Perhaps,” he laid one finger to the side of his nose and raised an eyebrow, “mademoiselle will be visiting him in his room?”

  Ordinarily, Vada would have delivered a gasp along with an injurious retort, but the hat and the veil elevated her above the moment, and she simply inclined her head. “I don’t believe so, thank you.”

  She turned slowly and glided back to the lobby, counting on her pace and posture to blend her in with the other hotel guests milling about on the marble floor.

  At the far end of the room was a long counter made of highly polished maple, armed with a regiment of uniformed bellboys in perfect formation along its front. Now it was just a matter of handing one of them a note to be delivered to Mr. Triplehorn’s room and keeping the courage needed to wait at the bottom of the wide, carpeted staircase for his arrival.

  Taking a deep breath, she approached the first boy on the line, a lad of no more than fourteen with a smattering of blemishes underscored by the chinstrap of his bell cap. She cleared her throat, getting no response. “Excuse me, boy?”

  He said nothing. She maneuvered her body directly in front of his, bending down to meet his eyes, craning her neck with each attempt at his avoidance.

  Finally, she opened the clasp of her handbag, and before she could reach in for a dime, he clicked his heels together and delivered a crisp, “Help you with something, ma’am?”

  “Yes.” Her fingers pinched the coin within her purse. “I need you to deliver a message to Mr. Triplehorn.”

  “You mean a note?” His voice cracked with the question.

  “No, just a… If you’ll please tell him Miss Allenhouse, Miss Vada Allenhouse is downstairs to speak with h
im.”

  He fished a square of paper and a pencil out of his pocket and wrote a reasonable spelling of both names. “And what room is Mr.”—he consulted his note—“Triplehorn in?”

  “I don’t know. He’s not quite expecting me.”

  “Are you a guest in this hotel?”

  She was more appreciative than ever of the veil to hide her blush. “No.”

  He clicked his heels again and returned the paper to his pocket. “Then you’ll have to request your message be sent from the front desk.” Still standing ramrod straight, he jerked his head back, as if she could possibly miss the massive redwood counter behind him.

  “Thank you,” she said, backing away. At least he had the decency not to extend his hand for a tip, but she held out the dime anyway, which he took, looking her in the eyes for the first time and giving a curt nod.

  Vada took just two steps toward the desk before turning back. Asking help from a bellboy was one thing, but approaching the stuffy, stiff-buttoned clerk behind the counter was quite another.

  The lobby was full of lush green plants of varying shades and sizes, many of which grew tall in stone planters surrounded by round, plush sofas. The nearest one called to her, and the moment the back of her knees touched it, she collapsed in the velvet cushions.

  She should leave now. No one would be the wiser. She could explain her day’s absence with her new purchases. Just a few more minutes here to collect her strength and gather her resolve.

  Safe behind her veil, she allowed her gaze to roam openly, observing the hotel’s patrons, wondering about the wealth and power behind each. Which unassuming man was actually a state senator? Which woman was the wife of a financier? Whenever she allowed herself to plan a future with Garrison, she envisioned the life of a successful attorney, possibly a future politician, and they would stay in places like this—or better, maybe in New York or Washington. But now, even as she sat within the possibility, that life never seemed so far away. She was no more deserving of being his wife than he was eager to make her so.

  She was just about to get up and leave when she saw him. Along with her breath, that tight feeling in her skull went away, filling her with an unsettling relief. Not to mention curiosity.

  What was Louis LaFortune doing here?

  Dressed as she’d never seen him before, he wore a rich brown suit with just a hint of green thread running through it. His starched white collar stood out against his tanned face and neck; the tie twisted into a perfect bow. Most men would wear a bowler hat with such a suit, but his head was bare, the reddish curls disciplined with a part above his left temple and shining with tonic. All of these details became clear as LaFortune settled within two feet of her before he sat not two cushions away.

  He didn’t speak, and neither did she. Though he hadn’t made a move toward her, she felt inexplicably trapped. Slowly, she scooted to the edge of the cushion, stood, and attempted a nonchalant stroll toward the front entrance.

  “I thought that was you, mam’zelle.”

  She could have kept walking, just left him to sit and wonder about this mistaken identity, but the thought of him following her, creating some sort of scene, seemed infinitely worse. So she stopped.

  “How did you know it was me?”

  She hadn’t turned around, but the next thing she knew, LaFortune was right behind her, one hand on her shoulder, speaking down the back of her neck.

  “I wasn’t sure until you started to walk away. That walk, cher, I would know it anywhere.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “You told me last night of your intentions. I didn’t think a woman such as you should be in such a situation alone.”

  “I’m fine.” She took one step, but his grip on her shoulder held her back. “Let me go.”

  “You have talked to this man?”

  “Let me go.”

  The hand was lifted; still she went nowhere. Then he was in front of her, his finger beneath her chin, tugging her face upward. She could feel the warmth of his skin through the netting. “Allons, ma chère. I’ll go right on up with you.”

  Vada moved away from his touch. “I don’t know what room he’s in. And I—”

  “Too much a flower to ask? Settle up here, I be right back.” He moved with a confidence just short of a swagger, and two seconds and a handshake later, he was back at her side.

  “Room 714. Look like we’re takin’ us an elevator.”

  He reached for her, but she wasn’t about to walk across a hotel lobby arm in arm with this man. She shouldn’t walk with him, period. In fact, he shouldn’t even be here.

  Lord, why couldn’t You keep him away? Yet she couldn’t deny the bit of comfort LaFortune brought.

  Around the corner from the front desk, they found the tall mahogany-rimmed glass doors of the hotel elevator attended by a young man who was taller, though not much older, than the bellboy she’d spoken with earlier.

  “Going up?” he asked in a clipped, crisp tone.

  “Floor seven,” LaFortune replied, and without any ceremony whatsoever, he gripped Vada’s free hand.

  The operator slid the tall doors open, revealing an accordion-folded iron gate within. He grabbed the handle at one end, folding it completely before stepping back and ushering them in with a wide, gesturing arm.

  “Après-toi.” LaFortune nudged her ahead without letting go of his grip. He followed her across the threshold, and when she turned to face the front of the elevator, there he was, his breath heavy and close enough to ruffle her netting. They stood for a few seconds until a tiny little sound prodded them to action, and she backed in farther to allow him to stand next to her.

  The sound repeated itself, and for the first time she noticed the ghostlike man in the corner of the elevator. He was tall and thin and pale, like a wisp wearing a little round hat. His age was well beyond being merely “old,” and his voice so slight, it seemed that very word was destined to be his last.

  Vada leaned closer. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Floor?”

  “Seven,” LaFortune said.

  With arms no wider than the gearshift he commanded, the operator lurched the car into motion. The opaque darkness of the shaft slid by the iron filigree of the inner doors, bringing the little party up and up. With each passing floor, LaFortune’s grip grew tighter and, surprisingly, wetter.

  “Oooh, I feel me the mal pris in here,” he said, bending low. “These things make me cat-scared.”

  “Elevators?”

  “We don’t have nothin’ the like of them back home. Don’t seem natural.”

  “Seventh floor,” the operator said with all the remaining strength of a man who had actually climbed all seven flights. Once again the accordion doors were opened, and the outer doors as well.

  “Merci, papère,” LaFortune said to the old man as they exited.

  Room 714 was to the left, and the minute they stepped into the hall, Vada extracted her hand and openly wiped it dry on her skirt. “I don’t want you to follow me. There’s no reason for you to be a part of this. How would I ever explain exactly who you are?”

  “How you explain that other fellow?”

  “You are not that other fellow. Now you can take the stairs down, or get back in the elevator, or jump out a window, I don’t care. But this is where we part ways.”

  “First floor, sir?”

  Both Vada and LaFortune jumped, neither having seen the young man standing ready at the door.

  “Yi, non. I take my chances with her.”

  So it was that he followed her down the hall anyway, though she never looked back to give him the least encouragement. Her thoughts were too full of exactly what she was going to say once Mr. Alex Triplehorn opened the door to room 714.

  Right now, all she envisioned was herself, standing strong and a little mysterious, insisting that he leave their family alone. That he had no claim on her sister and no score to settle with her father. They were healed and whole, and even if they wer
en’t, which she would never reveal, there was nothing he could possibly do to help, no matter how well-intentioned his offering of apology. Yes, that sounded good, No matter how well-intentioned your offer of apology.

  She worked her lips around that phrase, mouthing it silently over and over until she was facing a door with the numbers 714 embossed on a gilded plate.

  Time to knock.

  “I be just right here,” LaFortune said over her shoulder. “Right outside the door.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered, not sure if she was more grateful that he was staying outside or that he was staying, period. After taking a deep breath, she delivered three quick raps. Three long breaths. Then three more. She ventured a sidelong look at LaFortune, who gently pushed her to the side and delivered a series of knocks no one could ignore.

  Nothing.

  “He must be gone.” And she felt the first twinge of relief.

  “Clerk say he is still a guest here.”

  “Well, we can’t simply stand here in the hallway. Perhaps I’ll leave a note with the porter.” If she started running right now, she could be out of this hallway before Mr. Triplehorn made an appearance. “Let’s go.”

  This time it was she who grabbed his hand. In her haste, though, she soon realized they were heading in the wrong direction, and after a few twists and turns, they were lost.

  “This way?” she said, breathless.

  “Par-ici.” He tugged her in the opposite direction. He led them to an open door. Not wide open, but enough to give a good glimpse into the room, and to show that it was unoccupied. “Let’s go.”

  “Are you insane?” She dug in her heels. “We can’t go in there.”

  He held a finger up to his lips, bringing her hand along with it. “Shhh. We say we made mistake. Got lost, which is true alors.”

  “You are insane.” But, for reasons she would never understand, she followed. One step over the threshold, then another. And soon the door was behind them. Soon after that, the door was closed. Then all she could say was, “Oh, my.”