Escapade (9781301744510)

  "I'm sorry," Zeke said awkwardly. "Not about the cards. I mean about your—"

  "I know." She cut him off quickly as though she did not want her grief touched upon. He could understand that. He had more than a few painful memories of his own he didn't like paraded in the sunlight.

  She continued in a brisk businesslike manner. "I am the president of the company now. We have been manufacturing and flying balloons for nearly seven years."

  "How interesting." Zeke tucked the card carelessly away in his coat pocket. "But do we have to keep on being so formal? Why don't you call me Zeke?"

  "Well, I-.” She had seemed so self-assured a moment ago discussing her balloons, but his request had discomposed her again. While she fortified herself with a gulp of champagne, Zeke pressed his advantage.

  "And wouldn't it be all right if I called you Aurora?"

  She made a face. "Good heavens, no! If you must—that is, I am usually called Rory.”

  "But I think Aurora is a lovely name."

  "You wouldn't if you had had to endure years of the neighborhood kids teasing and chanting 'Aurora Borealis.'"

  Zeke grinned. "I will admit it doesn't sound very Irish. How did you ever come to receive such a moniker?"

  "It was all my Da's idea." Rory paused and stole another sip of her champagne. This was not what she had come here to talk about tonight. The waiter was already serving the soup, and hardly a word had been said about her balloon company. Still, she supposed she must engage in some polite conversation, so she permitted Zeke to coax from her the story of her birth and christening, of how long her parents had waited for a child, of the pain and disappointment of so many miscarriages, of how her coming had been awaited with so much hope, so much fear.

  Her father's worst dread had been realized when it appeared she had been stillborn. Then she had taken her first breath and let out a lusty cry. At that moment, her Da had always told her, the dawn had been breaking over the city, the sunlight flooding his heart as well. She would be called Rose after the grandmother she would never know, left resting beneath the peaceful hills of Kilarney, but as for her first name, it could be nothing else but Aurora.

  Rory picked up her soup spoon, feeling embarrassed by the time she had concluded this sentimental tale. She was surprised to detect a softening in Zeke's flint-hard features.

  "Aurora Rose," he repeated. "Yes, your father was right. It suits you."

  Rory blushed under the steadiness of his regard. She started to reach for her champagne glass and checked the movement. She must go easy. She had drunk enough of the bubbly liquid at Gia's wedding to know that champagne did odd things to her, made her quite light-headed. Why, she'd almost let Jim Petry, the butcher's boy, kiss her, and him with a face that could stop an ice-wagon mule in its tracks.

  The next she knew she would be ready to embrace Zeke Morrison. Her eyes drifted the lean contours of Zeke's face, the sensual outline of his month. Yes, it was much easier to think of kissing Zeke than Jim.

  Appalled by her own thoughts, Rory pushed the champagne glass farther away and concentrated on her soup. "What about your name, Mr. Morrison? I mean, Zeke? Were you named after your father?"

  It seemed the most harmless question, but one look at Zeke and she knew she had asked the wrong thing. A stillness came over his features.

  "No," he said. His reply was curt, yet somehow bleak. Rory didn't know why, but she had the feeling that Zeke had never been regaled with joyous tales of his own birth. She had a sudden urge to reach across the table and press his hand. She checked the impulse just in time, squeezing her fingers into a fist and tucking it against her lap.

  It would seem she had already had too much champagne. To presume that a wealthy, powerful man like Zeke Morrison needed her sympathy was ridiculous. By the time the waiter had removed the soup dishes, Zeke had already recovered himself.

  "It's a dead bore talking about me," he said as though trying to excuse his previous abrupt response. "Let's hear more about you."

  Rory felt she had said far too much about herself already. Instead, she steered the conversation back to her balloon company. All through the course of salad and hors d'oeuvres, she discoursed earnestly upon the potential of hot air balloons. Not only could they provide a pleasurable pastime, but they also could be used for voyages of scientific discovery into the atmosphere, or employed for military purposes, spying missions.

  "During the siege of Paris," she said, "they actually used balloons to airlift important people in the government over the lines of the Prussian army to freedom."

  "Really?" Zeke said, although his attention seemed more fixed upon the sizzling beefsteak set before him. Rory was obliged to suspend her enthusiastic lecture long enough to do justice to her own tenderloin. She was relieved to see the champagne being removed from the table, only to sigh when it was replaced with a sparkling red wine.

  She knew she oughtn't to touch the stuff especially not on top of the champagne, but she didn't want Zeke to find her totally unsophisticated. Just a few sips, she assured herself, then took a large swallow to clear her throat.

  "Of course," she said, "in our own country, balloons have been used extensively to—"

  Zeke interrupted her with a laugh."Do you ever think of anything else, Aurora Rose? What do you do with yourself when you are not risking your neck in a balloon?"

  "Why, I-I-that is—" The question took Rory so much aback, she had to take another drink of wine to gather her thoughts. What did she do when she wasn't working down at the warehouse? No one had ever asked her such a thing before. It took her a moment to realize she had no answer. When she wasn't flying, she was planning flights, designing new balloons, thinking of ways to raise money. Except for her company, there wasn't much else in her life. Especially since her father had died.

  The realization both startled and saddened her. She took a sip of the wine in a rather melancholy fashion. When she didn't reply, Zeke continued to prod. "A pretty young lady like you must have some other interests. Perhaps you walk out on occasion with one particular fellow?”

  Aha, Rory thought. So that's what he was getting at. She peered at Zeke owlishly over the rim of her glass. "I'm not promised or anything if that is what you mean."

  "Good."

  Rory blinked. The man was nothing if not direct, but she rather liked that about him. Still she had a feeling she was drifting into dangerous waters and that she needed to steer back to the safer ground of her balloons. Yet she could not resist asking, "And what about you? Are you courting that Mrs. Van Hallsburg?"

  “Good lord, no. Not her or anyone else. I'm not the marrying kind."

  "Neither am I," Rory replied.

  He smiled and held up his glass. "Then let's drink to that."

  Rory clinked her glass against his although she was not exactly sure what they were toasting. He had a glint in his eyes that made her feel more tingly than the champagne bubbles. She drained her wineglass and warmth coursed through her to the very tip of her toes. It was a most delicious sensation.

  I'm getting a little drunk, she thought. She had enough sense to realize that, but not quite enough to resist. Zeke began to question her again, about her home, her family. She found herself telling him the most absurd things about life on McCreedy Street, how she slept on the fire escape when the weather got too hot, about spearing fresh pickles from the big barrel in front of Hoffmeier's Deli, how she liked to ride her bicycle on Riverside Drive of a Sunday.

  She knew she was talking too much, but he seemed so interested, drinking in every word. Interested and something more. That odd sad stillness had crept into his eyes again, a look almost of longing.

  When her dessert was placed before her, Rory left it untouched. She had drunk too much and eaten too little, but she didn't care. She was feeling exceedingly mellow and strangely tender toward Zeke Morrison. When he urged her to tell him more about ice skating in Central Park with her father, she shook her head.

  "You can't really want to kno
w about all the simple things I do. It must be completely different from life on Fifth Avenue."

  "Yes, it is," he said. "It all seems so far away."

  Far away? That was a peculiar way of describing it. But she let that thought go, more touched by how sad he sounded.

  "It doesn't have to be that way," she said. "You're a millionaire. You can do anything you want to. You don't have to waste all your time in places like this—"

  She broke off, horrified. She didn't want him to think she was ungrateful, criticizing. But he was quick to take her up on her unfinished remark.

  "You mean Delmonico's? You don't like it?"

  “It's very grand. But the waiters do tend to hover a lot and all the other people-"

  "Yes?" he prompted.

  She hesitated before blurting out, "They remind me of a flock of turkeys all stuffed and dressed for Christmas."

  She feared he might be offended, but he laughed, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

  "You astonish me, Rory Kavanaugh. I thought all girls dreamed of being wined and dined at Delmonico's."

  "No, that's not what I dreamed of. She propped her chin on her hand. "I always imagined supping at some quiet little restaurant, then going to the theater to see a melodrama. And after, perhaps going to one of the music halls, dancing my feet off until the sun came up."

  "The night is still young yet, Aurora Rose."

  The suggestive note in his voice snapped Rory out of her fantasy with a start. "Oh, no, I couldn't stay out any later. I have to get down to the warehouse. Tony, my balloon-"

  But Zeke didn't appear to be listening. He signaled the waiter to bring him the check, and then stood, extending one hand down to her. But it wasn't his fingers that beckoned so much as the smile lurking in his eyes.

  "Come on, Aurora Rose," he said. "Let's get out of here."

  The dance hall that Zeke escorted Rory to was located at the lower end of Twenty-second Street. It was not one that he had ever frequented, but close enough to his former haunts to render him a little edgy. Chances were good he might run into someone who would recognize him from the old days.

  So what, he thought with a shrug. He was hardly a wanted criminal or anything. As he leaped down from the carriage, he stared at the dance hall's brick frame structure, the light and laughter spilling through its open windows on the second floor. Zeke squared his shoulders like a prizefighter about to enter the ring.

  He turned to help Rory down, only to discover she had already leaped from the steps herself and stood at his side. He wanted to tell her that maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. But the lamplight haloed the radiant contours of her face, her eyes so bright and eager. He hated the thought of disappointing her. It had been a long time since he had wanted so badly to please anyone as he did this whimsical girl. He already felt bad that he hadn't been able to gratify her wish of attending the theater.

  Most of the plays on Broadway were well into their third act by now. He had thought of buying out one of the theaters, hiring the actors to start the show all over again, but he supposed that too would be showing off. The theater would have to wait for another night, but for now at least he could give her her dance.

  Inhaling a deep breath, he offered her his arm. "I probably should have warned you. It's been a long time since I did any dancing. I'm likely pretty rusty."

  "That's all right," she confided in a stage whisper. "I'm not so very good at it either."

  The night breeze tickled the curls alongside her flushed cheeks. She was a little tipsy from the wine at Delmonico's. If he had any conscience at all, he would take her home right now, but the thought of doing so caused him to feel strangely empty.

  Instead he tucked her arm through his, tightening his grasp as though she was some wayward Cinderella who might disappear at the stroke of twelve. He led her beneath the striped awning and into the dance hall. The restaurant on the lower floor was already closed up, the waiters upending chairs upon tables. But up on the second floor the sound of thumping feet could be heard, a band blaring out a polka.

  As Zeke ascended the stairs with Rory in tow, he wasn't prepared for the wave of nostalgia that washed over him. Stepping across the threshold, he felt he could have closed his eyes and still mapped out that room. He'd been in dozens like it before with its bare-board floor, a little bar tucked at one end, the platform for the band. No, they weren't exactly Landers orchestra, but they could belt out a tune that set Rory's toe to tapping.

  Beyond the couples prancing across the floor, making the rafters shake, were a group of young lads lined up along the wall, trying to look smart in their straw hats, their slickly shined shoes, their best coats cleaned and pressed. Zeke had held up the wall in that same fashion himself once, ogling the pretty girls, casting contemptuous glances at the swells in the black tailcoats who sometimes came downtown to see how the lower orders went on.

  Only now, he was one of the stiff-necked swells and the scornful glances were for him.

  "Zeke?" Rory cut into his reflections. "Hadn't we better dance before we get trampled?"

  With a start, he realized he had led her out so far they were interfering with the dancers.

  "Yes, I'd guess we'd better," he agreed with a laugh, clasping her hand, placing his other at her waist. As they circled the room, Zeke felt awkward, even though some of the movements were coming back to him.

  As for Rory, she was poker stiff in his arms. It amused him to note her intense look of concentration as she counted out the steps. Amused him and opened the floodgates of another memory as well, a rainy afternoon in the sitting room of the old apartment on Pearl Street.

  All gangly arms and legs, he had been trying to master the polka under the tutelage of his youngest adopted sister, Agnes. So sweet, so patient, lisping out the count in her childish treble while the eldest sister, Caddie, plunked out the song on the old piano, badly out of tune.

  The middle sister, Theresa, had been reclining on the sofa, critical as always. "Ha. You'll never get the hang of it, Johnnie. You've got two left feet."

  But Sadie Marceone had hushed her daughter, encouraging him. "You never mind what Tessa says, Johnnie. You just keep trying. You'll learn."

  And so he had, going at it with that same dogged determination he threw into achieving every goal he set.

  “Ow!”

  An outcry of pain from Rory snapped his attention back to her. It would seem he hadn't learned so much after all.

  "Sorry," he said, apologizing for having stomped on her foot. He paused a moment to let her rub her ankle. When they attempted to resume the dance, they were more miserably stiff than before.

  "Aw, the hell with the steps," Zeke said. "Let's do it our own way."

  Rory glanced up at him, surprised at first, then flashing an answering grin. Surprisingly enough, they fared better bounding across the room in their own style. Rory matched him step for step.

  By the time the music ended, their mad romp was accorded a smattering of applause from the other dancers. Rory's cheeks flushed a bright pink. Breathless and laughing, Zeke led her over to the bar for a drink.

  Zeke tried to order a lemonade for her, but the bartender looked at him as though he thought he'd lost his mind. He had to settle for two champagne cocktails instead. He watched in some alarm as the thirsty Rory gulped hers down as if it were water.

  "Hey, take it easy," he said.

  "It's all right. We Irish have 'credibly hard heads," she assured him and then hiccuped. He smiled. Taking the glass from her, he prepared to lead her back out onto the floor as the band struck up a waltz.

  It was then that the inevitable happened. He spotted someone from the old neighborhood. He could hardly pretend he didn't know her, for he nearly walked dead-on into the woman. She was one of Sadie Marceone's neighbors, living in the house on the opposite corner.

  "Good evening Mrs. Jiannone," he said, suppressing a grimace. "And how have you been?"

  She stared straight into his eyes. There was no
doubt but what she knew him, but she turned and walked away without a word. Zeke didn't like to admit it, but the snub hurt more than any slight Mrs. Van H.'s fancy friends could have dealt him. Perhaps the pain came from knowing what Mrs. Jiannone must be thinking.

  It's that worthless boy, the one poor Sadie Marceone took into her home, the one everyone said would turn out bad, the one everyone predicted would break her heart.

  They had been right. He had.

  "Is anything wrong, Zeke?" Rory asked. She wasn't so tipsy that she hadn't noticed what had happened. Her eyes were wide with concern.

  "No," he said. "I just made a mistake, that's all." He swept Rory into his arms and into the movement of the dance. After the abandon of their previous romp, she seemed shy, dancing at this slower, more seductive pace.

  She tried to keep him at a safe distance, but as the dance wore on, she let him draw her closer and closer, until if he had bent down, he could have laid the velvety curve of her cheek against his own. He was aware of nothing but how soft and warm she felt, the scent of her hair sweet and fresh even in the hall's stifling atmosphere. He wanted to bury his face against the silken strands, lose himself in her, lose all past memories as well.

  As her slender frame swayed in perfect rhythm with his, she roused fierce desires, and a gentler emotion he refused to examine more closely. He only knew he could hold her like this forever. He didn't want this night to end. But why did it have to? He had sacrificed a great deal on the road to accumulating his riches, lost the respect of the only people he had ever cared about, lost the only real home he had ever known. If being wealthy couldn't get you what you wanted, then what was the good of it anyway?

  And he wanted Aurora Rose Kavanaugh. A voice inside him cautioned him to go slow, to take it easy. But he had never been a patient man. If life had taught him one thing, it was that nothing was given freely. If you wanted something, you had to go after it, take it.

  Rory was too caught up in the magic of the music herself to be aware of the tension coiling in Zeke. She hummed along with the band. As Zeke whirled her in a circle, a warning sounded in her mind that she should not let him hold her so close, but the warnings were getting fainter all the time.