Circled Heart (26 page)

I knew Drew’s remarks were not what that group of capitalists and captains of industry expected or even wanted to hear. The room was populated with some I knew to be fiercely and publicly antisuffrage, some who sent the disgusting offal of their packing plants into the Chicago River without apology, some who heartlessly abandoned any worker who had the effrontery to be injured on the job. No doubt Drew’s comments had pricked more than one conscience, which would account for the awkward quiet moment before polite applause began, an applause that was tepid and half-hearted. Appreciate the award tonight, my dear, I thought, my eyes fixed on Drew’s profile with an expression calculated to hide my feelings, because it is probably the last compliment you are ever going to receive from this gathering. Drew turned and gave me a quick grin, that wonderfully boyish, slightly crooked grin against which I had no defenses and at that precise moment, for better or for worse and entirely against my better judgment, I realized that I was hopelessly, annoyingly, gloriously in love with him and that I would never love any other man for all my life.

What I always imagined would make me deliriously happy had the perverse effect of making me cranky and fidgety instead. How dangerous would it be to let on to Drew Gallagher that he had wormed his way into the core of my being and was now settled there for life? Did he have feelings for me other than his professed admiration for my social ideals and my attributes displayed by a low-cut gown? I did not consider either of us a particularly trusting or trustworthy individual. How our relationship would end or even if there would be a relationship of any substance remained to be seen. I knew only that I must be absolutely sure of a reciprocal regard before I ever let down my defenses and shared my true feelings with him, and I wasn’t sure that such certainty was possible. Whether that was my character flaw or his I couldn’t decide. Possibly both.

By then the crowd was on its feet and milling about, and Drew was interrupted twice on his way back to his seat by someone wishing to comment on his words. Even as he arrived next to me, a woman came up on my other side and introduced herself as Lydia Pruitt. She was a stout woman in her forties with soft graying hair and a gentle face. I stood as she spoke.

“Miss Swan, please extend my regards to your grandmother. She was very kind to me years ago when I was a new wife, fresh on the Chicago scene and unsure of the intricacies of social conversation and behavior. I also met your mother once. Such a lovely girl, kind, too, and very spirited. How proud she would have been to hear Mr. Gallagher’s tribute to you!”

I liked this woman, not just because she paid compliments to my family but because she was obviously sincere and considerate enough to seek me out for conversation. When I began to thank her, Mrs. Pruitt looked out into the milling crowd and added, “There’s my husband. Excuse me while I get his attention. He knew your grandfather and I believe patronizes your uncle’s law firm. I know he’ll want to extend his regards.”

As she disappeared, I turned to say something to Drew about his speech, only to see that he was monopolized by a prestigious banker intent on presenting a business opportunity he thought Drew would be interested in. Somehow sensing my attention, Drew put a hand under my elbow and while still speaking to the man, disengaged himself from the conversation and maneuvered us both slowly away. The banker faded into another group. I turned to Drew once more but before I could say anything, Lydia Pruitt returned with her husband in tow.

“Miss Swan, please forgive the delay. The crowd has suddenly become very lively, and it was a challenge to get back to you. This is my husband, Ransom Pruitt.” Pruitt was a pleasant-faced man of medium height with salt-and-pepper hair and a distinguished mustache. I put out my hand to him. “How do you do, Mr. Pruitt? Have you met Drew Gallagher?”

The two men shook hands as well and Mr. Pruitt said, “I had some business dealings with your brother, Gallagher. I was sorry to hear of his death.” Drew made a polite response that I did not catch because the sound of Pruitt’s voice diverted me. I had heard it before and fairly recently but could not recall when or where. We chatted a while about the need for business men to take responsibility for their employees, and Pruitt asked my opinion about the likelihood of national suffrage for women. That topic needed more time and attention than was possible that evening, so I made a diplomatic response, something bland that did not wholly betray my passionate commitment to women having the vote but still resolutely hopeful. Lydia Pruitt looked more skeptical about the prospect than her husband, who raised the glass of whiskey he held and said firmly, “I have two college-educated daughters, who would like nothing more than to take their place at the ballot box. To women and the vote. A prospect long overdue.”

At the sound of his carrying voice, I suddenly recalled an afternoon at the Chicago Yacht Club and a man with a raised glass toasting his wife Lydia of twenty-five years. I knew I should continue without displaying any shock from the memory, but I couldn’t. All I could see was Crea, weary and despairing and wishing, wishing with all her heart, that she could start again, regain what she had lost and love Peter openly, be the girl she’d been before this man stole all that away from her. I was overcome with such fury and outrage that I could not speak.

My expression must have paled because Lydia Pruitt asked considerately, “Miss Swan, are you unwell? You’ve gone very white. It’s the press of the crowd, I imagine, and not very good ventilation besides.”

I gouged my fingers into Drew’s arm and managed to say, “Yes, I’m sure that’s it. Please excuse me. I believe I’ll just step out into the hallway.”

Drew followed a step behind as I pushed through the people, out of the dining room, and into the broad, paneled hallway. He said my name—concerned and puzzled, I thought—and I answered, “I’m fine. I’m just going to take a brisk walk to the end of the hallway and back and then perhaps we could leave.” In a lower voice I muttered, “Before I spoil your evening by murdering one of the guests.” Giving the impression that such a threat was commonplace to a man of his experience, Drew took out his cigarette case.

“Fine with me. I’ll step out to the balcony and meet you back here in a few minutes. You do look murderous. You don’t have a weapon hidden on you, do you?” He gave me a long, leisurely look and answered his own question with a provocative smile. “No, I’m sure not. There would be absolutely no way you could disguise its presence under that gown.” I resisted the impulse to stick out my tongue at him.

“If you’re not careful,” I glowered, “you’ll be the first victim and have no one to blame but yourself. Don’t let all this attention go to your head; you’re still mortal. Give me ten minutes.” I turned my back to him and walked to the ladies’ lounge, strode through it, looked into the full-length mirror on my way past at a black-haired stranger in an amber dress, exited the door on the other side, and entered an empty, darker hallway.

I was angry about everything: about the frustrating contrariness of Crea longing for an education and Ransom Pruitt having two college-educated daughters, about lost childhood and the abuse of power and the vulnerability of wives, about the unfairness of life and the unexpectedness of love, about caring for Drew Gallagher, whose capacity for faithful and reciprocal affection was undefined and untried. I feared I had set myself up for heartache, a woman rejected entirely or another Lydia Pruitt. Something somewhere should make sense but at that moment nothing did. Nothing at all.

Drew waited patiently exactly where he said he would be, leaning against the hallway wall with both hands thrust into his pockets in the timeless pose of man waiting for woman. He straightened when he saw me.

“Better now?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. Do you want to go back in?” I motioned with my head toward the dining room, still abuzz with conversation.

Drew responded with a mock shudder. “Not unless you tell me I have to.”

“I don’t want to cut short your moment of glory.”

“Fame is fleeting and I’m already a has-been. Is the night still young for you or would you like me to take you home?”

I eyed him thoughtfully. “That depends on where we’re going.”

“I was planning Creole jazz at the Pekin Café.”

“If you guarantee dancing, I am with you until the early hours,” I responded promptly. “Will you care if I step on your toes?” With a gesture that seemed natural and unconscious, Drew took my hand and we turned to walk down the hallway.

“I’m not worried. I don’t think there’s a dance step you can’t pick up in a minute, but if I’m wrong, you have advanced permission to step on any part of me you want.”

Downstairs in the lobby Drew retrieved my cloak and settled it on my shoulders before we went out into the crisp, cold night. Walking toward the automobile, Drew asked casually, “So, what was it about Ransom Pruitt that made you want to help him along to an early and painful death?”

“It might have been the ventilation, you know.”

“Johanna, Johanna, you forget who you’re talking to.” When I remained silent, Drew went on, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. You can tell me it’s none of my business if you want. You should know by now I don’t have a sensitive bone in my body.”

I slid into the passenger side and waited for Drew to crank the engine and get in before I spoke. I wanted to unburden myself by telling him Crea’s whole sordid story, let him apply his typical light touch to it, and erase the residual feelings of anger and frustration that remained from meeting the Pruitts. Yet I couldn’t, not if I wanted to respect Crea’s confidence and protect her privacy, an essential rule I’d been taught by Sally Gray at Bryn Mawr College. Miss Gray had drilled into the class that the people we serve must be protected at all costs from additional victimization. “As sacrosanct as the priest’s confessional,” Miss Gray had lectured. “Never share another’s personal details without permission.”

“Five years ago Ransom Pruitt did something unconscionable to a friend of mine, who was young enough to be his daughter. She’ll never be the same, and he’ll never be held accountable for his indefensible conduct.”

Drew accelerated the motorcar away from the curb before he responded. “Since you know the story, why don’t you force accountability? Doesn’t the knowledge you have give you the upper hand to take whatever vengeance you like?”

“What purpose would that serve? A public declaration would wound his wife and shame his daughters, and nothing can replace my friend’s lost childhood. The fact that others besides Ransom Pruitt would bear the burden of his misconduct infuriates me. How could he take advantage of someone he should have protected? Why would it even cross his mind to act in such a deplorable way?”

I hardly recognized my voice and Drew, too, must have heard something out of the ordinary because he turned his head to give me a quick glance before turning his attention back to the road. I watched him as he considered my question, his eyes gazing ahead but brows furrowed. Poor man, I thought with rueful tenderness. It’s not enough that I drag you into a moral rectitude for which you feel no natural affinity—now I demand answers to questions about human behavior that philosophers have wrestled with for centuries.

“Never mind, Drew,” I told him quickly. “I know life isn’t fair and I know there aren’t answers for everything. Forget I even mentioned the matter. It’s just difficult when the person hurting is someone you care about.”

“I know. It’s a good thing you don’t expect any answers from me, Johanna, because all I know for sure is that a man’s behavior is influenced more by a need for power than by a need for women. Power breeds entitlement. I’d guess that was the case with Pruitt.”

“Does entitlement erode conscience then?”

“Not necessarily. You’re assuming that Ransom Pruitt doesn’t wake in the middle of the night horrified by what he’s done and at the mercy of all sorts of demons.” I remembered Drew’s comment from our first meeting about his brother’s demons and how those same demons haunted all the Gallagher men.

“Does it really happen, Drew, that remorse haunts a man and keeps him up at night? Somehow I can’t quite believe it.”

“Believe it. Do you think you’re the only one who has bad dreams, Johanna? Do you think only women feel regret and wish they could undo the past?” I wanted very much to ask what, if anything, haunted Drew Gallagher, wanted to ask him about his own regret, but something held me back.

Instead I responded lightly, “I don’t know, Drew, and I’m sorry I forced this serious conversation on you.” I made a point of looking out at the street. “Where are we, anyway?”

“We’re on State Street, coming up on the Pekin Café.” We pulled up in front of a two-story brick building with lights that shone out of every window on the façade of both stories. After the automobile stopped, he turned to me to ask, “Can you leave everything behind, Johanna, and just enjoy yourself? Could you set that load of responsibility down and not try to save the world for a little while?” He didn’t ask unkindly and I wasn’t offended.

“Absolutely. Have I mentioned that I love to dance?”

He grinned, reached to flick my cheek with a forefinger, and answered, “I seem to recall the subject coming up on at least one other occasion. How are your shoes?”

“Tapping already. What are we waiting for?” I was out of the auto before he was, determined to do exactly as he suggested: enjoy the evening, the music, the dance, and the man.

Later, well into the early morning hours, we sat at one of the little tables at the edge of the dance floor, sipping on drinks in a smoke-filled room and listening to the best New Orleans jazz in the city. I had slipped out of my shoes and sat with one foot tucked under me and both elbows resting on the table examining Drew, who for the first time that evening appeared winded.

“Ha! And you thought I couldn’t keep up. Next time watch out what you say or I may have to make you eat your words again.”

“I never said you couldn’t keep up.”

“You implied it and that’s the same thing. ‘Should we sit this one out, Johanna?’” I mimicked. “‘You’re looking a little tired.’” I raised my glass triumphantly. “Ask anyone. At this moment I am not the one who’s looking tired.”