This arrangement suited him fine; he didn't want the others to know about his plans until it was too late.
Christian let the door close behind him, taking a moment to study the man nursing his drink at the bar. He looked much the same, with the exception of his boots, which appeared to be even more frayed than before. Hunched over his drink, he gave the impression of hopelessness and failure, something Christian was determined to change.
Tiber didn't look up as Christian slid onto the bar stool next to him and raised his finger to the bartender. “I'll take one of whatever Tiber's having, and another round for him as well.” Now that got his attention. Christian felt Tiber's stare, but deliberately ignored it. He wanted the man to speak first. It didn't take long to get his wish.
"You won't like what I'm having, city man. I get the cheap stuff. Tends ta run right through a man."
Tiber's voice sounded rusty, as if he didn't use it often. Christian shrugged, glancing at the man for the first time, then back to the curious bartender. “Then we'll have two mugs of the good stuff, bartender. We're celebrating.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Tiber stiffen. Christian smiled.
There was a shuffle beside him as Tiber straightened and turned around to face him fully. “Mister, I don't know ya from Adam. I saw ya in here with them cabbies, and a few others I don't associate with no more, but I know for a fact that I don't know ya. Just who the hell are ya?"
A mouthful for Tiber, Christian thought as he slid a mug in front of him. Mentally, he braced himself for the storm he was sure would follow his announcement. “The name's Christian Garret."
Complete silence fell between them—and the shamelessly listening bartender. Christian watched Tiber, saw the shock come into his eyes, anticipating the anger and bitterness that was surely to follow ... what the hell?
Tiber grabbed his hand and began to pump it so enthusiastically Christian's teeth rattled. His grin reached from ear to ear, revealing a few evil-looking teeth he probably wouldn't have much longer. His face had character, though, Christian decided. It was a strong face, testimony to equal shares of hard word and hard living.
"Well, by golly, it is Henry's son! Thought you looked familiar, but couldn't place the ‘semblance!” He pumped Christian's hand continuously, using his free hand to clap him on the back so hard Christian nearly bit his tongue. By God, the man was as strong as an ox, for all his weak appearance.
Abruptly, Tiber's expression changed. Sorrow filled his muddy brown eyes. “Sorry about ol’ Henry, son. He was a good friend to me."
A good friend? Christian frowned in confusion. What the hell was the man talking about? Merl and Boots ... and Willis and Michael had all explained how Henry Garret had been responsible for leading this once-respected man to ruin. He'd been expecting contempt, anger—something was wrong, definitely. Pulling his hand free, he took a long swallow of his brew as he considered this shocking development. He'd been convinced he would have to goad Tiber into this deal, yet now he wasn't sure about anything.
Well, hell. What was he complaining about? Setting his mug onto the counter, he wiped his mouth and turned to Tiber, whose expression was a strange mixture of joy and sorrow. “I didn't think you'd be so happy to find out who I am."
Tiber leaned backward on the stool and stared at Christian as if he'd lost his mind. “Not be glad to meet Henry's son? Why, that's all he talked about. Christian this, and Christian that."
Christian stuck his finger in his ear and gave it a good wiggle. There, that should loosen whatever it was that blocked his hearing.
"Yep, talked about you all the time,” Tiber declared.
No, that was impossible, his father had never given him or his mother another thought when he left ... yet a glimmer of hope began to grow in his heart.
It would be the ultimate foolishness to believe such a ridiculous tale. Yet, hadn't he been wrong about Rosalyn?
He had to get the story straight or he'd go as insane as Tiber appeared to think he was. “Tiber—"
"Royce, call me Royce. Henry called me Royce. Well, if this ain't the damndest thing!” He took a swig of his brew, still grinning. The liquid ran down the corners of his mouth and onto his soiled coat, but Tiber didn't seem to notice.
"I was under the impression my ... Henry introduced you to gambling.” There, the ugly words were out and now Tiber would remember. Maybe he'd gotten feeble-minded after losing his job and becoming an outcast in his own town. Hell, who could blame him?
Tiber laughed and the rusty, half-mad sound made Christian wince. Yes, it was just as he thought—
"Henry mighta introduced me to that unmentionable vice, but he tried his best to discourage me when he saw I was gettin’ too attached to it. Threatened to shoot me in the hand a coupla times.” Tiber grinned and shook his head. “Believe he woulda done it, too, if he hadn't died...” The laughter trailed away and his voice became gruff. “He was a good man, son. You should be proud of him."
Christian was in shock. Was it possible everyone else had misunderstood? It was a long shot ... but he supposed it was possible. A cautious joy crept in to join the battle to thaw the ice from his heart.
His lingering doubt must have shown, for Tiber added, “There's a few what blame Henry for my ... stupidity, as I call it, but it weren't Henry's fault. Least, I never blamed him. He knew I needed money—wanted to replace that damned ancient machine at the mill with something that didn't break down every damned week or so—so he told me how I might could double my money. Took me with him a few times, an’ after that ... well, I kinda got the fever.” Regret thickened his voice. “Nope, Henry weren't to blame, I shoulda knowed better, and I learned too late that I ain't no good at gambling.
"Henry felt bad when he saw I was losing money, and when he saw he couldn't stop me, he started goin’ along with me to see if he could help. Didn't do no damn good."
Christian digested this amazing story in silence. The other's, Merl, Boots, Michael and Willis, they couldn't really be blamed for seeing it the way they did, he supposed. He might have thought the same in their place. Tiber was a local man, and Henry Garret a city man come to town. Naturally, he would arouse suspicion.
And naturally, they would take Tiber's side. At least until the mill closed and left a good number of men unemployed because of him. Then, they had turned on their own, so to speak.
Well, Christian was determined to make a few changes and whether the townspeople liked the idea or not, he needed Tiber's expertise.
He ordered another round of quality beer and waited for the bartender to set the mugs down and leave them in peace. When the bartender lingered, Christian stared at him until he grumbled and moved out of earshot.
Tiber sipped the foam and smacked his lips appreciatively. “Better'n that swill I've been drinking, that's for sure. Mighty grateful, Mr. Garret."
"Christian."
Slanting him a toothy smile, Tiber nodded. “Okay, Christian. Called Henry by his first name, don't see no reason not to do the same with you.” He lifted his mug in a salute with hardly a trace of his old, former self.
Christian decided it was now or never. “I'm opening the paper mill, and I need you to work for me."
His timing was excellent. Tiber, who had just gulped a mouthful of his drink, spewed the contents onto the bar. The bartender grabbed a rag and swiped it up, eying Tiber with disgust before turning away again.
"You what?” His eyes rounded and jaw went slack. Beer dribbled from his mouth and chin. Foam flecked his lips as he coughed and choked. Finally, he got his breath again. “Me work for you?"
"Something wrong with that?” Christian lifted an eyebrow.
"No, no. Nothing wrong with it, not a thing.” Tiber shook his grizzled head. “You just caught me by surprise ... what kind of job are you talkin’ about?” he asked with sudden suspicion.
"I was thinking along the lines of supervisor."
"That's a good job, mighty good. I'll take it."
Tiber started after
Christian's hand and Christian dived for his mug, curling both hands around it. It was a narrow escape. “I'll need a good foreman. Got any ideas?"
"Patrick was the best damned foreman there was. He could run that damned place with his eyes closed, and keep the damned men happy. Be hard to beat him.” Tiber sat straighter in the chair.
Christian managed to swallow the mouthful of beer instead of spewing it over the bar counter as Tiber had done. Patrick ... Jamy's father. The beer turned sour on his stomach. “I thought he left town,” he growled. His family sure as hell thought so too.
Tiber lowered his voice and leaned close. “Yep, that's what most people think, but I know for a fact he ain't far away. Still talk to him from time to time—he does a little trapping here and there. Fetch supplies for him once in a while so nobody'll know he's around."
So there was something to the rumors, Christian thought. Still, it was hard to think of Patrick without remembering his own father, and Jamy, Holly, Julie, and poor Mrs. Davidson. He couldn't respect a man for walking out on his family, but setting his own personal dislikes aside, hiring Patrick Davidson would be the thing to do. Rosalyn would think so, too. He was positive about that.
Coming to a decision, Christian placed several dollars onto to the bar. “Royce, you're in charge of hiring the crew back—get those that lost their jobs first, with the exception of Patrick. Tell them the mill opens a week after Valentine's Day. Find Patrick Davidson and tell him ... tell him I'd like to talk to him."
Tiber looked confused. “You ain't gonna hire him?"
Christian hesitated, wishing he could snarl the words, Hell no, but knowing he couldn't. For Jamy's sake. “Maybe.” And maybe Patrick wouldn't have the nerve to show. Christian squashed his guilt at the thought. Patrick Davidson was a coward, and Christian couldn't respect a coward.
He had one more thing to do; when the bartender wasn't looking, he shoved a handful of bills into Tiber's ragged coat pocket. “Get yourself some clothes and a decent hotel.” When Tiber opened his mouth to protest, Christian cut him off. “Consider this an advance on your first pay check."
Tiber's embarrassment subsided. His blackened smile held a wealth of gratitude. “You're just like your old man, you are."
Christian narrowed his eyes. “I don't care for the comparison. I don't think I would ever walk out on my wife and child the way he did.” With those quiet, bitterly spoken words he hadn't meant to say, Christian turned and headed for the door.
Tiber stopped him as effectively as if he had grabbed the collar of his coat. “The old dragon didn't give him a choice, son."
Freezing in place, Christian slowly turned back to Tiber. “What did you say?"
Shifting nervously on the bar stool, Tiber said, “The old dragon—your grandmother, I reckon—she didn't leave Henry no choice about leaving.” Suddenly, he looked ashamed. “I shouldn't be tellin’ ya this, Henry wouldn't like it."
Christian covered the distance between them and thrust his burning gaze upon Tiber. Tiber's eyes widened as Christian hissed, “What are you babbling about? What does my grandmother have to do with my father leaving us?"
"You'd better sit back down, son,” Tiber whispered.
* * * *
"I can't believe it! I can't believe I'm going to witness the proposal of the century!” Alice literally bounced on the seat, her cheeks rosy with excitement.
"Maybe,” Rosalyn corrected.
Alice blithely ignored her. “You don't mind, do you Rosalyn? That Miss Howland assigned me to help you these last few days?"
Clasping her hands tightly, Rosalyn was still pondering on who had left the pink rose on the carriage seat. The single, perfect rose was the first thing she'd seen as she and Alice got into the carriage with the morning's deliveries.
A rose ... in winter?
Who had left it?
A distracted customer? Willis?
Christian?
Alice rushed on, apparently deciding Rosalyn wasn't going to answer. “Miss Howland will do an excellent job in the shop, I'm sure.” She sounded worried.
Tuning in to Alice's chatter, Rosalyn turned her face away from Alice to hide a smile. Alice seemed to have forgotten that Miss Howland ran the shop long before she hired Alice. “I don't mind you coming along, but I do wish you'd stop bouncing.” She'd gotten little sleep in the past few days since ... no, she couldn't think about it. Not now, with Alice so close and perceptive. To distract herself, she fiddled with the huge festooned basket on her lap. Nestled in the basket among a fold of red satin lay a plate-sized heart made of solid oak, buffed and glazed so that it shone like glass.
Wynette had painstakingly framed the heart with several gathered rows of delicate red lace. The verse had been engraved on the face of the heart, then filled with solid gold. It was an unusual valentine, but Rosalyn was becoming accustomed to strange requests. Having spent hours composing the verse, Rosalyn could recite it by heart; Lovelier than a rose, Softer than Love's Sigh, Marry me today or I fear I may die.
Alice made an effort to sit still, though her eyes continued to sparkle and her white-gloved hands worked continuously in her lap. Rosalyn thought she looked exceptionally pretty today in a bright pink satin dress that surprisingly complimented her red hair.
Rosalyn herself wore one of the new dresses Miss Howland had designed and paid for, a pastel pink with a red satin overlay that looped around the slightly flared underskirt. White velvet bows caught and held the looped red satin, and a huge white bow topped the back of her bustle. Ever conscious of crushing it, Rosalyn's back ached from leaning away from the seat. The dress was both elaborate and expensive, and she felt a tad self-conscious wearing it in broad daylight. In Rosalyn's opinion, the dress resembled a ball gown, not exactly suitable for making deliveries.
"Valentine colors for Cupid," Miss Howland had declared proudly and Rosalyn hadn't the heart to protest.
And the pink rose she'd found on the seat matched perfectly, as if someone had known ... but that wasn't possible, was it?
Rosalyn shook her head, chiding herself for thinking such romantic, silly thoughts. Of course someone had left it by mistake, probably someone now mourning their carelessness, for surely the expense of a rose in winter was outrageous.
How could she think it might be Christian? Christian didn't want her, and had made that fact embarrassingly clear. She still couldn't believe she'd practically thrown herself at him, and the knowledge that she had, burned inside. After leaving the hotel, she had hailed a cab and rushed home where she skipped dinner and cried herself to sleep. In the morning, she had awakened with a cold anger simmering beneath a false, polite smile that was much more bearable than the raw pain of the night before.
He had deliberately misled her. She'd given him the ruby valentine, so everything that happened afterward had been a cruel and senseless charade to humiliate her.
She wished she could hate him, though she couldn't remember ever feeling such a strong, evil emotion toward anyone. But she couldn't hate him because she still loved him. In the wee hours of the dawn, she'd realized that love was not something a person could command at will.
If only it were.
"We're here, Rosy, and look—can you imagine living in anything so grand?” Alice's excited clap startled Rosalyn.
Rosalyn pushed her dismal thoughts away and leaned over Alice to look outside as Willis guided the horse along a circular drive lined with immaculate hedges. She'd seen the Kingsway mansion before, of course, but never this close, and never with the knowledge that she would soon be viewing the forty-room mansion from the inside.
In the past two years, Maxine Kingsway had been courted and wooed by every eligible bachelor in Worcester, according to the gossip. None had succeeded in gaining her affection until recently, and the lucky man was none other than Norman Avernick, the town's richest citizen. He lived on a hill outside of town in a house as vast and elegant as the Kingsway mansion, and some said what a shame it was that two of the town's riche
st would unite. Others, like Alice, Miss Howland and most of the factory girls, thought it the most romantic liaison in history.
For all outward appearances, the couple seemed made for one another. Both had been born into money, and both had lost their parents at an early age. Maxine lived with her aging grandfather, and Norman lived with his aging grandmother. In fact, the two aging busy-bodies had been striving for a match for some time now—according to gossip.
Rosalyn didn't set much store in gossip, and in her opinion Norman wasn't in love with Maxine. Since taking the job, she had viewed the many faces of love. Mr. and Mrs. Dillon obviously loved one another; Mark Newman and Tammy Brandewine—although Rosalyn was doubtful about Tamera at first—also loved one another. And there was no denying what Roland and Ethel felt. There were many others that flashed through Rosalyn's mind, and Norman Avernick's face resembled none of them. In fact, to Rosalyn, he'd seemed reluctant about the whole thing, as if this union wasn't entirely his idea.
Maybe the gossips were partially right, and the busy-bodies were pushing the union.
Or maybe, Rosalyn thought with a self-depreciating twist of her lips as she and Alice approached the massive front door, her own breaking heart spoiled her joy in seeing other people happy.
Keeping this disquieting possibility in mind, Rosalyn clamped a hand on Alice's shoulder to hold her still and greeted the maid with a generous smile. “We have a delivery for Maxine Kingsway."
"Yes Ma'am. Right this way."
The maid led them beneath a sparkling chandelier and past a wide, richly carpeted staircase, into a small parlor. When Alice fell behind, Rosalyn grasped her elbow and hauled the wide-eyed redhead into the room. “You can look on the way out,” she whispered. “Better yet, there's plenty to gawk at here."
My Valentine Page 23
