“Very good. I’ve already ordered mine. I didn’t know you were coming. How did you find me?”
“You were never out of my sight.” He twisted around, looking for the waitress.
But she was already heading in their direction with Della’s steaming cocoa in hand. Her daring décolletage was accentuated by the cinched-up dirndl beneath her breasts. Della tried not to notice Cullen noticing, but notice he did.
Della studied him as he ordered a glass of water, trying to imagine what he’d look like when he was old and gray. She’d bet Father Time would only enhance his attractiveness.
Finally, the waitress left. Soft strains from the orchestra downstairs filtered over to their corner.
She blew on her cocoa, making an indentation in the dollop of whipped cream floating on top. “It’s not heights I’m afraid of.”
Leaning his chair back on two legs, he regarded her. “But you are afraid of . . . ?”
“Closed-in spaces. That’s why I was so distraught on opening day.” He was the first person she’d ever told. But since he’d told her about his hearing, she figured it was only fair.
Crossing his arms, he took his time responding. “Have you felt that way since birth?”
“No, I was four, maybe five. I went into my grandfather’s wheat field. I wanted to see if I could hear the wheat grow.”
A hint of a smile touched his lips.
“Anyway, I was small for my age back then, and the stalks were much taller than I was. I became thoroughly lost among them. I’m not really sure how long I wandered scared, confused, and crying out for Grandpapa. I do remember Grandmamma was making dumplings for supper that night because they were my favorite. I was devastated that I’d never be able to eat them or see my grandparents or family again. I truly thought I was going to die in that field.”
“What ended up happening?” His voice was low, soft.
She ran a finger along the rim of her cup. “I eventually cried myself to sleep.”
“But you found your way out.”
Shaking her head, she hooked a finger in the handle, then took a sip. “Grandpapa’s clear booming voice woke me. When I answered, he told me to stay still and to sing “Jesus Loves Me” as loud as I could. I wasn’t even through the first chorus before he found me, scooped me up, and carried me home.”
A group of men across the room clinked their glasses together and sang a drinking song in German, drowning out the orchestra downstairs.
“You must have been beside yourself in the crowd on opening day,” he said.
“It wasn’t nearly so dense when I arrived. By the time I realized how thick it was going to get, there was no escaping it.” She took a deep breath. “I was singing ‘Jesus Loves Me’ to myself when you suddenly appeared in front of me.”
“Had you gotten through the first chorus?”
She lifted her gaze, her throat thickening. “No.”
His jaw worked. His chair legs came down with a quiet thud.
“Thank you for that,” she said. “For rescuing me.”
He slowly uncrossed his arms, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “You’re welcome.”
She smoothed the napkin in her lap. “Did you have grandparents growing up?”
They spent the next several hours talking, laughing, and learning. He spoke not only of his grandfather but also of his growing up on a farm. Told her he’d sat on a nest of hen’s eggs to see if he could get them to hatch. That he’d eaten a concoction of mashed-up worms like the birds so that he too could fly. That he’d driven his dad crazy taking anything and everything apart, only to put it back together again, not always correctly.
“I remember being sorry I hadn’t been around for poor old Humpty Dumpty. I felt sure I’d have been able to fix him up.”
The table had been cleared, the orchestra had retired, and the sun had long since set.
Placing her elbows on the table, she rested her chin in her clasped hands. “Your father must be so proud of you.”
“His dreams for me are a bit lofty, I’m afraid.”
Reaching over, she squeezed his arm. “I wouldn’t be so sure. I think he might have the right of it. Your invention is remarkable. It’s only a matter of time before others recognize the brilliance of it, of you.”
His muscle twitched beneath her palm. Waiters in traditional Austrian costume began to stack chairs upside down on the empty tables, while their female counterparts swept the floor.
She squeezed him once more, then brought her hand to her lap. The Forestry Building has pillars made of what?
Narrowing his eyes, he zeroed in on her lips. “Which building again?”
The For-es-try.
“Tree trunks.”
She smiled. Where do we board?
“The Harvell House.”
What is Cullen looking for?
He took so long to answer, she wasn’t sure he understood the question.
Finally, he lifted his hip and withdrew the answer sheet from his pocket. “Investors.”
Whom did Della meet at Jastrow’s demonstration?
“At what?”
Jas-trow’s. Dem-on-stra-tion.
“Still didn’t get it.”
“Try the last word.” De. Mon. Stra—
“Demonstration.”
She nodded.
He gave her a sheepish look. “I’ve forgotten the question.”
Finished with their tasks, the restaurant staff retreated to the kitchen, leaving them alone in the corner, partially hidden by topsy-turvy chairs.
Whom did Della meet at Jastrow’s demonstration?
He looked at his list. “Helen Keller?”
“Yes.”
Cullen rubbed his jaw. “I still can’t figure out how Miss Keller uses her hand to ‘hear’ what you’re saying.” He splayed a hand across his own cheek and throat, his brows furrowed in confusion.
“I’ll show you.” Sitting up, she untied her hat, removed the pin securing it, then placed them both on the chair beside her. “She places her hand like . . .” She tried to arrange her hand on her own throat the way Helen did, but couldn’t twist herself about. “Here, like this.”
Reaching over, she took his hand, startled again at how much bigger it was than hers. And rougher. And warmer. “Put your thumb on my throat, directly atop the larynx.”
She positioned his thumb, then maneuvered his index finger. “The first finger goes right over the lips.”
She rested his finger across her mouth, then sucked in a breath. Sensations ricocheted through her body. Her gaze snapped to his.
His eyes turned dark, unreadable. “And the other fingers?”
She swallowed. “The third finger lies against the nostril.” With each word, her lips caught against his callused finger. She positioned his middle one. “The rest of the hand relaxes against the cheek.”
He bent his elbow at an awkward angle.
“It’s easier if you sit a little closer—more side by side.”
After a slight hesitation, he removed his hand and scooted over. Placing his left arm against the table in front of her, he leaned in, then rested his right hand against her larynx, lips, nose, and cheek. Mint from his hair tonic filled her.
“Now what?” His words were barely above a whisper.
“Well . . .” She cleared her throat. “You use your thumb to feel the hard consonants, like g. Guh.”
His eyes brightened. “I feel it.”
“And k. Kuh.”
He made tiny circular motions with his thumb.
Grabbing his thumb, she held it still. “Don’t move it around. Just hold steady.”
“All right.” He crooked his index finger, brushing it back and forth across her lips. “And what are these used for?”
Every nerve she had was at attention, some at the most startling places. “Those, um, those are for sounds like b, v, and puh.”
“Bee, vee, puh.” His breath fluttered across her eyelashes. “I definitely feel them.”
&nb
sp; She started to moisten her lips, then immediately pulled back. Good heavens. “The third finger is, um, um . . .”
“For the nose?” His voice teased.
“Correct. The nasal sounds. You know, nnn or mmm.”
“Mmmmmmmmmm.”
She swallowed. “The first word she learned was it.”
“You used your lips for that one.” But he wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at her lips, much like the statue of the bobcat she passed on her way to the Children’s Building—as if it were going to spring at any second.
“Yes,” she managed. “Miss Sullivan made the ih sound, then the tuh. Helen put the two together and formed the word.”
“What was her first sentence?” His breath ruffled her hair.
She shivered. “Her what?”
“Sentence. Helen’s first sentence.”
Her eyes drifted closed. “I.”
“I,” he repeated.
“Am.”
“Am.”
“Not.”
“Not.”
“Dumb.”
“Dumb.”
“Now.”
“Now.”
The silence between them stretched. Clinks from the kitchen along with muffled German voices drifted into their sanctuary.
He drew his fingers together so that they moved across her cheek.
Her pulse hammered. Her chest tightened.
The door to the kitchen slammed.
She opened her eyes.
He looked toward the sound.
“Ve are closed for zee night. Time to go.”
Nodding, he turned his attention back to her, his gaze traveling over her hair, eyes, nose, cheeks, and lips.
Her mouth parted.
“Time to go,” he said, scooting back. He stood, then pulled out her chair, his knuckles barely grazing her.
After a charged moment, she rose as well.
CHAPTER
31
Staring at his bedroom ceiling, Cullen wiggled a foot free of the covers. A far-off train whistle disrupted the quiet but not his thoughts.
His control was at the breaking point. He’d come so close to kissing her. He threw an arm over his eyes. What had happened exactly? Why had it spiraled so out of control?
Touching her while learning about Helen Keller had been the spark that ignited the fuse, of course, but why tonight? Why not before? It wasn’t as if he’d never been tempted.
It didn’t take him long to sort out the reason. Other than the obvious, Della’s continued, unquestioning belief in his work had moved him. Deeply.
It was the one thing Wanda hadn’t understood, even when they were children. She’d teased him about it then, but the year she put up her hair was the year he moved to Boston, and she’d been livid.
When he returned, everyone, including Wanda, assumed it was for her. But the truth was, if that piano factory hadn’t burned down, he’d never have returned. He would still be there now.
But it had burned, and he had moved back. For good. And that was that. He was a farmer, just like his dad, his granddad, and his great-granddad. With that came Wanda. He’d never pictured it any other way.
Until now.
He sighed. Was he making excuses for his attraction to Della? Trying to justify his thoughts and urges?
Maybe. But the fact remained, misplaced or not, Della saw something in him that Wanda never had. The same thing his father did. The same thing his mother had.
Rolling onto his side, he burrowed a hand beneath his pillow and clasped the letter underneath it. With great tenderness, he removed it from its coveted place and laid it on his night table.
Tonight, he was going to give himself permission to dream about whatever and whomever he wanted. Just this once.
ADMINISTRATION BUILDING
“Cullen glanced at the Administration Building directly across from him, then squinted against the brightness of its golden dome. Inside resided the directive power of the exposition, and from what he’d read, no expense had been spared to make it glitter, dazzle, and intimidate.”
CHAPTER
32
Descending the wide steps of Machinery Hall, Cullen glanced at the Administration Building directly across from him, then squinted against the brightness of its golden dome. Inside resided the directive power of the exposition, and from what he’d read, no expense had been spared to make it glitter, dazzle, and intimidate.
ADMINISTRATION BUILDING
Cullen had difficulty reconciling that with the economic perils facing the country, for this edifice, more than any other structure on the grounds, gave no apologies for its grandiose opulence. Through it, foreigners would plainly see America didn’t need kings or nobility when it had railroad barons, oil tycoons, and a director-general who had the power to approve or disapprove every activity on the fairgrounds—including Cullen’s fire demonstration. He tried not to let all the trappings cow him.
Talk and laughter reached his ears as visitors moved from building to building, crossing bridges, admiring sculptures, and stopping at concessionaires. A few feet away, a farmer in a rusty black suit and collarless shirt placed a hand atop his broad-brimmed hat and bent back his head, a dazed expression on his face as he tried to take in the frescos and groups of statuary.
Cullen wondered what his dad would have thought had he been the one standing there. Passing the man, Cullen pushed through the south entrance. If the exterior was grandiose, the interior was downright ostentatious. Neither gold leaf nor gold dollars had been spared in the decorating of it. Crossing the rotunda, he headed toward the northeast corner of the building, his boots clicking against the stone floor. Gilded, frescoed walls rose like mercury in a thermometer, then sloped in, meeting around a center skylight that looked like a giant cyclopean eye. At every turn, gilded moldings, gilt slates, and gilded letters served as a backdrop for innumerable sculptures and paintings.
He skirted a miniature rendition of Washington D.C.’s Treasury House made solely with Columbian Exposition half-dollars.
RENDITION OF US TREASURY MADE WITH SOUVENIR COINS
A guard at the bottom of a curved mahogany staircase stopped him. “Do you have a permit?”
Cullen handed him his appointment card. “I’m to see Mr. Davis at noon.”
As if confirming his statement, the replicated Liberty Bell began to toll the midday hour. Its bell was composed of gold and silver heirlooms contributed by people from all over the world.
The guard nodded. “Follow me.”
They took two steps per chime, and Cullen found himself counting the tread. In the balustraded inner balcony, he had an unrestricted view of the painted mural gracing the dome. Apollo sat on a lofty throne conferring honors on leaders in science and art. Cullen’s gaze skittered away from the list of early discoverers and inventors recorded below it.
“Wait here,” the guard said, stepping behind an oversized door with cut-glass inserts. A moment later, he returned, indicated Cullen enter, then pulled the door shut behind him.
Surely Grover Cleveland’s office couldn’t be more sumptuously appointed. Decorative molding, gilt-framed paintings, an electric chandelier, and wall-to-wall carpet in varying shades of purple bespoke the man’s importance. He’d not only overseen the administration of the entire fair, but also appointed the heads of its departments. He sat at a rolltop desk jutting out from the wall, and if his white hair and goatee were any indication, he looked to be in his sixties. With one leg crossed over the other, he gently rocked his swivel chair while one arm rested along the armrest and his other held the paper he perused.
DIRECTOR-GENERAL GEORGE R. DAVIS
Cullen’s stomach tightened. What was he doing here? He was a nobody, his exhibit child’s play compared with all the other great displays he’d seen. What made him think even for a second this man would listen to his appeal? Only desperation held him in place.
Finally, Director-General Davis put down his paper and leaned back in his chair. “You must be
McNamara.” He indicated the spindle chair beside his desk. “Have a seat.”
“Thank you.” Cullen eased into the chair and tucked his long legs out of the way.
“I understand you want to set a shed on fire and endanger the entire park.” Davis’s voice was calm and matter-of-fact, but his steely gray eyes looked Cullen square on.
Scooting back in the seat, Cullen straightened his spine. “I’d never endanger the park, sir. If I thought my demonstration would do that, I wouldn’t be here.”
“But you do want to set a shed on fire?”
“Yes, sir. Just temporarily. My sprinklers will put it out within three minutes.”
Davis placed his elbows on the armrests and threaded his fingers together over his stomach. “You sound very sure of yourself.”
“I am.” Slipping a hand into his coat pocket, Cullen removed a sprinkler head. “If I may?”
Davis nodded. “Go ahead.”
Cullen showed him where the solder joint would be and what would happen when it melted. “Water pressure on the diaphragm keeps water away from the moving parts, protecting the device from corrosion. But the moment the solder melts, the diaphragm bursts, the valve opens up, and water gushes through.”
Davis tapped his thumbs together. “What happens if it’s a windy day? Heaven knows we get plenty of those up here. It would take much less than three minutes for sparks to fly from your shed to a neighboring building. And these buildings are highly flammable.”
“That’s why I recommend we do this in an out-of-the-way place. Maybe in the back corner of the park by the trash furnace?”
Davis shook his head. “It smells back there, especially with the sewage cleaning works right next door. I wouldn’t want any guests over there.”
“What about over by the terminal tracks, then? You know, behind Machinery Hall’s annex? That’s fairly deserted. Or maybe at the end of the north pier?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t see the benefit outweighing the risk.”
Clasping his hands together, Cullen leaned forward. “Sir, this automatic sprinkler can save lives. Not just a few, but hundreds, thousands of them. Think of any fire you’ve ever been a part of.” He knew the man wouldn’t be able to help but think of the Cold Storage fire. “If the home or building you’re thinking of had had automatic sprinklers installed, they would have released water at the first sign of trouble. In most cases, the sprinklers would put the fire out completely. If nothing else, they would at least help control it until the occupants could escape and the brigade could arrive. But none will ever be installed unless business owners see it work with their own eyes. And for that I need a demonstration.”