The bill came, and Frank took money from his pocket and paid it. As they left the restaurant, Margot took his arm again. She meant to be careful, but she stumbled slightly on the sill, and gripped it harder than she intended.
Frank sucked in a noisy breath, and she looked up at him in surprise. “Did I hurt you?”
He shook his head, but his lips had gone white. She felt heat blaze through his sleeve.
She dropped her hand, alarmed. “Frank! Is it painful?”
He blew out the breath. “Sorry,” he said. And then, through gritted teeth, “Goddamn it.”
“Why Goddamn it?”
“Can’t even walk my girl down the street,” he said. He took a few steps. She stayed close beside him, but didn’t touch him.
“Frank, it’s been too long for you to still have that much pain! You should be healed by now. Is something wrong?”
He didn’t answer. In the dim light, she saw the muscles of his jaw ripple.
Margot bit her lip as they walked, searching for a way to talk to him. When they reached the ironwork pergola with its carved benches, she said, “Let’s sit a moment.”
He stopped. There were a few people on the street, but the benches were empty. The lights of the square twinkled cheerfully through the dark. A couple passed, their heads bent together. Margot sat down, and scooted over to make room on her left. Frank sat, too, but he put her bag between them. With a decisive movement, she picked it up and set it on her other side. “Tell me about the arm,” she said. “And about the surgery.”
He was silent for a full minute, staring off into the summer night. She waited, pleating her gloves in her lap. She had learned that patients would often tell her what she needed to know, given enough time. It was important not to rush them.
Finally, he blew out a long breath, and let his stiff spine sag against the slats of the bench. “Sorry about swearing.”
“Don’t be silly.”
He shook his head, and she felt that heat from him again, as if something burned inside his body, some banked fire that blazed up at odd moments. She resisted the impulse to take his wrist, feel his pulse.
“I understand the new prostheses are quite good,” she ventured.
“The arm hurts all the time,” he blurted, as if he were admitting some sin. She noted that he said “the arm,” not “my arm.” “They botched it out there in the East, in the field hospital. Tried to repair it in Virginia, but no dice. Turned out I couldn’t tolerate the prosthesis. And—” Another pause. “It looks like hell, Margot.”
“Let me see it.”
“No.”
She didn’t argue with him, but she did battle inside herself. The surgery manual she had been studying had an extensive section on nerves of the arm, and amputation techniques. The physician in her wanted to examine him, to see what she might be able to bring to the problem. The other side of her clung to the sentence he had let slip in his moment of pain. “Can’t even walk my girl down the street.” His girl.
She gave him a sidelong glance. His lips were not so white now, and the heat radiating from him seemed to have lessened. His eyes were closed, his jaw set against whatever emotion troubled him.
“Frank,” she said softly.
He opened his eyes, and looked into her face. “Have I ruined another evening?” he said.
“Of course not. It’s been a lovely evening. But I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t. It’s okay.”
“But chronic pain—”
“I can deal with it.” He stood up, and put out his hand to help her up. “It’s getting late. I’ll see you home on the streetcar.”
“I could telephone for Blake.”
He shook his head. “Let’s not bother him. By the time he could get here, I’ll have you at your front door.”
In the streetcar, Margot took care to sit on Frank’s right side, and when they stepped down and walked up Aloha, she put her hand under his right arm, though he was carrying her bag in his hand. The air was warm, sweet with the smell of pine and fir and the occasional fragrance of roses. It was beguiling, Margot thought, to walk this way, a man and a girl strolling together through a summer evening as if there were no tomorrow to worry about, no board of cynical physicians to face. It made her feel wistful. Vulnerable.
She knew better, by now, than to let herself be vulnerable.
Still, standing in the shadows of the front porch, looking up into the masculine face of Frank Parrish, she felt as soft as any naive girl. Her lips felt tender, and her belly trembled with a sensation that had no medical definition.
She felt him hesitate, and she wished she understood the protocol for such moments. It seemed to be one of those secrets people like Ramona knew, or her mother. She gave a small shrug. “Frank. I know I’m not like other women. I can’t help it.”
His chuckle was quiet. Intimate. He bent to set her bag down on the mat beside the door, and when he straightened, he put his arm around her waist and pulled her to him. Her eyes closed before his mouth found hers. His lips were firm, and his hand against her back was strong. She noticed, briefly, how clean his skin smelled, and then she stopped noticing anything but the feel of his mouth, the warmth of his chest against hers, and that tremulous feeling in her stomach. She kissed him back, leaning into him, tilting her head to the perfect angle.
It seemed she knew the protocol after all.
When he said good night, she stood where she was, watching him walk to the street. Her knees felt like water, and she leaned against the doorjamb until they steadied, smiling into the darkness. She waited a few more minutes, to allow the flush in her cheeks to subside, before she opened the door.
Preston twitched the parlor curtain back into place and turned to watch Margot pass the doorway. “Hey, doc,” he called.
She stopped, and turned to face him. The room was dim, lit only by the light of the fire. She squinted through the gloom. “Hello, Preston.”
He crossed the parlor, raising his glass to her as he did so. Ice tinkled in the cut crystal, and light from the fire gleamed in the dusky liquid. “Not very dignified, was it?”
“Was what?”
“Necking on the front porch. You’re not a schoolgirl!”
“You were watching me?” Her eyes narrowed. “That’s rude.”
“Anyone could have watched you!” he exclaimed, laughing. “You were out there giving it away in full view, like some twit of a housemaid.”
“Stop it, Preston.” She stepped into the parlor and shut the door behind her. “We’re not children anymore.” She pulled off her hat in a careless motion, and stuffed her gloves into it. “This has to end.”
“What has to end, sister dear?” He cocked his head to one side to give her his most winning smile.
“You know damn well.”
He spread his hands, nearly spilling his drink. “Tell me. Doctor .”
She took another step, until she was no more than an arm’s length away from him. “I’ve never understood, Preston,” she said. “All these years, I’ve never understood why you hate me.”
He turned away and walked to the sideboard at a deliberate pace to pour more scotch into his glass. “You’re an embarrassment, Margot. To the whole family.”
“That’s not true.”
He faced her, his glass in his hand. “Oh, but it is. That revolting little clinic, those filthy people you see—you touch—”
“What do you care? It doesn’t hurt you.”
He gave a sour laugh. “It’s loathsome.”
“It’s not, but never mind that.” She crossed the room, and leaned one hip on the back of the sofa. It was utterly unfeminine, a man’s posture. She folded her arms, and jutted her Benedict chin at him. “It started long before that, in any case. Years before I went to medical school. I thought when you went to war, you would change. Grow up. Get over it.”
“Get over it!” he spat. A fountain of rage began to build inside him. His face grew hot, and he tossed back the sco
tch in his glass. “What, like a bad cold?” His voice rose. “I was stuck with you, Margot! The big sister, the smart sister!”
She raised her eyebrows. In an infuriatingly mild tone, she said, “Why me, Preston? Dick’s also older than you. And probably a whole lot smarter.”
He thought he might choke on his anger. She gazed at him with those dark eyes as if she knew something. Anything. He wanted to take her by the neck, strangle her until she admitted her ignorance. “You don’t fool me!” he shouted. “Father might not see through you, but I do!”
“See what?”
How he hated her, standing there, growing calmer by the moment as he grew so agitated he could hardly draw a breath. “Conniving! Pretending to be better than everyone else! All to make yourself Father’s special, smart little girl! That’s why—” He bit back the words, and turned his head away to stare into the fire crackling in the grate.
“That’s why you did those things, Preston?” she asked. “That’s why you bit me, and burned me, and shoved me out of trees or down stairs? Because you thought I was pretending?” He kept his gaze on the flames. “Answer me,” she insisted, in that maddening, controlled voice. “You started torturing me when I was six years old. No one would believe me, no one would stop you. If it weren’t for Blake—”
His head snapped up. “Blake! He’s the worst of all!”
“Worst of what, Preston? What did anyone ever do to make you behave that way?”
He stared at her for long seconds, while fury simmered in his chest, vibrated in his fingers. She had no idea, at this moment, how close she was to death. At last.
“Maybe if you tell me,” she said with that infuriating calm, “if you try to explain—maybe you’ll be able to let go of it, to—”
“Goddamn it!” he shouted, so loudly the windows vibrated. She fell back, and he thought he had frightened her at last. “Don’t play doctor with me, you phony bitch!” He heard the parlor door open, but he didn’t look to see who it was. He was past caring.
He threw his heavy glass at Margot. Ice spattered over the floor as the thick cut crystal spun past her head. It struck the far wall with a heavy thunk.
“Preston!” It was Blake’s deep voice, and Blake’s heavy step. “Take control of yourself!”
Preston whirled to glare at him. He found he was panting, his throat burning as if he had swallowed fire. He hated the way his voice sounded, rising, thinning, the shriek of a child. “Leave me alone! You’ve been telling me to take control of myself all my life, and I—I—” He had to take a breath, his head spinning, his lungs aching for air. “I hate it!” He wished he had a knife in his hand, a gun, a sword. Something to make Blake back away, to bring fear to his face. He wanted to take control, all right, but not of himself. He wanted to control them. He needed to control them, and everything they stood for, the unfairness, the favoritism, the—
“Preston,” Margot began.
He spun back toward her, one fist raised. “Goddamn you, Margot,” he shouted. “Always the favorite, Daddy’s precious girl! Blake’s favorite! I wish you’d just—just—die!”
He lunged forward, but Blake’s heavy hand, dark and strong, seized his wrist, held him back. There were more people in the room then, voices, cries of concern, lights coming on. Preston’s free hand moved toward the sapphire. Margot watched him with that sharp gaze of hers, but he couldn’t help that. It had all gotten away from him. He had to smooth this over.
He drew a shuddering breath, and pulled free of Blake’s grasp.
From the doorway his father’s voice rumbled, “What’s going on down here?”
And his mother’s quavering voice crying, “Preston! Darling, whatever’s the matter?”
He let his shoulders slump, and pressed both hands to his face. “Oh, my God,” he moaned. “What just happened? It’s like—it’s like Jerusalem all over again!”
In moments Edith was soothing him on the couch, ordering Blake to bring her a cold compress for his hot forehead. His father retrieved the glass, and poured him two fingers of brandy. Dick and Ramona hovered near the fire. Ramona, in her dressing gown, clutched Dick’s arm and whimpered questions.
Margot stood against the far wall, her hands on her hips, her lips pressed into a line. Her eyes looked nearly black in the lamplight, and she watched him as if he were the devil himself.
He closed his eyes against her angry gaze. He would have to deal with her. He had let it go on far too long.
Roxelana had known what to do in a situation like this. She had persuaded the sultan to have his firstborn put to death, making way for her own son to rise to the throne. It had not been pleasant, but she had courage. She had not shrunk from what was necessary.
He would use her as an example. A model. It was past time to get Margot out of his way for good.
CHAPTER 13
As Frank relaxed onto the bench seat of the streetcar, he found himself smiling despite the fierce ache in his arm. The taste of Margot’s mouth clung to his lips. His good arm could still feel the lean, vibrant warmth of her. She had kissed him back. She had leaned into him, her body pressed to his, her arms around his neck. He had no idea what he would do about all of it—he was a man with one arm, no job, and no prospects—but it felt good just the same. Elizabeth had never—she always kept a distance between them, and her kisses had been chaste and restrained. He could still sense the pressure of Margot’s breasts against his chest, the bite of one hip bone as she moved closer to him, closer than he had been to any woman in a very long time. He let his eyes close, recalling that moment.
“ ’Scuse me, mate?”
Frank opened his eyes, and flinched. “Sergeant Carter!”
Carter’s light hair was limp and greasy beneath his dilapidated flat cap, and his jacket looked like he had plucked it out of a rubbish heap. His cheeks sagged, and his pale lashes clumped together. “Yeah,” he said, with an aggrieved air. “It’s me, right enough.”
“What are you doing here?”
Carter tugged at his collar. His head hung at a sad angle, making him look like a beaten dog. “I was trying to see Benedict,” he said. He had a worn duffel bag, and he pushed it between his feet. “But there was some sort of ruckus after you left.”
Frank straightened. “A ruckus? What do you mean?”
“I was about to knock on the front door, and I heard shouting inside.”
“Shouting? At Benedict Hall? I only left there ten minutes ago.”
“I know, mate. I saw you.”
Frank said tightly, “Explain yourself, Sergeant. What the hell happened?”
“I waited till you was gone, and then I went up on the porch. I heard Preston yelling at someone, and then there was a bang, and a whole bunch of people started talking.”
Frank tensed, and a chill ran through him. “Preston was shouting?”
Carter blew out his lips. “Something fierce! That bloke has a terrible temper.”
“What kind of bang was it?” Frank reached for the cord to ring for the streetcar to stop.
“Sounded like someone threw something.” He sagged forward, and put his elbows on his knees. “It calmed down pretty fast after that. But I didn’t dare knock.”
Frank dropped his hand, and eyed Carter doubtfully. “That’s the third time you’ve been up to Benedict Hall.”
Carter’s glance was mournful. “Yeah. How’d you know that?”
“Blake told me.”
Carter made a face. “That nigger butler?” He shook his head. “Thinks he runs that family. Wouldn’t let me see Preston.”
“He fed you, I believe,” Frank said.
“Oh, yeah. He did give me some eggs, now you mention it.”
“And money.”
“Not much.”
“He didn’t telephone for the police.”
Carter heaved a wheezy sigh. “That’s true.”
“What were you doing there tonight?”
“I still need money. I want to go home.”
&n
bsp; “You think Benedict will give it to you?”
“Yeah. He owes me.”
“Go back tomorrow, then. Or go to the Times.”
“Oh, he wouldn’t half like it if I showed up at his work!”
Frank shifted his weight on the bench seat, not liking to be close to the man. “Why do you care what he likes, if he’s in your debt?”
Carter mumbled at his boots, “Don’t dare cross Benedict. He’ll do things to you.”
“You’re twice his size.”
“Don’t matter. He has ways.”
Frank thought for a moment, as the streetcar rattled beneath the lights of Broadway. When it turned down Madison, he said, “My stop is coming up, Carter.”
Carter’s eyes flicked up to his, then away, then back again. “I thought I might tell you something, if you got some of the ready.”
Frank hesitated. “You’re not afraid Benedict will find out?”
Carter lifted his cap and scratched beneath his dirty hair. “Look, Major, I’m just trying to get enough scratch for a ticket home. I thought—if you had it—I’d get a train tonight. Get away before Benedict comes looking.”
Frank put his hand in his pocket, and fingered the bills he had there. He thought hard for a moment. It would be good to know what Preston had been up to, and it would be good to get Carter away once and for all—that would give Blake some peace. It would be tough, though, if he couldn’t pay Mrs. Volger his rent. He had spent half his cash on dinner. What remained was the last of his final paycheck. And he needed whisky.
The streetcar slowed. Carter said, “It was him blackballed you. Benedict.”
“I guessed.”
“There’s more.”
The streetcar clanked to a stop. Frank stood up, his hand still in his pocket. He gave Carter a hard glance. “You’ll really go, if I give you the money?”
Carter stood up, too, a gleam of hope in his pale eyes. “Too bloody right,” he said. “I want to get back to England and find a proper job.”
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