“Can’t?” Benjamin repeated.
“No. Cora and I are performing a new act in Mr. Erlanger’s main event.” She pointed to one of the larger plaster-front halls. “He just agreed to it. We need to practice.”
“But Esmerelda,” Cora said, “it’s not for—”
“Really,” she said loudly. “If Cora and I don’t work out the particulars, we might find ourselves out on the street.” Cora shut up, clearly taking Esmerelda at her word.
“Esmerelda.” Benjamin studied her. “If you thought it through, worrying about things like accommodations never need cross your mind again.” He leaned on his walking stick, which sported a silver eagle knob.
“Interesting. Cora and I were speaking on that very subject.”
“Were you?” His deep dimples reemerged. “This is what I’m saying. If a girl were wise, and the carousel’s brass ring were within reach, she should grab at it. The perks might be quite unimaginable.”
“And like I was explaining to Cora”—Esmerelda’s glance cut back to Benjamin—“it’s neither perks nor free rides that turn my head.” She looked toward the ocean, which she heard but could not see. A vision swamped her—one where Phin and his easel were swept out to sea. She moved without thinking, thrusting Oscar’s nickels into Cora’s hand. “Buy your own lemonade. I have something to see to, then I’ll meet you at the wagon.”
“Esmerelda.” Benjamin grasped her arm. “It’s only . . . well, might I buy you dinner after tonight’s performance? Perhaps we could spend a little time . . .” He glanced at Cora. “Alone.”
His grip didn’t ease, and it seemed only agreement would end the conversation. “If you wish.” He released her arm. “Right now, I have to go.”
ACT II, SCENE II
Esmerelda moved like the needle of a sewing machine through the fabric of people on the beach. Bodies and sand mixed with rows of bathhouses, where street apparel was traded for rented woolen bathing costumes. Other beachgoers carried large umbrellas, warding off a sultry sun. Gulls circled and squawked over the scene.
Phin was easy to spot: the only man with an easel. He was safe at the shoreline. The sea hadn’t swallowed him. Esmerelda stopped. This was girlish folly that even Cora would have the sense to avoid. But Esmerelda damned the notion and trudged forward, sweating in her heavy skirt and long-sleeved blouse. She didn’t get far before her boots filled with sand. Bending, she undid the laces, all the while looking between Phin and her footwear. Boldly, in public, Esmerelda rolled down her stockings and slipped them off. The sand was blazing hot and she moved faster.
Her intention wasn’t to speak to him, but to observe Phin from a distance. The crowds had a say in that, and a serpentine stitch mechanically wove her toward him. Burning sand cooled as it met the surf, and her pace slowed. Between the human noise and ocean, a person would have to shout to be heard. Esmerelda didn’t speak, acutely aware that Phin knew she was there.
The back of the canvas faced her, and the easel was dug into drier sand. His belongings sat a few precarious inches from the waves. Esmerelda scrunched her toes into the muddy shore. Twice now, mud had been their meeting point. She almost said this aloud before realizing the daftness. More poetic words occurred to her. “‘If Paris is France, then Coney Island, between June and September, is the World.’”
He didn’t look up. “If I were in Paris, I’d do well to trade this canvas for a steely saber. That’s if I wanted to live.” The thought left Esmerelda at an unusual loss for words. “Once September is gone,” he went on, “the world may be at Paris’s door.” He squinted at her. “Is this some kind of political rant?”
Esmerelda shook her head, uncertain how she’d traded poetry for war. “I thought maybe I’d see you again, back at Hupp’s.”
He remained engrossed in his canvas. “The Tribune has me busy with less glamorous tasks. My stint at the supper club was only me filling in for the regular photographer. Turns out, he lived and—”
“Was he in the war?”
“Charlie Carlisle?” Phin grinned at his canvas. “Hardly. He survived the influenza.”
“Oh. Well, that’s good.” She was quiet for a moment. “Dying’s an ugly business.” She cleared her throat at the equally gloomy remark. “What is it you do if you’re not taking photographs at the supper club?”
“It’s a big city, Esme. An even bigger world. War rallies are near every day. Those are the photos they want for the evening edition.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Photo taking, it’s the work I prefer at the Tribune. But that aspiration is like painting. A fellow can wow them, but he can’t make his way.”
Passersby bumped Esmerelda’s arm, their glances caught on Phin’s painting. People pointed at the canvas, commenting. Esmerelda assumed he was painting the scene, perhaps one with a grand ocean liner, like the Lusitania, in the foreground.
One woman stopped and gripped her husband’s arm. “I’ve never seen anything so exquisite. So . . . surreal.” When Phin didn’t acknowledge the compliment, the woman looked at the back of his head with irritation. Then she looked at Esmerelda as if she were somehow tied to his ill manners. “Ask him, George. Ask the young man if you can buy it for me.” George obliged, offering two dollars. But Phin declined, saying, over his shoulder, that the painting wasn’t for sale.
This stunned Esmerelda. From Oscar to Benjamin, she couldn’t imagine a man unwilling to profit from inventory. The couple went on, and Phin finally spoke, if only to the canvas. “I do have occasional takers, but not enough. To be truthful, I wish they’d all drown, or at least leave me be. Those were the second gawkers today, never mind the ones from last week. And then it was barely a painting.”
“So why come here,” she asked, “if the crowds and noise are disturbing? If it’s peace you want, silence you crave. Wouldn’t a stretch of beach toward Long Island be easy enough to find, offer the same view?”
“Easy enough to find.” His brush stopped moving. He hauled in a breath, his blue-gray eyes meeting hers. “I don’t know about the same view.”
Esmerelda lingered in his meaning, as if sweat weren’t streaming down every part of her body. Phin looked comfortable enough—barefooted, pant legs rolled up, his shirt half-unbuttoned. Men could get away with so much. She’d only been thinking this, though it appeared otherwise when he caught her gaze, locked on his open shirt. “I imagine,” Esmerelda said, fumbling to recover, “if your intent was to find me, the crowd might present the same difficulty as me not being present at all.”
“But at least, on this beach, I had a chance.” He aimed the paint-filled brush bristles at her and grinned. “Seems I succeeded.”
“I suppose you have.”
He reengaged with his painting, which disappointed her. But Phin’s concentration was worth watching, deep as the ocean beside them. Moments later, Esmerelda shook her head as if he’d induced an Amazing Miss Moon trance. “I’m confused. Even if you’ve sought me out, it seems I’m only interrupting. I’ll leave you to your painting.” She shuffled back, letting her skirt fall, the edge soaking up the tide.
“I had to think about it.” She pivoted as he spoke. “Seeing you again. I was the guy in the muddy alley with the lowlife hoi polloi. I left you in Benjamin Hupp’s care, if not his good graces.”
“The club has treated me well.” Esmerelda dug her toes into the cool silt. “I’m employed by Hupp’s revue, not Mr. Benjamin Hupp personally.”
“And they’re not one in the same?” He tilted his head at the canvas, but the point of this small gesture didn’t appear to be his work. “If that’s how you need to see it.”
“Is that so? I don’t suppose there’s any chance the club, or even Mr. Hupp, employs me for my singing ability. My talent?”
“Anything’s possible. I was only thinking what’s more probable.”
“You stupid boy!”
He blinked at her blunt remark. Finally, he was more rapt by her than his painting.
“That’s twice you’ve insulted
me beyond all reason,” she said.
“And clearly I get as good as I give. That’s twice you’ve fitted me with a dunce cap.”
“First you assume I’m a common trollop—”
“I explained that error in my favor.”
“And now I come all the way down here in this heat”—she plucked at her soaked blouse—“to offer a friendly hello. In return, it takes you all of a few sentences—while you rudely pay more attention to a painting you won’t even sell—to imply that my employment by Mr. Hupp is nothing more than a ruse to . . .” With her boots clutched in her arm, Esmerelda tugged on a stocking she’d stuffed inside. She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “A means to getting under my skirt.” She turned, kicking up sand as she went.
He yelled after her, “Is there a chance I’m wrong? Is it not what he wants?”
Esmerelda halted her forward motion, widening her eyes at the beach stretched before her. She thought about gathering a fist of sand, nailing him square in the face, maybe ruining his not-for-sale painting. He was beyond ignorant. Phin would rather go hungry than part with a painting. It should tell her something. But Esmerelda had to give in to the source of her anger. It wasn’t him, but the controlling nature of men. She turned back. “For your information, I’m a worthy songstress. Benjamin Hupp is lucky to have me perform in his supper club!”
“And what other sort of luck is he hoping for?” He looked between his painting and the sea. “I’m not saying that isn’t true, about your singing. It’s one reason I wanted to find you. I was curious how far Hupp would go to woo you if you sang like an alley cat.”
“So here’s your answer—not that you’re entitled to one. Not that I care what you think.” Esmerelda dropped her boots, lest she whack him upside the head with the black pointed toe. She took a salt-covered breath, overpowering seagulls and sea-goers, and burst into the verse of “In the Sweet Long Ago.”
If his painting commanded compliments, her singing drew looks of amazement. The outdoor acoustics were difficult, and Esmerelda heard her voice waft upward to the bird-filled heaven. But when beachgoers applauded, she assumed she was on key. One man tossed a penny in her boot as he passed by. She’d meant for it to be a private performance—maybe in the same way Phin viewed his painting. People went on their way and Phin stared. “Does it answer your first question?”
“You’re a talented songstress, Esme. I could listen to that all day.” She was briefly vindicated. “’Course, it does little to answer my second curiosity.”
He was bold, and a desire to know more about Phin Seaborn grew: What drove him to the beach, to his question, to this moment? She firmed up her chin. “Benjamin Hupp has only seen my stockings to the point where they’ve hung on the wash line Cora and I put up. I’ve no sway over his motivation, but I’ve earned my keep by sheer talent—for singing,” she quickly added.
His grin seemed to go wider than the paintbrush he held. “And I believe it makes you a clever thinker, Esme.”
She shrugged, finding herself attached to the nickname, or the way he said it—belonging as opposed to possession.
“Not many girls would be quick enough to put a roommate between herself and Hupp’s intentions. Well done.”
“It was more common sense than clever, but think what you like.”
He put down the brush and wove his fingers through his wind-whipped hair. “Most any girl would have given in to a peek at her stockings, if the invitation came from Hupp.” Phin held up his hand. “And I’m not saying that to get my ears boxed. But what girl turns down one of the richest heirs in all of New York City?”
Until he said it, Esmerelda supposed she’d been avoiding the obviousness—Benjamin Hupp’s pursuit. She ignored the dinner invitation she’d agreed to; it’d only been the quickest route to Phin. “He hasn’t asked anything, other than for me to sing.” The slight fib caused Esmerelda to stare at her muddy toes. “And now I believe I’ve answered your query,” she said, looking back up, “for whatever reason you need to know.”
Phin touched the wooden handle of the brush but didn’t pick it up. “Fair enough. So can I ask why is it you’ve come down here to see me?” He nodded. “Oh, that’s right. You only wanted to say hello. Point out the similarities between Paris and Coney Island, which I’m still giving some thought to, so thank you for that.” He shuffled his glance between the painting and her. “Was that all?”
Esmerelda opened her mouth, a salty sea breeze rushing in. How was it he managed to keep the upper hand, and why didn’t she mind nearly as much as she professed? The truth skipped through her head. Well, I was standing over there—funnily enough, talking with Benjamin Hupp. I saw you. I had this foolish fear the sea might swallow you whole. It only seemed natural I brush off an ardent suitor (because you’re completely right) and lie to Cora, giving her my nickels, so I could wander down here and . . . “I was curious to know what you’re painting.”
She stepped boldly alongside of him and faced the canvas. Esmerelda brushed her fingertips over her mouth. “Oh my . . .”
“As you realized, it was a needle in a haystack that you’d turn up. Maybe more like one gold bead on that gown. But I will say, I believe I’ve perfected the brushstroke, mirrored the sheen.” A swallow dipped through his throat. “While I can’t say why, I knew I’d find you here. I know how that sounds.”
“Maybe not as odd as you think,” she whispered.
“You’ve been etched in my mind, Esme—since that muddy alley. Since I left you at the door of opportunity.”
She continued to stare at his painting. The one with which he wouldn’t part.
“Once I started this painting . . . well, it became more about what I saw in my head than anything I could call mine.” From his pocket, Phin produced a single gold bead. It’d come from the gown Esmerelda wore the night they met. “If this was all I’d ever have of you, I thought it best I capture the memory.”
“It’s . . . magic.” Her fingertips reached toward the canvas. On it was an exquisitely painted mermaid. Its fishtail imitating the gold-beaded gown, the sea sparkling off it like a trail of fallen stars. The mermaid’s eyes were cast downward, a melancholy mien. And the mermaid’s face, it was the reflection that belonged to Esme.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Long Island
Present Day
Rabbits. Rabbits on Homestead Road . . . Rabbit Lane . . . rabbit hole . . . They hopped and tangled in Pete’s head. He’d wanted to leave the East Marion bungalow. A lack of desire to return to Surrey kept him from escaping. It didn’t matter. Grace insisted they stay, at least a bit longer. She had a point. The contents of this house, these rooms, came disturbingly close to the contents of Pete’s head. The carousel horse and saddle resonated. Yet upon closer inspection of the pristine English saddle, the intrinsic vibe faltered.
“Look there. That part, the skirt,” he said to Grace.
“The what?”
“The small flap of leather. It’s called a skirt.” Pete poked a finger at the sawhorses. “If you owned a saddle like that, your initials would be branded into the leather.”
“And you know that how?”
“The same way I know anything else. It’s just . . . there.” Pete wanted to say, “Because I lived it.” But Grace knew the drill, the ever-shifting pieces of his lives. It was like living in a mudslide. Grace peeled up the flap, and Pete fought a sense of foreboding. “Well?” Musty smells wafted up his nose, seeped into his mind. He shored up his shoulders, predicting the first solid evidence of his past life that he’d seen since he was twelve and the World War I medal bearing his initials turned up.
“Well, you’re half right. There are initials, but they’re not yours.”
Less intimidated, he approached the saddle. “Then whose initials are they?”
Grace bent up the flap as far as the stiff leather would allow. “O.B., whoever that is.”
Pete didn’t offer a reply, and they took a break from the interior, lo
ng enough to tell the city lawyer he could leave. They’d be in touch. While the attorney’s clients wouldn’t be bullied, neither would Pete.
The man retreated to his Mercedes, dust and pebbles sputtering in his wake.
“So tell me,” Grace said. “Do you want to get in your mother’s car, tear out of here just as fast?”
Standing in the driveway, Pete took in the armor-like safety of the Q5 and the rickety, far less secure structure behind them. He aimed at the middle. “There’s a building in the back.”
Grace took a few steps to her left. “Huh. So there is.”
A weather-beaten barn sat to the rear, the trees almost camouflage. They made their way to it, and Pete slid aside the door’s primitive wood bolt—good enough to keep out animals, which he guessed were the only expected intruders. Inside, creases of daylight cut through wood-slatted walls, revealing a dirt floor, old hay, and a massive tarp-covered object. “I don’t know why I was betting on empty,” he said.
Pete’s queasiness had subsided and he felt strangely connected to this forgotten space. He didn’t hesitate, yanking at the fabric. It barely budged. “This is canvas,” he said, getting a better feel for the dusty gray material.
“I’ll go you one better.” Grace ran her fingertips over it. “I think they’re giant tents.”
“I think you’re right.” It took both of them to free the first of two heavy cloths, which eventually tumbled toward them. At first, it was nothing but an unraveling of dirt and dead bugs, Grace squealing and darting as a spider landed on her arm. As she inspected herself for other insects, Pete faced the front end of an old truck. A very old truck.
The visual was obvious, but Pete was more drawn to the redolent odor of the canvas. After a few anxious breaths, he felt like he stood in two places—an old barn in East Marion and an even older life. Pete backpedaled from both, standing flat against the wall’s raw boards. He clamped a hand down on his sweaty head, squeezing his fingers through a mat of thick hair. Just touching his head—hair so like his father’s—made him think of Levi, and Pete wished he were there. He looked into Grace’s questioning face. “It’s the canvas. The smell.”
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