He ground his jaw and pounded his fist against the cold retaining wall outside the apartment building. The brick allowed no mercy, skinning his knuckles, blood welling to the surface. But he welcomed the pain.
Elissa had never realized the love he held for her. She only thought he’d taken advantage.
He tightened his grip on the object he could get arrested for.
Did anything matter anymore?
His entire reason for returning to Pittsburgh was gone. He’d lost his second chance with Elissa. He wouldn’t expect a person like her to offer him a third.
As for the Boston Globe? He hadn’t heard a word from them concerning her articles. A lump formed in his throat, and he worked to swallow. Cole had wrecked the relationship over nothing. When, or even if, he would get the chance to explain, it’d be too late. The feelings she’d harbored for him would be extinguished. Ashes from a love they could have shared.
He tucked the bag under his arm and sprinted up the stairs to his apartment, his mouth parched, his heart heavy.
The whiskey peddler had informed him this bottle had been imported from Canada, undiluted. Strong. Exactly what he needed. By this time tomorrow, he’d be in oblivion.
He closed the door, locking it. Ripping the brown paper away, he gazed at the amber bottle. Torn.
Perhaps this one mess-up wouldn’t pull him down that road again. What could one mistake do? He pressed a finger to his chin, the bruising from his fall no longer visible, but the memory hadn’t faded. Waking up in his own urine and vomit. Chilled. The eerie awareness of the alcohol’s poison invading his blood. Seeing Elissa’s face in his mind’s eye and wanting to tell her the words he’d never felt worthy enough to say.
Words he’d still left unsaid.
He tightened his grasp on the bottle. Why? Why had he left her in doubt of his heart for so long?
He sank onto the chair.
God.
Knuckles wrapped around the bottle’s neck, he asked for help. Help to see beyond the moment. Help to overcome the pulsing desire to drink.
Not in my own strength. “God, I need yours.”
He didn’t feel a thing. Not an overwhelming force gripping his heart. Not even a shift in mood. Weakness and defeat clutched his brittle will. He could numb the surging emotion in several swigs. His hand tightened on the glass, thumb skimming the metal cap.
But this was where failure had reigned before. Maybe he needed to step out in faith, even when his senses screamed for satisfaction.
With a shout, he lifted the bottle and hurled the thing. It struck the fireplace, shaking the mantel, taking down Cole’s science test. The glass shattered, and liquid spewed. He lunged across the room, rescuing the paper before the leaking whiskey destroyed it. The edges were wet, as was the back of the frame.
He withdrew the paper and turned it over, surveying the damage.
Writing—not his own—stared up at him. Shelby’s.
CHAPTER 26
Elissa’s fingers curled around the steel. This time, no drawing back. Darcy pawed her thighs, standing on his hind legs.
“I can give you one too.” She pulled him onto her lap. “Trim the fur around your eyes. You’re due for a groom, mister.”
Darcy eyed the scissors and jumped to the floor.
“Not yet? I completely understand.” She reached to pat his head, but he scurried from the room.
A laugh escaped. How many times had she run from problems? Closed herself in from the world?
Not anymore.
Peering at the mirror connected to her vanity, Elissa studied her image. One so carefully protected. Exhaustingly maintained.
Snip.
A chunk of hair flitted to the floor.
Her hand shook. The cut was ridiculously uneven but … freeing.
Snip. Snip. Snip.
The more locks shorn, the lighter her spirit became, almost as if she was shedding the labels. Shadyside Slob. Grace’s awkward daughter. The Tillman spinster. Yet she wasn’t finished. Society burdened her with demands, but the heaviest expectation was the one she’d placed on herself.
Perfectionism.
She clutched a handful of tresses, and with one long slice, it fell to her lap. She clipped the rest, cutting a good eleven inches until what was left framed her chin. Smiling, she ran her fingers through her bobbed hair. Curls, no longer weighted, sprang with new life. Just like her.
To others, cutting her hair might seem a silly action, but to her, it was an outward show of the inward liberation. She was God’s child. The only label she would cling to.
The only one that mattered.
“Not a word to anyone.” Sterling’s hand clutched Cole’s test paper, his red-rimmed eyes narrowing in warning. “Not even your pretty girlfriend. You used to squeal everything to her if I remember correctly.” He picked up a mug from the coffee table and sniffed it, his nose crinkling.
Cole settled on Sterling’s sofa, arching an eyebrow at the several ties draped over the back cushion. The frilly pillow was gone. “I’ve always told her everything, except what was most important.” Tonight he’d fix that. She most likely wouldn’t want to hear the words, but they needed to be spoken. She deserved to know. “And she’s not my girlfriend.”
Sterling raised his stubbly chin in question. Had the man not shaved since Sophie left?
“Long story.” Cole raised both hands. “Tell you later. I have to return to my side of the building. Gotta clean up some liquor before Mom finds it. Mostly the glass from the bottle. I’d hate to step on it in the middle of the night.”
Sterling straightened. “You just informed a cop that you have alcohol. Do you think the prohibition doesn’t apply to you?”
“For a while I did. I didn’t think any rules applied to me. But no, if you want to confiscate the stuff, you’ll need to bleed it from the fireplace bricks. The bottle is in a hundred pieces.”
Sterling nodded his understanding. “Keep dry, Parker. Or I’m obliged to turn you in to the feds.” He said it with a smile, but in a world of crooked cops, Sterling was undeniably straight. A man of honor. Sophie had lost out by refusing him.
“By God’s strength, I will.”
“You better. Or I’ll tattle on you to Uncle Wooly. He’ll wallop you with his cane just like old times.” Amusement glinted in his eyes. “Man never went anywhere without it. Now come on, I’ll help you clean up.”
Cole grabbed the doorknob and stilled. “He was without it.”
Sterling’s smirk flattened. “Huh?”
“I knew something didn’t add up. Should’ve seen this before. Shelby’s walking stick.”
“What of it?”
“The day I met Shelby on the street. He was without it.” Cole lowered his hand and propped a shoulder against the doorframe. “Yet at the Halloway Building, he had it.”
Sterling stroked his neck. “His house and office were in the other direction. So he couldn’t have picked it up on the way. Unless someone brought it to him.”
“Exactly.”
“Didn’t Shelby need it for stability?”
“No.” Cole pulled the door open and stepped into the hallway. “Just relied on it for the multi-tool. He designed a stainless steel topper that unscrewed and served as one of those Swiss knives. Complete with spring mechanisms.”
“So the question is now, who returned Shelby his walking stick? The killer?”
“That’s your expertise, cousin. You’ll figure it out.” Cole reached for the handle to enter his apartment. “But first, for heaven’s sake, shave.”
Cole had left his apartment door unlocked when he’d hurried with his discovery across the hall, and he thought he’d left the light on in his haste. It was off now. He flicked the switch.
“The intruder! He’s back!”
As before, the man scurried to the opened window. Sterling launched Cole’s briefcase at his retreating form, knocking him off-kilter. Cole tackled him, but unlike last time, he held on, smacking the side of the
thug’s head on the corner of the fireplace as they fell. The intruder lay unconscious but recognizable.
With a growing smile, the mail carrier handed Elissa a stack of envelopes. The slender man must have been twice Elissa’s age, but he was always ready with a flirtatious expression.
“Thank you.” She regarded him with the customary nod, and he exited the newsroom.
Frank gave her a knowing smirk, and she rolled her eyes. Seriously, that man could rival members of her mother’s needlework club for the busybody award.
Sighing, she flipped through the pile, mostly bills, some from clients who most likely were sending their latest ad, and one from … the Boston Globe. Addressed to her?
She tossed the other correspondence on her desk and stared at the manila letter, confusion spiraling through her. Why would the editor be contacting her? She slid to her seat and tore it open.
Dear Miss Tillman,
Hope this letter finds you well.
Mr. Cole Parker relayed that he acted on your behalf, but I decided to reply directly to you concerning the editorial samples he provided. Based on the work I’ve seen, you have talent and potential. I’d like to conduct an interview by telephone. If interested, please contact my secretary to arrange a time and date. I admit I was surprised Mr. Parker inquired about a position for you and not himself, but he spoke highly of you and your writing. Hope to speak with you soon.
Warm Regards,
Samuel Overly
Boston Globe Editor
Her heart pressed against her ribs. She’d shed the corset years ago, but her breath constricted just the same. Cole had acted on her behalf? She glanced at his empty desk. He should’ve been here already. Should be crafting an impressive article, making her pulse race without her permission.
The letter weighed heavy in her palm. She leapt to her feet, the chair behind her tottering, and dashed through Father’s office door. “The other day. When you discussed selling the Review to that lawyer, was your door open?”
Father’s eyes widened. “W-when did you do that?”
“What?” Oh, her hair. She’d forgotten Father hadn’t seen her since she’d cut it. Sliding a curl behind her ear, she beamed at him. “Last night.” She twirled, giving a full view of her bobbed head. “I’m going to keep it this way. It suits me.” Natural and unconfined.
“I think so too.” His cheeks puckered with a full smile. “Has your mother seen it?”
Elissa laughed. “Yes. She reacted better than the last time I cut it.”
He nodded, expression aglow. “So no fainting?”
“A lot of fanning herself.” Elissa mimicked her mother’s frantic gestures. “A few yelps, but no collapsing on the parlor rug.”
“We’re making progress, then.” Father winked. “What about the other day and the financial lawyer?”
Elissa clutched the Boston Globe letter. “When you were talking on the phone, discussing the sale of the paper, was your door open?”
He tapped a pencil against his thick chin. “Um. No. It wasn’t. I didn’t want anyone overhearing.”
Father’s gruff voice had often carried through his closed door, and she’d bet every dime she’d spent on novels that Cole had overheard.
“Thanks, Father.” She blew him a kiss and glided to her station.
She skimmed her fingertips over the wooden handle of her desk drawer. Could this be why Cole wouldn’t explain why he’d been rummaging through her articles? He hadn’t wanted to divulge her father was making plans to sell the paper? Her lip twisted. Maybe he felt trapped between respect for her father and loyalty to her.
She inhaled, realization dawning. That’s why he was so adamant his actions weren’t about the contest.
He’d taken the samples to send to Boston. For her. If Father sold the paper, Cole would be out of a job too, but instead of promoting himself to the Globe, he’d recommended her.
Her heart could burst.
Like in high school when he’d protected her against Adam’s slander and fought for her without her knowledge of it. Yes, he’d been wrong to leave her without a word, but even then, he’d felt it had been for her good—protecting her from himself. She understood now. All for her.
Tears threatened to escape, and her throat tightened. She glanced at his chair for the fiftieth time this morning. Where was he? She poked her head back into Father’s office.
“Did Cole mention where he was today?”
Father’s head whipped up. “Really, Lissie. This is twice you’ve startled me in five minutes.” He smiled, not looking offended in the least.
“Sorry. Just curious about Cole.”
Father’s brows lifted with a grin. He stretched in his seat with a long, exaggerated yawn. “Let me think. He did mention something. Hmm.”
“You enjoying my desperation is unnerving.” She struggled to keep a frown in place, but a smile won out.
He chuckled. “He may have mentioned that he’d be at the courthouse today. Important legal business.”
What would that be about? Another lead on the Shelby case? Or a new story altogether? Her lips pursed, and determination set in. “Thank you. I’m taking lunch.”
“At nine o’clock?” His eyes twinkled. “Pretty early for a sandwich.”
She teased back. “But not for a cup of coffee.” A cup she would have right after she located Cole and apologized.
Everything was in place. Cole peeked through the crack in the door to the courthouse meeting room, feeling like a peeping schoolboy, complete with the racing pulse of getting caught.
Mrs. Shelby sat beside her son, Jeffrey. Shelby’s lawyer, Paul MacAfferty, claimed the seat on Mrs. Shelby’s other side, chatting with her in too-familiar tones. Was that man sweet on her? The secretary, Miss Kerns, sat across the table from MacAfferty, frantically tapping the chair’s armrest.
“We should begin in a few moments.” Sterling’s bass voice echoed off the wood-paneled walls. “Just waiting for the executor of the will.”
“What’s going on?” MacAfferty’s face reddened, more crimson than his awful tie. “I’m the executor. Have been for decades.”
Cole couldn’t see Sterling but could picture his stern grimace. “Not for the new will.”
Everyone’s gazes flew to the corner where Sterling stood.
“The new will?” Mrs. Shelby’s voice quivered. “You … found it?”
“Surprised?” Sterling, that rascal. “It proved very interesting.”
Cole rolled his shoulders, hoping to ease the tension. Didn’t work. He’d stick with the calculated strategy. Wait for Sterling’s knock and then start the circus.
A flash of gold passed the window, pulling his attention.
Elissa.
What was she doing here? And with short hair? His breath lodged in his chest. What should he do? Leave his post and meet her in the mezzanine? He raked a hand across his face. Most likely she wasn’t here for him. Probably another court case arrested her interest.
Cole moved toward the window for a better view. Desperation etched Elissa’s features as she hustled down the walk. What made her distraught?
She approached the doors only about fifteen feet from where he stood. He glanced at his watch. He had five minutes, give or take, before his cousin gave the signal. Five minutes to see her.
As Cole bounded into the entrance hall, a jumble of activity equaling the chaos of Grand Central Station met him. A spattering of patrolmen scaled the stairways. Shoeshine boys, gripping their polishing supplies and contesting loudly for business, flanked men in homburgs, armed with briefcases. Women of different ages conversed with one another. Elissa stood beneath the limestone arch, lifting on her tiptoes, eyes searching.
Their gazes connected. Her shoulders lifted with a sharp intake of air.
With makeup smudged and hat askew, she snaked her way through the mill of people. Everything about her spoke dishevelment, but everything about her was stunning.
She stopped in front of him, the
deep hues of her eyes more entrancing than a sea of starlight. “I’m sorry.” Her words were breathless.
“For what, sweetheart?” He knuckled away a lone tear coursing down her flushed cheek. “I’m the one who should apologize. I’ve confused you. Brought pain. It wasn’t intentional. I wouldn’t purposefully hurt …” The woman I love. “You.”
She blinked and patted the pocket of her overcoat. “Boston Globe. Interview. I can’t thank you enough.”
He pieced together her babbling and didn’t fight the grin. “They got back to you? Loved your work, huh? I knew it.” Pride coated his voice. “You’ve earned it.” He tugged a curl. “This hairstyle’s my favorite. I loved it the first time, Spark.”
She bit her lip, hiding a smile. “You could’ve easily snagged that position.” She grabbed his hand, soft against his warm palm. “I know your reason. Father told me … about his plans for the Review.”
He wove his fingers into hers. “Your dreams have always been about that paper. I wanted to help.”
“I know. I’m sorry I accused you. I should’ve trusted you more this time.”
Time.
The signal.
He drew back and glanced at his watch. Thirty seconds.
“Sweetheart, I have to run.” Literally.
“But why?” She tangled her hands in his lapel, pulling him closer. In the middle of the courthouse foyer. Surrounded by strangers. And hopefully amongst the crowd were some of Sterling’s men dressed in casual suits.
“I was hoping we could discuss us?” She cupped his cheek, grazing her fingertips to his chin. “You know, I’ve always loved your cleft.”
Man alive.
“Come with me.” He grabbed her wrist and pulled her into the side room. This might not be the soundest plan, but he didn’t want her anywhere but near him. Once inside, he pressed a finger to her lips and whispered. “You’ll have to remain quiet. What you’re about to see will probably make you want to scream, but you can’t. Okay?”
With brows furrowed, her gaze bounced around the small space. She hesitated as Cole approached the smaller of two other doors that marked the wood-paneled walls then nodded her agreement.
Above the Fold Page 21
