by Megan Chance
WHEN I HAD composed myself enough to return to the floor, Charlotte was behind the bar. I went up to her with trepidation, afraid she was still angry with me—though how angry could she be, really, if she’d lied to Johnny on my behalf?
“I’m sorry about last night,” I told her in a low voice.
She shrugged.
I glanced around. Johnny was up near the ticket booth. “Thank you for … for what you told Johnny. Though I wish you’d said something to me. I nearly ruined everything.”
“I didn’t get a chance to tell you,” she said in a clipped tone.
“It was all right. I just had to manage him a bit. I didn’t know what you said, and … I ended up telling him you were seeing someone in secret. Someone you’d met here, and I’d gone with you because you were nervous. Just remember that if he asks you.” I pulled up a glass and poured.
“Walking by yourself again?”
I grabbed onto the excuse, too exhausted by my efforts with Johnny to come up with anything else. “Yes.”
“Robert said he saw you down by the New Brunswick.”
“Robert?” I looked at her in surprise. “Robert Marsdon? When did you see him?”
“I told you already. I went walking with him yesterday. Now why don’t you fucking tell me the truth about something for once?”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
With careful precision, she arranged the glasses on her tray. Her voice was so quiet I had to strain to hear it above the orchestra and the singing and the noise. “You and me got to talk, Marguerite. You going home tonight? I’ll come to your room. I’ll henna your hair.”
“I miss your yellow hair.”
I tried to swallow the lump in my throat. “I can’t. Johnny won’t be here. I need to stay around.”
She gave me a quick look. “That the only reason?”
“Yes. Of course.”
I focused on pouring the whiskey, on making certain not to spill a drop. I felt her waiting. Tentatively, unable to help myself, I said, “Charlotte—have you ever wanted something … have you ever wanted something so badly you thought it would kill you not to have it?”
She frowned. “Ain’t nothing worth having that much.”
I looked away, filled with a disappointment I could not measure or quite explain. “Yes,” I said quietly. “I suppose you’re right.”
I SPENT A restless night, tossing and turning, dreaming I was in San Francisco, walking down the street with Gideon and Barret while the crowds hindered our passing, and then suddenly the people were gone, and I was worried, and Gideon reassured me, “They’ll return when they see your scar.” Then Barret went running off, and when Gideon started after him, I stopped him, saying, “Let him go. There’s an hour before rehearsal. Come back to the hotel with me.” And then we were tangled together beneath the sheets, yet it wasn’t Gideon at all, but Johnny saying, “Only fifteen minutes. We can’t be late. There’s five hundred people waiting for a piece of you.”
I woke with a start to find Johnny shaking me. “Shut up! You woke me twice.”
I mumbled an apology, still blurry from the dream, and got out of bed, slipping on my chemise and drawing a blanket around me, leaving him to turn over and go back to sleep. I left the room and went down the hall to one of the boxes, pulling aside the curtain. The only furniture was a chaise lounge, and I lay upon it, pulling the blanket up to my chin, trying not to smell the smoke and musk of the little room lingering in the upholstery and the heavy curtains, the pervasive scent of sex.
But my dream returned as I lay there—my worry when the crowds dissipated, Gideon’s promise, the way I’d dismissed Barret so easily, Johnny’s comment. “There’s five hundred people waiting for a piece of you.” And through it all, the lure: “You could have it all back.” “There was so much more to be had.”
I closed my eyes and tried to ignore those haunting little voices. I made myself remember other things: Leonard Jerome smiling up at me and Barret’s despairing protests, Alain covered with blood.
Alain covered with blood.
All that morning and into the afternoon, I focused on resistance. On staying here. On being Marguerite. And every single thing I did seemed to erode it just a little more. It was as if the past had been waiting for a door, and now that one had cracked open, it was slipping through, insidious, attacking when I least expected it. Going through the girls’ costumes to find rips and stains, I thought of taffetas and silks, of wools so fine they were a pleasure to touch, of silk corsets in many colors and jewels that seemed to draw life and depth from one’s skin. As I set up glasses, I saw crystal goblets, champagne bubbles. When the music started, I heard instead a sublime piano; keeping silent was so painful it was hard to breathe. When Charlotte arrived, it was all I could do to smile back at her greeting, because the yearning to go out the door she’d just come in had me moving halfway toward it before I caught myself.
The saloon was crowded. I looked for Johnny and saw him at Jim Ryan’s table, talking with Lyman Kerwin, who was playing poker. I reached beneath the bar for the bottle of good whiskey and poured a drink, swallowing it quickly, closing my eyes, shutting it all away.
“I’ll have one of those too.”
My eyes flew open. Gideon stood before me as if I’d somehow conjured him. His gaze was bold and knowing as he took a drag on his cigarette.
“What are you doing here?”
He glanced down the bar to where Duncan stood laughing as he poured drinks for one of the girls, too far away to hear, even if the music and singing on the stage had allowed it.
“I came for a drink,” he said.
“There are fifty saloons between here and the hotel.”
“But none so well regarded as this.” He exhaled smoke and reached into his pocket, pulling out two coins, shoving them across the bar. “And I know someone who works here. A whiskey. Please.”
I poured. The neck clanked against the glass, betraying my nervousness, which I saw he noticed. “Drink it and go.”
He took a sip. “I thought I’d stay for a while. Maybe play some poker.”
“You don’t gamble,” I said.
“Oh, I gamble all the time. That’s why I’m here now, in fact. Gambling.”
“On what?”
“On the fact that you don’t want me here. That you’re afraid I might figure out who wants to know who you are badly enough to send a letter to San Francisco.”
I refused to look for Johnny, though the temptation to do so was terrible. “What do you want?”
“You know what I want.”
“Gideon—”
“I waited all day for you,” he whispered.
“I told you I wasn’t coming back.”
“Don’t be a fool. Why are you punishing us both this way?”
“You could leave if it troubles you so much.”
He said softly, “Bina, don’t do this. Practice with me. What can it hurt just to practice? Once you’re back in voice, you can decide what to do. If you still don’t want to perform then, I’ll believe you. I’ll leave you alone.”
I thought of his fingers on the piano, my voice stretching, warming….
“I promise.” He anchored his elbow on the bar and leaned forward. “I’ll swear to it, if that’s what you want. I’ll swear by … by that mole above your breast. I assume it’s still there. I regret I didn’t get a chance to see it yesterday.”
Despite every single thing I knew, I went hot. “Stop it. Don’t say those things. Not here.”
“Who’s listening?” he asked. “The half-breed’s flirting with that pretty blonde. Everyone else is attending that singer—who’s excruciating, by the way. I thought you had a better ear than that.”
“She’ll spread her legs for two dollars. And her breasts are large enough that no one’s listening to her sing.”
“How it must torment you to listen to them. How do you do it? How do you watch them up there getting all the admiration and not go up yourself, k
nowing how much better you are?”
“Because I don’t want to.”
He smiled and took another drag of his cigarette before he threw the stub into the spittoon below. “You never saw a stage you didn’t want to be upon.”
“I want you to leave.”
He picked up his drink and turned to survey the house. “Not without you.”
Desperately, I said, “I don’t want you.”
He looked back at me. “That’s not what I saw yesterday morning.”
There was a movement across the floor. I glanced up to see Johnny rising from Jim Ryan’s table.
“I want you to go,” I said evenly.
He downed his drink and set the empty glass on the bar, flicking it so it skidded toward me. “Maybe you could try begging. Perhaps you could unbutton your bodice. Or, better yet, go down on your knees.” His eyes darkened. “Isn’t that always how you get your way, Bina? God knows it’s how you managed me. Perhaps I’m just as easily commanded as I always was. Would you care to find out?”
I felt myself flush. “How you twist everything!”
“I’m not the one doing the twisting.”
The girl onstage finished her song. There was dutiful applause. I saw Johnny look up and glance toward me. Whatever he saw in my face gave him pause. I saw the way he took in Gideon, who was leaning too familiarly in my direction. I saw Johnny frown.
I felt almost sick with fear. “Please, Gideon. Just go.”
Gideon’s expression went wary and perplexed. “What is it?”
Johnny began to cross the room. A customer called to him, stopping him.
“What must I do to get you to leave?” I asked.
“Say you’ll let me bring you into voice again.”
“And if I don’t?”
“I’ll come back tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that. Nothing you do will keep me away. Now that I’ve seen you, I know it’s what you want.”
“It’s what you want,” I said bitterly.
He inclined his head. “That too.”
Johnny was coming toward us. I said, “Yes. Yes. Very well. Now go. Please.“
“Meet me tomorrow.”
“Not in your room. At … at Gold’s. It’s a restaurant.”
“I’ll find it,” he said.
He turned away, and I could not keep from saying, “How lucky you are. You’ve won your gamble after all.”
He stopped. “You hold all the cards, Sabine. You always did.”
He left then, melting into the crowd just as Johnny emerged from it. When Johnny reached the bar he glanced about, looking for the man I’d been talking to, I knew, though I pretended not to see it. Instead I smiled at him, taming my nerves, summoning every bit of my charm. “How’s Mr. Kerwin doing tonight?”
Johnny’s frown grew. “Where’d he go?”
“Who?”
“The man you were talking to.”
I feigned bewilderment. “Which one?”
“He was right here,” he said.
“I’ve been serving drinks to men all night, Johnny. Most of them talk to me.”
“You looked … close.”
I made a sound of impatience. “That’s what I’m supposed to do, isn’t it? You’ve said so yourself. If you’re going to be jealous every time I smile at someone—”
“It wasn’t that,” he said, looking puzzled, glancing about, still searching. “Duncan!” When Duncan looked up, Johnny gestured for him to come over. “Did you notice that man Margie was talking to?”
Duncan shrugged. “Should I have?”
“You see?” I said to Johnny. I reached across the bar to put my hand on his arm. “Are you jealous, Johnny? Come here and let me show you you’ve no cause to be.”
He looked down at my hand as if it confused him, and then at me as if I were a stranger.
My smile wavered. “Johnny?”
He grabbed me by my wrist, pulling me toward him, across the bar, holding me there while he kissed me, ravaging my mouth before he let me go. A group of men at a nearby table hooted and whistled, and I felt the blood rush into my face in embarrassment.
But it made Johnny smile. “Come on over to the table and talk to Kerwin,” he said to me, squeezing my arm reassuringly, and then he strode off again, back into the crowd.
I tilted my head back, breathing deeply to calm myself, and as I did so, I glanced up at the boxes. One of the curtains was open—someone was watching the show—and that was surprising enough that I looked more closely, and saw it was Charlotte. Charlotte, leaning on the railing as she looked out, except that she wasn’t looking at the stage, or at the crowd. She was looking at me, and though I could not see her expression, something about her posture troubled me, and I found myself wondering how long she had been watching. I wondered what she had seen.
I LEFT THAT night before Johnny came out of his office, though I knew I should stay. I thought the hour I’d spent at the table with him and Lyman Kerwin had smoothed away his suspicions, but I should be sure of it. I was stupid to do otherwise.
But then I heard Gideon’s voice in my head. “Isn’t that always how you get your way, Bina?” and I felt a sick dismay, and instead of staying I hurried to Duncan as he made ready to walk Charlotte home.
“I’m going to McGraw’s.”
Duncan looked surprised, but he nodded. “Let’s go then. It’s been a long night.”
I felt Charlotte’s thoughtful gaze and did my best to ignore it as I went out into the darkness with them, hugging myself against the cold.
“Feels like it might snow,” Duncan said, clapping his hands together and glancing up at the sky, which was starless.
“It’s cold enough.” Charlotte’s breath was a little cloud of fog.
When Duncan said good night and left us at the door, I hurried inside, racing up the stairs before her, but she was as quick as I was, and while I stood there, fumbling with my key, she stepped over to me.
“You want me to come in?” she asked softly.
I shook my head. The key slipped annoyingly through my fingers, falling to the floor. She bent to pick it up before I could.
“I don’t understand you. What the hell is going on? What happened with Johnny? Who was that man?”
“What man?”
“The one you were talking to at the bar.”
My vision blurred. I wiped angrily at my eyes. “You and Johnny and your suspicions. I’ve grown tired of the both of you.”
“I ain’t mistaking the way you talked to him. Is he the man Robert left you with the other day at the church?”
She was relentless. I grabbed my key from her hand and shoved it into the keyhole, twisting it. “Leave me alone!” I said viciously. “Why can’t you both just leave me alone?”
She stepped back; I felt her surprise and her dismay and I didn’t care. I went into my room and nearly slammed the door shut in her face, and then I leaned back against it, regretting already what I’d done, nearly turning again to open it, to apologize, to call her back—
And say what?
Do what?
I waited until I heard her footsteps recede, until I heard the open and close of her own door, and then I undressed quickly, leaving the candle unlit, and stood there in the freezing cold because as long as I was cold I could think of nothing else. Not the dismay I felt over Charlotte and Johnny. Not my secrets. Not how quickly I’d promised him that I would practice with him tomorrow, despite my resolution to stay away, despite everything—as if I’d only been waiting for him to force me to do what my own heart longed for.
CHAPTER 21
It had snowed during the night, as Duncan had predicted, enough to cover the rooftops and dust the trees like sugar, and the clouds were gone, the sun shining without heat, the sky a pale, thin blue.
The mud was frozen and hard, the puddles turned to ice, and ramps and boardwalks were slick and slippery as I made my way to Gold’s. It was beautiful in a stark and harshly bright way, and the sun sent
such a brilliant glare upon the ice and the street and the harbor that the world before me seemed a sheet of fire.
The moment I saw the restaurant, with its hanging sign and its glassed front windows, the apprehension I’d been burying all morning rose again. Determinedly, I opened the door, hearing the tinkle of the bell above my head. It was late enough that the place was not full, but I would have spotted him immediately in any case. He was sitting at a table, a cup of coffee before him, smoking as he read the eight pages that served as Seattle’s newspaper.
He glanced up as I came inside. When I sat across from him, he gestured with the paper. “They mention your box-house in here.”
I was hardly in the mood for idle conversation, but I made the vain attempt. “What do they say about it?”
“Why, that it’s a nest of sin, just like all the others. They want to shut it all down.”
“That will work until they need to pay for street repairs.”
He closed the paper and stubbed out his cigarette on the table. “What a cynic you are.”
“I’ve learned from the best.”
The cook, Tommy, came out from the kitchen. He wiped his hands on his grease-stained apron as he approached. “Klahowya, Miss Olson.”
“Klahowya. A cup of coffee, please, Tommy.”
“Nothing else?” Gideon asked.
I shook my head. “I’m not hungry.”
“I don’t want you swooning.” To Tommy, he said, “Bring her a ham steak and some potatoes. I’ll have the same.”
Tommy glanced at me in question. I waved my hand dismissively. “Whatever he says.” When Tommy left, I muttered, “Always whatever he says.”
Gideon smiled.
I said, “We shouldn’t have come here.”
“Why? Is the food so bad?” He took a sip of coffee.
“People know me here.”
“What of it?”
“They’ll see me with you.”
“What does it matter if we don’t give them something to note? As long as you can keep from ravishing me on the table—”
