When I saw it was a fifty, I gasped. “He did? Why?”
“I may have let it slip about your paying your way through nursing school.”
“Oh, Mrs. Schmidt, thank you!” I threw my arms around her globe-shaped middle and practically squeezed the life from her.
“You’re welcome, girl. Now scoot, I’ve got the groceries to put away.” Laughing, she shooed me out the back door, and I skipped to my car.
Fifty dollars! That would go a long way toward tuition and books. Classes would begin again in August, and they weren’t cheap. Daddy didn’t mind my going to nursing school as long as I kept the house running and my sisters in line, but he couldn’t be counted on to pay for anything. He claimed there was no money for it, but I suspected he didn’t offer much because the sooner I had my degree, the sooner he’d be on his own with the house and the girls. It took every ounce of restraint I had not to ask him about all the cash that ended up lining Ralph the Bookie’s pocket.
Sitting behind the wheel, I looked at the crisp fifty in triumph before tucking it into my pocket along with the wrinkly dollars and spare change the other customers had given me. But as I drove back to the store, I began thinking of all the things I could buy with that much money—a smart new dress, something with beading or fringe. A darling little cloche or headband. A pair of satin shoes for dancing.
And how many months’ rent would fifty bucks pay? I clenched my teeth. I didn’t need much—just a studio apartment with a little bath. My own space, in which I would do as I pleased, with no rules. I thought about the sheik, and the way he paid for his cigarettes with fifty-dollar bills. My pulse raced when I recalled how he’d leaned close to me, near enough for me to smell the smoke on his breath.
After parking in the alley behind the store, I peeked into the front but saw Joey at the register, so I headed up the steps to Bridget’s apartment. The smell of fresh-baked bread hit me in the stairwell and my stomach growled when I saw the two loaves on the kitchen counter. “Bread’s done, help yourself,” Bridget called from the front room, where the radio played “I’m Nobody’s Baby.” Humming along, I cut two thick slices and slathered them with butter. Bridget’s cooking and baking skills trumped mine by a mile, and I nearly moaned as I sank my teeth into the doughy white softness. She wandered in a minute later with two-year old Charlie on her hip. “Oh, it’s you,” she said. “I thought it was Joey.”
“Does that mean I have to put the bread back?” I mumbled, my mouth full.
She smiled, which always changed her face from plain to pretty. “No, you can have some. Do you want some cold meat for a sandwich? Joey brought some ham from Eastern Market.”
I shook my head and polished off the first slice. “I saw him downstairs. I thought he moved to Chicago.”
She set Charlie on the yellow linoleum floor and sliced a piece of bread for him. “He did, but his mother took ill, and he’s worried about her. Wants to stay closer to home for a while. I know he’s not your favorite, but try to be nice. He’s family.”
“He’s not my family.”
“He’s a good guy.”
“He’s a pain in the ass.”
She pursed her lips as she handed Charlie the bread, and I decided to switch topics.
“Look at this.” I licked my fingers and pulled the fifty-dollar bill from my pocket.
Bridget wiped her hands on her stained apron and took the bill. “Jaypers cripes! Where’d you get that?”
“From Mr. Henshaw, as a tip.” I picked up my second slice of bread and sank my teeth in. “But don’t tell Daddy.”
Our eyes met, and I knew she understood. Bridget kept my tips for me, stashing them in a big yellow envelope underneath her mattress. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Daddy, but I felt safer with my tips out of the house. “Want me to put it with the rest?”
I hesitated, the image of myself in a beaded dress and satin shoes vanishing in a puff of smoke. “I guess so.” Slumping into a chair at the round kitchen table, I dropped my forehead to the wood. “But boy, I wish I could be spending some of that money on something else. Like a new dress. Or shoes. Or rent.”
She patted my shoulder before going into her bedroom, which was off the kitchen. “Is Daddy giving you a rough time?” she asked when she returned.
I sat up and shrugged. “I’m twenty years old. I’m just tired of living with my father and having two little sisters underfoot all the time.”
Bridget went to the stove and stirred something in a large copper pot. “You’ve got your own bedroom. That’s more than I had when I lived at home.”
“So what? The only thing I do in it is read and sleep. And I can hardly even do that without one of the girls barging in on me.” I sat up straight and mimicked our sisters’ high-pitched voices. “Tiny, can you mend this blouse? Will you make my lunch? Can I wear your blue sweater? She’s bothering me! She’s following me! She hit me!”
“Well, cheer up.” Bridget clacked the spoon on the edge of the pot and set it aside. “Molly will be done with school in three years, and by then Mary Grace will be old enough to look after herself. You’ll be free to do as you please.” She turned and waggled her brows at me. “Inside your bedroom and out.”
“But that’s years away! I want a little excitement in my life now.” I thumped the table for emphasis.
“Take it from me—a little excitement goes a long way,” said Bridget, gesturing toward the front room, where I could hear her two older boys playing. “You don’t want to do what I did.”
That was true. Bridget had gotten pregnant before her wedding and Daddy had been furious. But still. “For cripes sake, Bridget, when would I have the opportunity? I haven’t even kissed anyone in months!”
“So kiss somebody.” Bridget grinned and dropped into the chair across from me. “Then give me all the saucy details.”
“It’s more than that,” I went on. “In the morning I want to get up and go to work without cleaning up a big mess after breakfast. At night, instead of washing all the dinner dishes and making sure everyone has clean clothes for the next day, I want to go dancing and drink champagne. I want to wear a short dress and red lipstick without my father scolding me. I want to hit the best nightclubs with a dashing swain at my side to light my cigarettes. Like the Arrow Shirt man,” I said wistfully. “Or the sheik.”
Bridget laughed. “The sheik?”
“That guy who comes in for the Fatimas. He was in again today looking for Daddy.” I touched my buttery mouth, picturing the sheik’s lips on his cigarette.
The light in Bridget’s eyes went out. “Oh.”
“Any idea who he is?”
She jumped up, grabbed the broom from the corner and swept the floor with angry strokes, shooing Charlie into the front room. “No. But I don’t like the looks of him.”
“Since when? The other day we were both swooning over him like he was Valentino.”
“Something about the way he keeps showing up gives me a bad feeling.” She swept harder, not meeting my eyes. “He reminds me of those guys who used to come around for Vince.”
My twitchy feeling returned. I knew the kind of men she was talking about. The day Vince was murdered two years ago, he was picking up a mobster named Big Leo Scarfone from the police station. He’d been shot right there on the sidewalk. Twenty-one times.
I swallowed. “You think he’s connected to Vince’s…to what happened to Vince?”
“I don’t know, Tiny. I don’t recognize him. I just suddenly got a bad feeling, that’s all.” Finally, she stopped sweeping and looked at me, tears in her eyes. “You need to be careful. A little excitement is one thing, but I don’t want to be up at night worrying about you. Understand?”
I nodded, deciding not to mention the episode in the alley. She put the broom away and returned to the stove as I recalled getting the news about Vince, delivered by a Detroit police officer at the store. Three other men were killed that day, including Big Leo and Joey’s father. The third guy lived just lo
ng enough to break the code of silence and reveal the names of the gunmen, members of a rival crime family. They were arrested and charged with murder, but Bridget said they’d never go to jail, and she was right. It took the jury less than fifty minutes to find them innocent.
I was hoping her instincts about the sheik were off. Because I wanted to see him again.
I wanted to do more than that.
Chapter Two
The boathouse was a bootlegger’s dream. Sitting right at the edge of Lake St. Clair, it was accessible only by a bumpy dirt path off Jefferson Avenue that was so overgrown it was nearly invisible. Daddy hadn’t arrived yet, so after parking beneath a huge weeping willow, I wandered onto the dock. A light breeze ruffled my hair as I looked across the water to Canada, its tree line clearly visible on the opposite shore. The lake appeared unusually calm. We should have made a run this afternoon. I glanced at our motorboat bobbing in the water before turning toward the boathouse door. It was partway open, the rusty padlock unlatched and dangling.
Confused, I looked around, but mine was the only car in sight. Daddy must have taken a streetcar then, I thought, stepping inside. Despite the hot day, the interior of the boathouse was shadowy and dank, empty but for the sacks of whisky and crates of scotch at the back. I was heading for them when I heard footsteps behind me.
“I made the deliveries,” I said, picking up a burlap sack of Canadian Club by its bunny ears. “Mrs. Koehler was a little short.”
“I’m not sure you should be calling anyone short.”
I spun around as someone stepped out from the shadows into a narrow beam of sunlight slanting through a high window.
My breath hitched. “How did you get in here?”
The sheik smiled, hands in his pockets. “I have a talent for lock and key.”
“How did you find this place?”
“I followed you.”
The gooseflesh returned. Is Bridget right about him? “Why?”
“I was curious.” He walked toward me, slowly. His coat was unbuttoned. “And I wanted to see you again.”
I glanced at the open door. “You shouldn’t be here. If it’s whisky you want, I’ll bring it to you.”
He took the sack from my hands and set it on the floor. “What if I want something besides whisky?” His dark eyes were beautiful, but it was his mouth that fascinated me. My breath came faster as I stared at the sharp peaks of his upper lip.
“Such as?”
He tipped up my chin, but went no further, his mouth so close I could feel his breath. His slow smile sent my pulse skittering out of control.
I was done waiting for it. I grabbed the back of his neck and pulled his mouth to mine.
His arms snaked around my back, the heat of his body enveloping me. When he opened his mouth, I did the same, and my entire body hummed like a swarm of bees was under my skin. I’m kissing the sheik! I don’t even know his name! Daddy could walk in here any second! Damn, he smells good—like aftershave and tobacco. My breasts tingled and I rose up on tiptoe, trying to press closer. Wishing his skin was bare, I ran my hands down his vest and twined my arms around his taut waist. My fingers hit a hard object, and I froze.
He has a gun.
I pulled my hands back as if they had been burned. “We have to stop,” I said against his mouth.
He lifted his head and loosened his grip a little. “Why’s that?”
My blood was pumping way too fast, shock and desire battling inside my veins. Because you’ve got a gun in your trousers. “Because…my father is going to be here any minute.” I put my hands on his chest and pushed him away. Some instinct told me not to acknowledge the weapon. Willing my heart rate to return to normal, I tucked a stray piece of hair behind my ear. “What’s your name, anyway?”
He began buttoning his coat. “Enzo DiFiore.”
“I’d tell you mine, but you already know it.”
He smiled as he adjusted his cuffs, and I twisted my hands together to keep from launching myself at him and tearing the clothes from his body.
“Well, Mr. DiFiore, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, but I really have to ask you to leave now. My father will not take kindly to a stranger alone in the boathouse with me. Or his liquor.” I turned around to pick up the whisky sack, and by the time I straightened and faced him again, he was gone.
I moved to the doorway and looked out. Nobody. The air was hot and still and silent. What the hell?
Dazed, I walked from the boathouse to my car, opened the trunk and placed the sack inside it. Staring at the burlap, I brought my hands to my face, my belly tightening at the memory of the sheik’s mouth on mine. Enzo DiFiore. I thought about his arms around me, the commanding way he’d slanted his open mouth over mine, and the contraction moved lower in my body. Bridget had joked about spilling the details of my next kiss, but I could never tell her about this.
I wandered back into the boathouse, but instead of grabbing another sack, I plunked down on a crate of scotch and stared in disbelief at the pool of sunlight where we’d stood.
“Enzo DiFiore,” I whispered. Who was he? All I knew about him was his name. And that he’s a good kisser with a talent for lock and key. A laugh bubbled up in me. After all, if he’d wanted to steal from us, or harm me in some way, he could have done it. But all he’d done was follow me. Watch me. Kiss me.
My insides trembled with excitement. Would he seek me out again? At the sound of a car sputtering to a stop outside, I stood and smoothed my clothing. My rosy spirits withered when I saw Joey unloading the whisky I’d just put into the trunk. “Why are you doing that?” I snapped, marching toward him.
“Because this is the biggest space you have and we need it for the crates. The sacks should go under the back seat.”
He was right, which annoyed me. I yanked the whisky from his arms.
“Got your mind on something else?” Joey opened the back door and lifted the seat.
“Like what?” I shouldered him aside and dropped the sack in.
“You tell me. I saw you talking to a guy in the alley earlier. Who was it?”
I turned on him, hands on my hips. “None of your beeswax.”
He smiled at getting a rise out of me, his brown eyes lighting up. “Come on, Tiny, a guy like that, in a suit that fancy?” He looked me up and down. “You’re not his type.”
I lunged for him, giving him a hard shove with both hands on the chest. Joey wasn’t tall but he was solid, so I was surprised when he went over backward. Since I’d thrown all my weight into the push, I went over too and we landed in a heap of tangled limbs on the dirt. To my chagrin, my body betrayed me by tingling at the feel of our torsos pressed together. For one awkward moment, we paused, our faces inches apart.
“Kiss me, you fool,” he said, but then he burst out laughing.
“Go to hell.” I rolled off him and stood, brushing the dust off my skirt.
Joey popped up on his feet, still chuckling. “Good hit. Caught me off guard.”
“Did I hurt you?” I asked hopefully.
“With what—a pebble to the backside?” He readjusted his floppy cap.
I was tempted to keep sparring with him since I was so worked up, but just then Daddy arrived. We got to work emptying the boathouse into our cars, and then drove back to the garage, where we unloaded the booze into the hidden rooms in the basement. No one spoke more than one-word commands or responses, and Daddy looked over his shoulder more than usual. Not that I blamed him—the events of this afternoon had me on edge too.
By the time we were through, I was sticky and tired and my left hip ached. While Daddy went over the day’s take in the office, I sat on the stained cement floor and watched Joey bring in the last of the booze. His black pants hugged his butt as he moved, and a surprising little flutter swept through my belly. He set the whisky down and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist. It left a trail of dirt smudged against his olive skin, but I had to admit he’d gotten better looking in the la
st couple years, sort of grown into his strong nose and wide mouth.
He caught me staring. “See something you like?”
I made a disgusted noise at the back of my throat, as if he hadn’t just read my mind. “No.”
“Joe,” called Daddy. “Come in here a minute.” When Joey stepped into the office, I hopped to my feet, counted to five and followed, stopping just out of sight of the open door.
“Just keep your ears open,” Daddy was saying. “And let me know what you hear.”
About what? I wondered. Did this have anything to do with the letter from Enzo?
Daddy dropped his voice. “And keep an eye on Tiny, too. She needs it.”
Like hell I do. Especially that eye.
Joey came out of the office, giving me a slug on the shoulder as he headed for the back door. “See you around, Little Tomato.”
I ignored him. “Daddy,” I said loudly, drawing him out of the office. “What’s going on?”
He was still shuffling through the stack of bills and didn’t meet my eye. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
“What was in that letter? The one I gave you earlier.”
He didn’t even lift his head. “Nothing to worry about.”
He was lying, but Daddy was stubborn as a one-eyed mule. If he didn’t want me to know what was going on, I wasn’t going to get it out of him. Maybe I could snoop around for the letter tomorrow. “I guess I’ll walk home then, see what the girls have cooked up.”
“A heap of trouble, no doubt.” He flashed a quick smile in my direction, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
#
Later that night—after making supper, washing the dishes, breaking up a fight between my sisters over whose turn it was to dry them, running the carpet sweeper, and putting out the trash—I took a cool bath, put on my nightgown, and flopped facedown onto my bed. Our home wasn’t large by any means, but keeping it clean and running smoothly was exhausting, not to mention keeping two younger sisters fed, clothed, and out of trouble. Daddy did what he could, willing to cook the occasional pot of soup or scrub the tub from time to time, but as the oldest daughter at home, I had the most responsibility. Sometimes the weight of it all threatened to drag me under.
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