"Her eyes are bothering her." Stefan sat down slowly and stared at his plate. Even if Lucie had not seen him tug his mustache, she would have known he was disturbed by the scowl in his dark eyes. "The oldest Poppalov boy told me he thought he saw the Irishman here tonight."
Lucie's heart stopped. "Oh?" she said faintly, turning back to the stove. "I didn't know you had a spy, Stefan."
She sensed discomfort in his silence, as acute as her own. "The Irishman still asks to call on you," he said at length. "Every week, regular as clockwork, he persists in asking."
"You've conceded he's a good worker. You've said he carries his own weight and works as hard as any man. Sometimes I think you respect him if you would only admit it."
"Perhaps," he admitted grudgingly. "But there's more to it than that."
Lucie gripped the handle of the oven door, not looking at him. "Please, Stefan. Grant us your permission." Sometimes she did not think she could bear the anguish of deceiving him one more instant.
"I can't do that." The harshness of his voice bowed Lucie's head. "I'd look like a fool. The decision has been made." When she made no reply, he reached for the bread and broke off a chunk, turning it in his hand. "If I discovered he was coming around here I would have to fight him again. You know that."
She closed her eyes and nodded.
"There is another man at workStanislas Sarnoff. I would like to invite him to Sunday supper."
"No," Lucie said quietly, staring down at the range top.
"Damn it, Lucie!" She heard his fist strike the table. "Greta is correct. It isn't right for a beautiful young woman not to have a man of her own. You should be thinking about your own marriage, thinking about your own children. But you're both wrong about the Irishman. Can't you understand? I don't want you to make a mistake. All I want is for you to be happy!"
She turned and looked at him with glistening eyes. "Then permit me to make my own choice. Allow me to decide where my happiness lies."
He stared at her, then he swore again and angrily smeared a spoonful of melting butter across his bread.
Stefan took Greta and Lucie to the Hester Street market on Sunday afternoon to do the week's shopping. As usual the stalls and pushcarts encroached on the street and the crowds were so thick the street had been closed to horses and vehicles. People shouted and haggled for bargains in half a dozen languages. One couldn't walk three steps without being jostled by throngs of people or accosted by a vendor.
"Fifteen cents a pound for a scrawny chicken who died of starvation," Greta lamented in tones of resignation. Her shining blond hair was a rarity among the dark heads in Hester Street and she attracted much attention, though she seemed unaware of it.
"I can't decide," Lucie said, beckoning Greta toward the bins in the stall next to the meat. "Shall I spend fourteen cents for a dozen eggs or buy oranges instead?" The oranges would be an extravagance, but they smelled so tantalizing and good. Removing her glove, she reached toward an orange and touched the rough pebbled surface with her fingertips and inhaled the scent. Surely heaven smelled like oranges.
Greta's chiming laughter caused the vendor to sigh and he gazed at her with a besotted smile. "Oh, no, heaven smells like geraniums."
"You and your geraniums." Lucie smiled. "Oh, look over there. Eyeglasses." She tugged Greta through the crush of dark coats and flaring hems to a cart filled with wire-rimmed spectacles. "We're not leaving until you find exactly the right pair."
Leaning, Greta read the sign on the side of the cart. "Thirty-five cents? I don't know, that seems an awful price."
"Not if the glasses will stop your eyes from hurting. And you'll be able to see your beloved geraniums better. Here. Try these." Under the watchful eye of the vendor, Lucie selected a pair of spectacles and handed them to Greta who tilted her head to one side.
"I don't know good heavens! Who is this handsome man!" Greta said, laughing up at Stefan. "Give us your opinion, sir. Do I look like a scholar?"
"You look beautiful," Stefan said softly, gazing down into her face. "To me you will always be beautiful."
A rush of pink brightened Greta's pale cheeks. Her eyes shone behind the wire-rimmed glass. "Dearest Stefan."
Lucie recognized the longing in their gaze as they stood close together looking into each other's eyes, the crowds around them forgotten. Seeing them together reminded her of her goal and how little she had progressed toward achieving it.
When they returned to the Elizabeth Street courtyard, the Poppalov children and Mrs. Cransky's daughter spotted Greta immediately and ran forward to clasp her hands and hang on her skirts. "Tell us a story, Miss Laskowski. Please? Just one?"
Greta's protesting laughter rang on the air like tiny bells. "Not today, I promised to help Miss Kolska prepare supper."
"I can manage," Lucie insisted, smiling. "You go on." When Greta lifted her eyebrows in a gesture of indecision, Lucie made a shooing motion with her hands. "Stefan promised to mend our boots today. He can join you on the roof and do it there." She lowered a mock scowl to the children. "And he'll make sure these tyrants don't tire you."
She and Stefan watched the children pull Greta toward the door and the stairs. "She should have children of her own," Lucie observed quietly.
"I know." Stefan's jawline tightened.
"I've been thinking. Greta and I love each other. We get on well together." After shifting the net bag of oranges on her arm, Lucie looked up at him. "We could all live together, Stefan."
"Thank you, Lucie. But Greta and I have talked about it, and it wouldn't work." Frustration darkened his eyes as he watched Greta and the children disappear inside the tenement.
"We'd be crowded, but"
"If Greta and I married and she came to us, Lucie, the babies would soon follow. She couldn't work for a while, at least not until the babe was weaned." He removed his bowler and raked a hand through his hair. "You remember how it was before you found work. We had barely enough money for rent and food. When it turns cold we'll need extra coal for the stove. And what about winter coats and boots? Or, God forbid, if we needed a doctor or medicine?" Worry constricted his expression.
"I can help"
He cut her off with a chopping motion of his hand. "Lucie, I can't ask you to support my family. I appreciate your suggestion and I wish it were possible. But it isn't right now."
"Stefan, how is Greta feeling, really?" Slowly, they walked around a ragpicker's bundle and approached the tenement door. "When I ask, she smiles and always says 'better,' but it seems as if she's gained a little more weight. I don't see how, she only picks at her food. And she's mentioned vomiting "
Stefan stopped at the door and looked at Lucie but he was seeing something in a private distance. "I bought Greta some medicine for her cough and for the vomiting. The druggist in Mercer Street said she's probably suffering from the summer complaint. But that doesn't sound right. Sometimes she can't sleep. Other times she sleeps like a drugged person and worries she won't wake in time for work. Her appetite comes and goes. She doesn't seem to be getting better. In fact" He clenched his jaw. "I know she's worried about her health, but she refuses to talk about it. When I ask, she just waves it off and says it's nothing."
"She doesn't want to trouble you."
"But I am troubled. I worry all the time." Stefan met Lucie's eyes and said simply, "If anything happened to Greta, life wouldn't be worth living. I love her."
"I know," Lucie said softly.
After sending Stefan up to the roof she put away the shopping items, then cut the chicken into the pot and set aside the carrots and turnips to be added later. With luck the stewed chicken would stretch over the next three days.
While she worked she occasionally glanced at the geranium on the windowsill. It was a poor straggly thing, starved for sunlight. Every Sunday Greta fussed over it, adding water and pulling off the brown leaves, murmuring endearments in an effort to coax forth a small blossom.
"Grow," Lucie commanded, staring at the heat-limp
stalk.
"I feel terrible that I've abandoned you all afternoon," Greta called, coming in the door. Her cheeks were flushed by the rooftop sun and wisps of golden hair floated around her face. The new eyeglasses had become smudged by the inspection of small fingers.
"Let me have those," Lucie said, smiling. "I was about to polish the lamp chimney, I'll do your glasses, too."
"May I borrow your hairbrush? I forgot to bring mine. The wind on the roof was determined to have my pins."
"A brush and extra pins are on my shelf."
She cleaned the fingerprints from Greta's eyeglasses and took them into the sleeping room. Greta stood beside the curtain, examining the blond hair in Lucie's brush with an expression of dismay. Slowly she combed the hair out of the bristles.
"It's the oddest thing," she murmured as she replaced the brush on Lucie's shelf. "My hair seems to be getting thinner." Troubled blue eyes turned to Lucie. "Does it seem to you that I'm losing a lot of hair?"
Lucie led her into the kitchen where the light was better and inspected her head. They both wore their hair in the fashionable Gibson style, full around the face and caught up in a loose knot at the crown.
"Your hair seems as thick as it's always been," Lucie insisted. But she wasn't as certain as she sounded. Now that she thought of it she recalled the luxuriant heavy mass of honey-colored hair that she had admired so profusely the day she first met Greta. In truth, it didn't seem that Greta's hair was quite as fulsome today. "Are you taking the medicine Stefan gave you?"
When Greta's coughing spell ended, she sat down to catch her breath. "You would think at fifty cents a bottle, Doctor Sage's Catarrh Remedy would melt this silly congestion."
"And you're hiding your hands again. Is the rash worse?"
Greta shrugged and tucked her hands beneath the folds of her skirt. "I'm falling apart, aren't I? It's the silliest thing." She turned her head to gaze at the geranium wilting on the sill, then she looked up at Lucie and smiled. "What can I do to help with supper?"
"You can make coffee while I peel the potatoes. The grounds are almost new. Greta, don't let me forget to give you more cream for your hands. I made up a new batch not long ago."
"That reminds me, dear Lucie. Three of the women at the factory would like to try your cream if you have any to spare."
The compliment pleased her. "I'm flattered you thought to mention it to them." Pride flushed her cheeks and she paused in her work to look at Greta. "I know you don't like to talk about this, and I apologize for belaboring the point, but, Greta, are you all right?"
For an instant their eyes met and held and Lucie's chest tightened in alarm. Fear and anxiety flared behind Greta's new spectacles. Then Greta smiled and her gaze was again as gentle and steady as always. "Of course I am. I'll be as right as a raindrop as soon as cooler weather comes."
From the ferry the city reminded Lucie of a cluster of stars fallen to earth. Lights flickered in distant windows, and a glow radiated above Broadway. She stood at the ferry railing, her shoulder touching Jamie's, her small gloved hand beneath his on the rail. Weeks ago she had believed if she could just see him, if she could just spend an hour a week in his company, that would be enough. But it wasn't.
In many ways the brief hours they spent together each Tuesday made their situation worse. Her curiosity had become a yearning that approached a physical ache. The moment she stepped off the train and found Jamie waiting, an acute awareness blossomed into being. Suddenly she could think of nothing but his wide smiling mouth, his lips, the pull of his trousers across his thighs, the warm intensity of dark Irish eyes that spoke a mute language of the heart.
This strange sharp focus extended to herself, as well. In Jamie's company she became intensely aware of herself as a woman. Usually she didn't think about such immodest things as the feel of her own skin, or the sway of her hips when she walked, or the curve of her shirtwaist over her chemise.
But when she recognized the desire in Jamie's gaze, she blushed with pleasure and thought about her small firm breasts and how they would feel beneath his rough palms. Such shameless thoughts brought a rush of pink to her cheeks, but she could no more have halted her awakening than she could have halted the currents that returned them to the landing dock.
"Jamie?" she asked softly, wetting her lips and banishing these unsettling thoughts. "Is something troubling you tonight?" The gay mood they had established earlier at the outdoor concert in Brooklyn had moved toward something more somber.
When he turned to gaze at her the look in his eyes stopped the breath in her lungs.
"The same thing that's troubled us from the beginning, Lucie." The jaw she longed to stroke hardened into a tight line. "I hate deceiving Stefan as much as you do. I hate knowing how guilty I've made you feel. When you told me about the Poppalov boy seeing us together" His voice trailed off and he gripped the rail so hard that his hands turned pale at the knuckles. "It's not enough that we must sneak about like criminals, or that we're denied any hope of privacy, now I can't even accompany you home."
Her heart shifted in her chest and her breath stopped. "What are you saying Jamie? That we shouldn't meet again?"
"Lord no, lass!" Forgetting they were surrounded by people, he lifted a quick hand to her cheek. "I couldn't bear not seeing you! You are the one bright spot in my week, in my life. Without you, there would be no reason to start a new day. I'm saying I loathe our situation. I know you do, too. I despise acting in a dishonorable manner and what that does to you."
"I chose our Tuesday nights. You didn't force them on me."
"Is there anything I can do or say to change Stefan's mind?"
"I don't think so," Lucie said in a low voice.
Jamie gripped her hands so tightly she winced. "Somehow, some way, I swear I will convince Stefan Kolska that I'm good enough for you. And someday I will be, Lucie, that I promise."
"Oh, Jamie. You're good enough."
His dark eyes blazed with conviction as he turned back to the dark water and stared at the approaching, city."I'm going to be successful I'm going to have my slice of the pie. In America a man can go as far as his talents and his ambition will take him. Someday everyone in this city will know of Kelly's Design and Construction Company. That is going to happen, dearest Lucie, just as we've discussed it. Not as soon as I would like it to, but it is going to happen."
"I believe you," she said softly. How could she doubt? When he spoke of his dreams and ambitions, his eyes glowed with determination. Surely no one could want success that badly and fail to achieve it. His opportunity would come.
"And when I'm rich, I'll buy you wonderful presents," he said, smiling at her. "I'll buy all those wonderful things we've seen in the emporium windows along Ladies Mile."
She laughed aloud, enjoying his vision, thrilled by the strength of his hands pressing hers. When Jamie spoke like this, hinting of a wonderful future together, her heart soared. At least until they parted. Then she couldn't help wondering if Jamie's vision, and hers, would really happen or if it would remain in the misty realm of dreams. But it was lovely to think about.
After disembarking from the ferry they fell silent in dread of parting, resenting that they could no longer walk together to the opening between the buildings. They would have to part sooner to avoid the risk of being observed.
When they approached Elizabeth Street, Jamie stopped and guided her toward a doorway out of the flow of pedestrian traffic. Gently, he turned her toward him, taking both her hands and frowning down into her face.
"I just realized I've assumed a hell of a lot. I apologize, dear Lucie. Here I am talking about buying you presents and I don't know if you "
All she could think about was his large hands holding hers. Making an effort she raised a smile against the tremble in her lips. "Jamie Kelly, don't tell me there's a streak of uncertainty in you. Are you saying now that I have a choice?"
His grin made; her knees go weak. "As a matter of fact, lass, you don't. If I wish to showe
r you with gifts you'll simply have to accept them, proper or not."
Lucie's laugh momentarily relaxed the tension coiling her stomach. But immediately it returned. For a moment she forgot the people hurrying around them, forgot they were not alone. All she wanted was to wrap her arms around him and assure him that he had assumed nothing.
His hands tightened painfully around hers and corded muscles rose on his neck. "When you look at me like that I would give ten years of my life to have three minutes alone with you," he murmured in a husky voice. His warm breath flowed over her mouth and cheeks. "I've never wanted anything so much in my life!"
"I know," she murmured helplessly.
What they were doing was madness. Someone she knew could pass and discover them standing close together, absorbed in each other, and inform Stefan. But she was powerless to step away and deny what she was feeling. She wanted Jamie Kelly's arms around her, longed to know his kiss, his touch.
"Lucie." His voice was hoarse, his gaze fastened to her parted lips. "I must leave at once before I dishonor you."
"Nothing you do could ever dishonor me, Jamie Kelly," she whispered.
Lost in the moment and in each other, they stood so close they could feel each other's magnetic heat. And suddenly Lucie knew he would kiss her. She felt as if she were drowning in the chocolate melt of his eyes. Her lips parted and her breath quickened. The sound of passing voices and street traffic faded from her ears, replaced by the accelerated pulse of her thudding heart. Slowly he leaned to her, looked deeply into her eyes, then his warm mouth brushed her lips as tenderly as the whisper of a butterfly's wing.
Her response was electric. Her scalp tingled and an explosive heat raced downward to her shaking limbs. For a moment she thought her knees would collapse and was grateful for his steadying hands.
"Forgive me, Lucie," he murmured, his voice shaken. "I've claimed a liberty I had no right to"
"I wanted you to," she admitted, still tasting him on her lips. And she wanted him to kiss her again. The kiss they had shared had been gentle, exploratory, the passion they felt held in check. But passion had flamed to life. She saw it in his fevered eyes, felt it coursing through her own blood and bone.
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