Steam Me Up, Rawley

by Angela Quarles

  They ate a hasty breakfast and discussed their agenda for the rest of the day. First, they’d seek out the Cuban fisherman and then interview Don Diego, if he’d even talk.

  Upon entering the jail, Adele nodded to the reed-thin sheriff, her lunch in a basket. Already, she’d been here for an hour trying to get Don Diego to open up, but he’d only sat sullenly in the corner of his cell. Hunger had finally prodded her to take a break. Loki, she’d left back at the hotel with Rawley; she didn’t need his distractions.

  Without saying a word to Don Diego, she settled in the chair outside his cell and dug into her food. She didn’t feel guilty for eating in front of him, for she knew he’d just eaten.

  Murmured discussions near the front, the main door opening and shutting sporadically, occasional burps from the sheriff, were about the only sounds that disturbed the quiet.

  She took her time eating, and when she finished, she wiped her mouth with a linen napkin. “You should know I’m not going anywhere until I have your story.”

  His sharp features turned to her and looked away. He picked at a thread on the blanket in his lap.

  Hope and excitement fluttered within—this was the most reaction she’d had so far. “You must be bored. I brought a deck of cards, if you’d like to play Beggar-My-Neighbor.”

  Don Diego slowly stood, and Adele hid her triumph. One step at a time.

  She dealt the cards and allowed their play to be the only interaction for an hour or so. Gathering the cards to deal yet another hand, she whispered, “Don’t you wish your side of the story told? You went to a lot of trouble, and I think it would be rather unfortunate for the world not to know why.”

  He shrugged and took his hand of cards.

  “I’ll tell your side. Aren’t you tired of not being understood? Make me understand.” Not that anything he could say excused his murderous actions.

  “You would not understand,” his voice croaked.

  Her muscles tightened, and she slowly placed her cards facedown on the floor. These were the first words he’d spoken since he’d been in jail.

  “Help me understand, please.”

  He looked up and held her gaze. She tried not to look away and to impart her sincerity.

  He broke eye contact, and his gaze darted around the room. “I do not want my father to know.”

  “That you were arrested?”

  He spat. “I told you, you would not understand.”

  “But I want to.”

  “I failed, and he will be angry.” His head jerked, and his eyes lost focus. “I tried, Father! I did. So proud you would have been.”

  He stooped and rocked back and forth, emitting muffled whimpers. “I will do better, I swear, Father. No. Do not beat me.”

  Adele sat back, horrified. She remained quiet, not wanting to disturb him. Soon his mutterings and whimpers subsided, and he slumped onto his side and stared.

  “I know you think I’m crazy,” his voice strained, hollow. “This was supposed to be my redemption.”

  “How so?”

  “He would have been so proud.”

  Fearful he’d keep speaking in circles, Adele decided on a new approach. “Where are you from?”

  “A small village near Zaragoza. My father’s hacienda was outside.”

  “Why did you come to Mobile?”

  “No choice.”

  “Why not?”

  Don Diego traced a soiled finger along the stone floor. “My father disowned me. Burned my paints and canvasses. So disappointed in me.”

  “What did he want you to be doing?”

  “Always after me to be a man, take my responsibilities as his heir more seriously. Not art.”

  “What did you do when you got here? Did you pursue art?”

  “No!”

  Adele started at his denial’s vehemence. She recalled his name on the plans. “You became a draftsman instead.”

  “Yes. My relations in Mobile helped me get the position.”

  “When did you get the idea for selling them?”

  “I was not going to sell them.” He glared at her. “You still do not get it.”

  “Please help me see.”

  “It was going to be my redemption. I was not going to sell them for personal gain. I was going to give them as a gift to my country. Then my father would be proud. Then my father would take me back.” He curled back up and placed his arms over his head. “But there is no going back. No going back.”

  Adele quietly stood. She’d get no more from him.

  Adele yawned and stretched her arms overhead. Crumpled wads of paper lay in drifts around her. She’d worked hard the rest of the day, Rawley alongside for some of it, interviewing and collecting stories.

  Tapping into each person’s emotions had been draining, but rewarding. Putting herself into their shoes, even Don Diego’s, had provided a unique insight that improved her story.

  Don Diego’s love and worship of his father, despite the obvious mental and physical abuse, had shaken her. It had driven him, turned him so fanatical he could commit murder, blinded him to all sense of right and wrong.

  While not in the least justifying his actions, his motivations added a deeper layer to her article.

  Smiling, she typed:

  And this is a true and faithful account, from your correspondent A.C. de la Pointe. ###

  Rawley looked up from the cards he’d procured from Chappie. “Finished?”

  “Yes,” she said with satisfaction. “If that doesn’t get me the position, I’ll scream.”

  He chuckled. “If it doesn’t, they’re idiots.”

  “You haven’t even read it.”

  “I don’t need to.”

  Lord, was she drained from analyzing others’ emotions and trying to write with heart.

  Rawley must have read her exhaustion in her posture, for he stood. “Let me arrange for supper.”

  Soon they were eating a delicious meal of fresh red snapper and local vegetables. Early in the day, they’d eased back into their old familiarity, but one thing nagged her: what did it mean?

  He’d still not said anything about their future. Adele fidgeted.

  A heaviness unrelated to the meal weighed her down. She probed it. What could it be?

  Regret?

  “I was engaged once, you know,” she blurted. Oh Lord, mouth, really?

  Rawley frowned and set down his utensils.

  Fear carved a gaping hole of panic in her chest, and her heart thumped, thumped. Voices from the main room, the clanking of silverware, echoed in that gaping hole. Oh, God. To share something this personal?

  But where had her attitude taken her before? Now, looking at Rawley, an awful truth rushed into that hole and left her shaken—she’d been hurt. Hurt deeply by Pascal, and all her vows and bravado and protestations to avoid entrapping herself in marriage had been an elaborate smoke screen—a smoke screen devised in order to avoid another painful experience. To avoid emotions and feelings and all that messy stuff. To avoid examining herself. To avoid the fear that Pascal had grown distant because he’d gotten to know her true self—too flighty, too impulsive—and regretted his proposal.

  What better way to prevent such revelations than to thumb her nose at the whole thing? Laugh, stay busy?

  Rawley sat quietly, waiting. No pressure to reveal more. No pressure to say more. No pressure to be more.

  She poked further, unused to analyzing to such a degree. She studied his hands, his long, masculine fingers as they rested on the table. She studied the handsome planes of his face. An unexplainable pull between them tugged at her, and she knew, knew, the idea of Molly, or any other woman, as his wife was wrong. He caught her looking and gifted her one of his smiles, which heated her in an instant.

  It hit her—despite wishing to live alone, be independent, she didn’t want to be apart from him.

  And she’d messed it up.

  A lump formed in her throat. She’d been quite clear about her feelings, but apparently she
hadn’t known herself at all. True, he expected her to quit her job, but could she have reasoned with him?

  She inhaled deeply and ventured into uncharted territory. She loved adventure, didn’t she? She had nothing left to lose. Plus, hadn’t he taught her to ground herself in the moment? Her old self would’ve skipped along to a new topic, bypass the threat, but this time she dug in.

  “Yes.” The throat lump made the word come out jagged. She cleared her throat. “I was engaged to another cosmetic surgeon, Pascal Du Page.”

  “What happened?”

  Her first instinct was to say they didn’t suit, but she needed to be honest, both to Rawley and herself.

  “Honestly? I don’t know. He...his feelings toward me changed after several months of our engagement. Gone was the gentleman who seemed so taken with me, so solicitous.”

  Had she been shallow too? Peevish he no longer exhibited the affection he’d shown in the beginning?

  “He turned cold, distant,” she continued. “Then he casually informed me that once married, we’d be relocating to New York. Without consulting my wishes on the matter. Leave my family? Leave my home?” She took a fortifying sip of wine. “I...I confess I panicked. I broke it off after four months. I had a girlish infatuation and was crushed to realize he not only didn’t return the feelings but also held me in little respect.

  “I was never sure if his initial affection had been a ruse, or if...” She fiddled with her fork. “Well, I confronted him about it. He said his practice had become overwhelming, and I was fretting overmuch. I didn’t believe him. Deep down...” She took another deep breath. “Deep down I worried his initial affection had been genuine, but he’d become disenchanted. That he found me lacking.”

  “Adele,” he interjected, his tone low, strained. He clasped her hand where it rested on the table.

  “No, let me finish.” She resisted pulling her hand away. Let it remain under his, warm and sheltering and simple. “I’m not fishing for a compliment. I think I’ve been running from myself this whole time, afraid to look too deeply into my character, afraid of what I’d find, or not find. I think a large part of my feelings for him were born of vanity.

  “Anyway, I panicked at his growing distance and what it could mean. I don’t know what changed, but now I’m glad I ended it. I wasn’t ready. I think part of me held onto my childhood and balked at becoming a responsible adult. And I didn’t love him. Not truly.”

  Rawley remained quiet as she stumbled through her explanation. She could leave it at that, but she shouldn’t.

  “I want to thank you,” she said.

  “Thank me?”

  “Yes. You don’t realize it, but...” Say it. Say it. “...you helped me know myself better, helped me realize I have value solely for myself and not for my looks or my family’s position. You see me. Me. And... Well. Thank you.” She took a deep breath, steeled herself, and smiled.

  His answering smile crawled into every nook of her body and warmed her from within, but the warmth morphed into an ache, an ache at having lost him. What could she do to fix things? Was it possible? Or had he seen how much trouble she was and viewed their intimacy as only a dalliance?

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  In Which Our Heroine Is Thwarted By An Unscrupulous Boss, And Our Hero Makes A Dashing Appearance

  Adele sat in a chair in Mr. Tonti’s office, back rigid with anticipation, morning light dispelling the shadows in this portion of the room. She’d filed her murder story, using the Pelican Post, before leaving Florida and had arrived last night with Rawley, haggard. Father and Camilla, frantic with worry, had greeted them at the door and insisted on a full recounting of their adventures before they could retire.

  Now to face Mr. Tonti.

  Had her story been enough?

  She watched as Mr. Tonti extracted a cigar, lit it, and read her report on The Neptune. She’d used the time on their return trip to write it up as best as she could without her notes. His eyebrows rose several times, and she stroked Loki’s head, imagining what she could have Loki do to those eyebrows if he rejected this article.

  Finally, he looked up. “This story is well written.”

  Warmth surged along her veins, inflating her until she felt as if she might float right out of his office, if she weren’t gripping the chair arms.

  She’d done it.

  She pictured her byline below the headline, a hard-hitting, serious headline. The warmth transmuted to a tightened throat and stupid tears. She blink-blink-blinked. Oh God, not waterworks.

  “However,” he continued, “it’s not what I asked for. It’s supposed to be all glowing. We can’t have any criticisms of it, no matter how mild. Rewrite it, and I’ll run it.”

  She felt as if she’d been whacked with one of the mechanical cranes down by the river. And it wasn’t as if her piece was overly critical. On the whole, she thought it a positive piece, because it had been a positive experience. But some areas could be improved, and she’d pointed them out.

  “And the murder story?” she asked, her voice barely sounding neutral and professional. She sank into the chair’s depths.

  “Quite good, actually. However, I’ve given it to Mr. Peterson to rework and run in tomorrow’s edition.”

  Wait. What?

  “To Mr. Peterson?”

  “Yes. It will be his beat as of tomorrow. Can’t have a female showing him up on his first day.”

  “So you’re giving what I wrote to another person?”

  “Yes.”

  “That hardly seems fair. Or ethical.”

  “Where’s the harm? I’m here to sell papers, not coddle the sensibilities of delicate females.”

  Coddle the— Oh, ho. She tightened her lips, holding back the slicing words that pushed to tumble out. Loki stirred on her shoulder, and she gripped his side, not minding his armor’s rough bite on her gloved hand. Wouldn’t do to have him enact one of her fantasies. But it didn’t stop her from imagining it. What he could do. Oh, it would be delightful.

  Tonti wanted her to quit. She knew that. He was doing this on purpose.

  She drew herself up. “So I take it you won’t be considering me for that position, even with what I turned in.”

  He leaned back. “I’ll be frank. You show great promise. You’re able to draw the reader into the drama, but without a lot of filler. But, no. I will not. It’s not a position for a lady. Society reporter, that’s another matter. But you need to rewrite The Neptune piece, or that’s not yours either.”

  She could only stare at him, Loki perched on her shoulder, as she absorbed this.

  Straightening in her chair, she picked up her satchel and placed it in her lap. She patted her tight chignon and pulled in a deep breath. “Very well. May I see the article, if you please?”

  He handed it to her without comment.

  Summoning every drop of dignity, she stood and marched out of his office.

  “I knew you’d see reason,” he said behind her, voice gloating. “I want the revisions on my desk by morning.”

  A short time later, Adele sat at the end of the pier on the Mobile River. The same pier Rawley had brought her to, to work through her fear. Flat stones lay in a pile beside her. One by one, she allowed an emotion to wash through her, and she inspected each. A fork in her life loomed ahead, and she had to choose. No longer could she ride along in life. And this was no minor fork, she could feel, deep in her soul, these forks would diverge wildly from each other.

  So much to sort and figure out.

  She could sacrifice her principles and rewrite the article, remain as a society reporter and work on Mr. Tonti’s prejudices.

  But that path would profoundly change her. Change her into a person she could not respect. A person shaped by many such compromised choices.

  She could preserve her principles and refuse, and thereby lose her position, reinforcing everyone’s opinion of her—too flighty by half.

  And what about Rawley? After they’d arrived, Father had sen
t him to Chickasaw for a remote surgery. He’d not said goodbye, much less whether their liaison would continue.

  Had their recent intimacy been only a product of their close quarters and unusual circumstances? Something that couldn’t carry over to their normal life?

  Oddly, her mind fretted more about Rawley than her position at the paper.

  No. Concentrate.

  She stood and picked up a stone. Crouching, she tossed one across the water, watching as it skipped. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. And sank.

  One. Two. Three. Sank.

  One. Two. Sank.

  Normally, she’d be dismayed for the rock, missing out on the skips. But as the stone spiraled downward, lost in the river’s murky depths, a realization washed over her. All sorts of life teemed below the surface, which the rock enjoyed as it floated downward. And once in place, it could still enjoy it. Seeing a rock sink wasn’t as depressing anymore.

  She’d been so frantic to experience everything in life, she’d never slowed down to experience anything deeply.

  One. Two. Three. Four. Sank.

  One. Two. Sank.

  Now, the action settled her mind, and she continued to throw.

  No. She couldn’t compromise her integrity and change the article. Plus, it galled that her hard work on the murder story had been given to Mr. Peterson.

  She weighed what felt right against what others might say if she quit—told you she was flighty—and found she didn’t give a flip.

  The next rock flew from her fingers and sank immediately. But what could she do about the whole situation?

  She pivoted on the dock, the city spread before her. She was thinking about this all wrong. It wasn’t an either-or decision. After all, she wanted to forge her own path. Why not forge one with her writing?

  Once home, Adele strode down the hall, determination coursing through her. At the highboy, her steps faltered.

  The griffin. Rawley had turned it back before he’d left. Was that a sign?

  Fingers shaking, she faced it to the wall, a tentative smile on her face.