20
If you could snap your fingers and appear somewhere else, where would you be?” Mrs. Dinwiddie put her card next to her soup bowl and looked at Mr. Wilder in expectation.
Flossie bit back her satisfaction. She’d get him out of his room—figuratively, if nothing else.
“My room,” he said.
Flossie narrowed her eyes.
“Nonsense.” Mrs. Dinwiddie, bless her soul, waved her soup spoon in an I don’t think so gesture. “You’re a writer, Mr. Wilder. Use your imagination.”
“I’m a newspaper reporter. I don’t make things up.”
Mr. Nettels snorted.
Mr. Wilder gave him a piercing glare.
“Nevertheless,” Mrs. Dinwiddie continued, “try to enter into the spirit of the game. If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?”
He looked to the corner of the room as if weighing his options before returning his attention to Mrs. Dinwiddie. “I suppose I’d go to the Chicago World’s Fair—once it opens, of course.”
The elderly woman’s face lit, creases rippling out on either side of her smile. “What a marvelous choice. I’d love to go as well. Mr. Tiffany is going to send two of his girls, but we don’t yet know if Miss Jayne will be one of them, do we, Miss Jayne?”
“No, it will be a while before he makes a decision.”
“How will he decide?” Mr. Wilder asked.
“It’s based on performance.” She tucked a piece of hair back up into her coif. Only Mr. Wilder knew of her blunder at work—other than the Tiffany Girls, of course. But over the past month she’d worked doubly hard and arrived even earlier in the mornings. Last week she’d been moved from tracing cartoons to working with Nan. Nan would select the glass, then Flossie would cut it the exact shape of the paper template. It was harder than it looked and her arms and fingers had been sore all week.
Smoothing the napkin on her lap, she directed the conversation away from her in order to include the others. “Since you weren’t in the parlor with us last night, you might not be aware that it will be Mrs. Holliday’s birthday on Sunday.”
Mr. Wilder turned his attention to the young woman beside him. “Congratulations, Mrs. Holliday.”
“Thank you.” She looked up at him, her excitement palpable. “You’ll come to my party, won’t you?”
Mr. Holliday patted his wife’s hand. “Of course he’ll come.”
Mr. Wilder balked. “Party?”
“Why, yes.” Mr. Oyster removed a piece of food from his teeth with his tongue. “Miss Jayne has arranged for us to all go ice-skating at Central Park this Sunday.”
The full weight of Mr. Wilder’s gaze turned to her. “I’m afraid I’m—”
“Even Mrs. Dinwiddie is coming,” she interjected, cutting off his refusal. She knew he longed to engage with them, to be a part of their family, yet he simply refused. It didn’t make a bit of sense.
“ ’Course I’m coming.” The elderly woman dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “Wouldn’t miss it, and neither will Mr. Wilder. Will you?” Her blue gaze drilled into his.
Mrs. Dinwiddie might have been in her seventies, but she’d been married to a retired colonel and had raised a son of her own. Flossie marveled at the skill with which she handled the men in the house.
Instead of answering, Mr. Wilder made a noncommittal sound, then took another spoonful of his soup.
CHAPTER
21
Reeve studied the half-finished portrait of Mrs. Dinwiddie. It didn’t look like much, other than a pair of eyes with different shades of red war paint blocking out parts of her face.
“Does it tire you to pose for these painting sessions?” he asked.
Mrs. Dinwiddie poured his cup of tea, the scent of camphor oil clinging to her. “Not at all. Miss Jayne keeps me quite amused.”
He harrumphed.
“Maybe she’ll do your portrait next.”
He gave her a look of warning, but the woman simply handed him his cup. He settled into the chair beside hers and they discussed the trial of Lizzie Borden, the failure of the Philadelphia & Reading Railroad, and his most recent article on the New Woman.
“You cannot deny,” Mrs. Dinwiddie said, looking at him over her glasses, “there is a mercenary element in our present form of marriage.”
“Not you, too.” He frowned at her.
“Admit it. A wife, more often than not, performs the lowest grade of unskilled labor.”
He sighed. “I will admit that there are a great many women who bend over the washtub, but it’s not as if their husbands’ lives are any less sordid or monotonous. He’s out wrapping up codfish or selling five-cent cigars and engaged in a laborious occupation not a bit more idealistic than her own.”
They spent another quarter hour in an invigorating debate. He conceded a bit of ground, but took even more. Already he was brimming with ideas for his next article.
“So, are you going to the ice-skating party?” she asked, picking up her knitting. Whatever she was making was of a dark navy blue.
“I’m afraid I’m going to pass,” he said.
“Why?”
“I don’t have any skates and I’d rather not spend the money to rent them.”
“You can borrow Herschel’s.”
“You still have your son’s skates?”
“Indeed, I do.”
He shifted in his chair. “That’s very generous, thank you, but I’m still not going.”
“Why not?”
He rubbed his hands on his trousers. “I don’t know how to skate.”
“Pshaw. There’s nothing to it. You strap the skates on to your shoes and off you go.”
It had looked easy when he’d watched others from his window, but it couldn’t be as simple as it appeared or he wouldn’t have seen so many people fall.
“You can’t mean that you’re going skating?” he asked.
“Heavens, no. I’m way too old. I’d crack my noggin open for certain. No, I plan to rent a chair sled.”
He stiffened. Once again, Mrs. Dinwiddie would be spending her own coin because Miss Jayne desired it to be so. “Aren’t those rather costly?”
“Not terribly so.” The click-click-click of her knitting needles sounded loud in the quiet of her room.
He tapped his thumb against his leg. At what point should he interfere? What if she didn’t have a head for numbers? What if she overspent by accident and couldn’t pay her rent? He’d never asked about her finances before because there’d never been any need to. “Mrs. Dinwiddie, do you think that’s wise, spending your resources on such frivolous things?”
Her knitting needles paused. “Is that a philosophical question or a practical question?”
“A practical question.”
She lowered her knitting and stared at him for several beats.
His face warmed. “It’s really none of my business. Please forgive me.”
She shook her head. “No, I appreciate your concern. That’s not why I didn’t answer.” She looked to the side, took a breath, then turned back to him. “Since we are such good friends and since I trust you to keep a confidence, I shall entrust you with a little secret. I’m rather well off. If I’d wanted to, I could have lived in the lovely brownstone Robert and I shared for fifty-four years. But I decided instead that I wanted to live in a boardinghouse so that I’d be around people, so I’d have someone to eat dinner with, someone to linger in the parlor with after my meals.”
He blinked. He’d had no idea.
“I’d tried some of the fancy boardinghouses,” she continued. “But I tired of the airs the boarders put on. So, I simply looked for someplace clean, in a good part of town, and with salt-of-the-earth people.” Reaching across the table, she patted his arm. “I certainly found one in you.”
He sat up a little straighter. “I’m sorry. I had no idea. I meant no offense.”
“Of course you didn’t. That’s why you’ll go to Mrs. Holliday’s ice-skating party.”
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“Wait, what?”
“She’s very young, Mr. Wilder. You’d cause her great offense if you did not attend. She would think it had something to do with her, that perhaps she wasn’t engaging enough, or pretty enough, or a good enough wife to Mr. Holliday.” She picked her knitting back up. “No, you must go to the party, even if only for a little bit. You’ll find Herschel’s skates in a box on top of my wardrobe over there.”
After several seconds of hesitation, he mumbled his acquiescence, pushed himself up, and retrieved the skates.
ICE SKATING IN CENTRAL PARK 14
“Stretching out his legs, Reeve crossed his ankles and leaned back on the bench, content to watch the others do all the skating.”
CHAPTER
22
Stretching out his legs, Reeve crossed his ankles and leaned back on the bench, content to watch the others do all the skating. A cloudless sky allowed the sun’s unrestricted rays to provide a bit of warmth against winter’s bite.
Hundreds of skaters soared across Central Park’s pond in what he imagined would be the next best thing to flying. A man in a dark-blue frock coat, hands behind his back, sailed past, gliding first on one leg, then the other. A young boy whizzed by him, filching a red cap from another little shaver. With a shout of protest, the hatless fellow gave chase, paying no more attention to his skates than he would to his feet if he were running.
Reeve shook his head in wonderment. It was different watching the skaters from a bench as opposed to a window. He could hear the cutting of the blades, feel the sting of crisp air, smell the woodsmoke from the warming fires, and almost taste the roasting chestnuts.
Mrs. Dinwiddie waved to him from her sleigh chair, barely recognizable beneath her pelts, cloak, and scarf, the latter wrapped about her mouth and nose. Mr. Nettels skated behind her, holding on to the chair’s handles and propelling her forward.
“Come join us, Mr. Wilder,” Miss Love shouted, gliding beside them, the breeze snatching away her laugh.
He waved back, then scanned the other skaters, looking for the rest of their party. He spotted Mrs. Holliday in a dark jacket and skirt gripping her husband’s arm. She wobbled along with a slow shuffle, fighting to navigate the frozen pond marred with uneven marks from other skaters.
Without even searching, though, he knew where Miss Jayne was, what she was doing, and whom she was skating with. She was hard to miss. A plush maroon gown accentuated her curves, and its trimming of white fur brought attention to her neck and wrists. A matching hat was anchored with a white snowy scarf tied beneath her chin. Oyster skated in time beside her, their right and left hands joined in promenade style.
They pushed off with their left feet then held them slightly lifted behind them as they slid in perfect harmony on their right blades. Oyster angled his head toward her, saying something to make her smile.
Reeve tapped his toes together in rapid succession and slipped his gloved hand into his coat pocket, warming it on a hot potato Mrs. Klausmeyer had provided him. He forced himself to look away.
A group of kids played snap-the-whip, the boy at the end of the line barely hanging on as he was flung this way and that. A father a few yards from Reeve held a young boy between his legs, catching him as his feet slipped out from beneath him. Reeve briefly wondered if his father would have done the same for him had Mother survived.
Beyond them, Oyster slipped an arm about Miss Jayne’s waist and spun her in front of him, recapturing Reeve’s full attention. Oyster led her in a brisk waltz across the pond. Or perhaps it was a mazurka. He couldn’t tell. But one minute she was skating backward, the next he was. The moment after that they were side by side again.
Around and around they went, her skirts whipping in the wind, his trouser legs flapping as he stretched in a graceful ballet. He spun her out, he pulled her in. He twirled her about, he clasped her waist. And, finally, he whirled them in a tight circle like a twister, faster and faster until they blurred in Reeve’s vision.
Eventually, Oyster brought her to a slow stop, pulled her close, and dipped his head, whispering into her ear. Reeve pulled his feet in. Straightened his spine.
Laughing, she placed her hands on Oyster’s chest and used it to push away from him, skating backward, then she turned and headed straight toward Reeve. She made no move to slow down, no indication that she was going to do anything other than plow right into the snowbank.
Jumping to his feet, he stepped to the edge of the pond and stretched out a hand.
She did the same. “Come join us, Mr. Wilder.”
“Careful,” he replied.
She slowed with graceful ease, clasped his hand, and allowed him to assist her onto the snow.
Oyster made an abrupt stop at the edge of the pond, spraying Reeve with ice granules. “You’re missing out on all the fun, Wilder. Aren’t you going to put on your skates?”
Reeve glanced at the pair of skates Mrs. Dinwiddie had loaned him. “Perhaps.”
With rapid breaths, Miss Jayne placed a gloved hand against her chest. “Well, I, for one, am going to take a rest. Mr. Oyster took me out for quite a spin.”
“So I saw.”
She smiled. “You did?”
Oyster made an elaborate bow. “You were the perfect partner, Miss Jayne. The best I’ve ever had.”
Reeve scowled. Why did everyone do that? Tell her she was the best at everything? He’d concede her skating was impressive. Still, the best partner? Ever?
Puffs of white vapor came from her mouth. “Might I share your bench with you, Mr. Wilder?”
“Of course.” He walked her to the bench and helped her settle while Mr. Oyster skated off, most likely in pursuit of another young innocent.
Removing the now lukewarm potato from his pocket, he handed it to her. “How are your fingers?”
She cupped the potato with gloved hands. “Definitely a bit tingly. This feels wonderful. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. And your toes?”
“Still okay. What about yours?”
“Mine?” He lowered himself beside her. “Fine. Just fine.”
She fell back against the bench and scanned the other skaters. “It’s been quite some time since I’ve skated like that.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her she was very good at it, but he kept the thought to himself. The last thing she needed was one more person singing her praises.
They sat in silence, her studying the skaters. Him studying her. Her oval face. Her slim nose. High cheekbones. Cupid’s-bow lips. Classic jaw. And—he squinted—a very, very slight dimple in her chin. So slight, he’d never noticed it until now.
“I love to skate,” she sighed, her cheeks lifting with a small smile. “It’s so . . . I don’t know . . . freeing. Don’t you think?”
When he didn’t answer, she turned to him. “You don’t agree?”
He shrugged.
She tilted her head. “Where did you say you were from?”
“New Jersey.”
“Then, clearly, you’ve skated.”
Again, he said nothing.
Her eyes widened. “You’ve never skated?”
He glanced at a concessionaire. “Can I get you some hot cocoa?”
“How could you have grown up in New Jersey and never had cause to skate?”
“I just didn’t.”
“Why?”
He pulled a hand down his face. “I wasn’t allowed.”
She straightened. “Weren’t allowed? You mean, your parents forbade it?”
“Grandparents, actually. I was raised by my grandparents.”
He could see her struggle with herself, then give in to her curiosity. “You lost both your parents?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Another hesitation. Another concession to curiosity. “Is it painful to talk about?”
“Not particularly, no.”
An additional poof of air formed a quick cloud in front of her mouth. “Why do you do that?”
He lifted a brow. “Do what?”
“Have conversations that consist of nothing more than three-word sentences.”
“My sentences have more than three words.”
“No, they don’t.”
“Yes, they do.”
“All right, then, what happened to your parents?”
“They died.”
She lifted her hands in an I give up gesture. “See?”
“That was two words.”
“You know what I mean.”
And he did. He knew exactly what she meant, but he never talked about his past. Not because he had some great objection to it, but because it rarely came up.
He stood. “I’m going to get a cup of hot cocoa. Would you like one?”
“Yes, thank you.”
He used the time standing in line to try and ascertain why he was so reluctant to tell her about his parents. Or about anything, for that matter. And he could only come up with one viable reason. She frightened the very devil out of him, this New Woman.
CHAPTER
23
Here you are.” Reeve handed Miss Jayne a steaming cup of cocoa, hoping she hadn’t become too chilled while he was gone.
She exchanged the now cold potato for the cup, wrapping her hands around its tin sides. “Ahhhh. So warm.”
“Are you getting chilled?”
“A little. This will help, though. Thank you.” She blew on the liquid.
He settled next to her. “You’d better drink up. It won’t stay hot for long out here.”
She studied him. “So your grandparents raised you?”
Death and the deuce, but she was persistent. Still, he wouldn’t put it past her to place the question beneath someone’s plate at suppertime if he didn’t go ahead and tell her what she wanted to know.
Taking a swallow of cocoa, he allowed the heat to flow down his throat. “They did. My mother died when I was four. I was never told of what. My father died of pneumonia when I was eighteen.”
“I’m so sorry.” Her face softened, her tone gentled. “You must have been very lonely.”