Circled Heart (27 page)

Drew had slipped off his jacket and pulled off his tie and now sat with slightly tousled hair and his shirt open at the neck as disheveled as I had ever seen him. He looked younger by five years and very attractive. At that moment some part of me was reacting to his appearance in a very primitive way. I blamed the champagne.

“All right, I admit it. I underestimated you. You are the daughter of Presbyterian missionaries, after all. How was I supposed to know you’d be so practiced at dancing? I didn’t think it was allowed.”

“King David danced before the ark,” I pointed out, “so we have precedent.”

Drew didn’t answer at first, just sprawled back in his chair, legs out and one arm extended on the table, his hand playing with a small glass of whiskey.

Finally he said, “I’m afraid my Old Testament history isn’t what it used to be.” He smiled as I stifled a broad, inelegant yawn with the palm of my hand. “Come along, Johanna. It’s after three and time to go home. Your poor grandmother will be beside herself.”

“She’ll be soundly asleep and completely oblivious to my coming and going as she has been for the last five years, but I think you’re probably right. It is time to go home.” Neither of us made any effort to move, however, both of us pleasurably tired and on my part, content to sit across from Drew Gallagher for as many sunrises as I could get away with.

The band started up again, something slow and rhythmic with a mournful saxophone and poignant chords on the piano that begged for attention. Drew stood and held out a hand.

“Since you insist, one more and then we’re leaving.” I slipped my shoes back on and stood, too.

“I don’t remember insisting. Did I?” We stepped out on the dance floor that was still crowded despite the hour, and I moved into Drew’s arms.

“Those amber eyes of yours did. They don’t keep many secrets, you know.”

“Think not?” I was very comfortable in his arms. The top of my head reached his chin in a perfect fit and I was winding down enough to lean against his chest and let him lead without protest.

“I know not.” After a pause, Drew said, “Johanna, may I ask you something rather intimate?” Curious about his sober tone, I pulled away to look up into his face.

“Yes?” I could feel my heartbeat speed up at the look in his eyes.

In all seriousness he asked, “Are you wearing anything at all under that gown?” I gave his shoulder a smack with the flat of my hand and scowled at his grin.

“What kind of a question is that? Your Viola might find it titillating repartee, but I don’t. Are you ever serious?”

“I’m serious right now. Are you?”

“If it’s any business of yours, which it isn’t, I’m wearing only the minimal essentials, and it’s all my cousin Jennie’s fault. She dared me to fly in the face of proper fashion.” He pulled me closer so I couldn’t see his face, but I could hear a smile in his voice.

“Bless your cousin Jennie,” was all he said, and we danced the last dance without further conversation.

On the drive home I yawned again and, resisting the impulse to lean my head against Drew’s shoulder for a short snooze, asked, “You realize that you’re never going to receive another award from the Chicago business community, don’t you? You fell from grace somewhere between women’s suffrage and labor unions.”

“Did I? Dear me. Well, I imagine I can blunder my way through life without public approval for the next thirty years. I survived the first thirty without it just fine.” He seemed completely unconcerned.

“I should have told you sooner that I appreciated your kind words.” My comment came out halting and somehow churlish, and I tried again for a more gracious touch. “I was proud of you, Drew,” then added, “For what it’s worth to you, and I don’t imagine that’s very much.”

“You imagine wrong, then.”

He didn’t say any more, but I was content enough with that brief remark to lay my head back against the seat and close my eyes. I knew Drew Gallagher didn’t love me—not yet, anyway, and maybe not ever—but his quick, forceful response pleased me and made me smile. Some emotion had colored his voice even if I wasn’t smart enough at the moment to know exactly what it was I heard. Maybe only whiskey and smoke and the end of a long day. Maybe something more. But I loved a challenge and thought that in the long run the score for this night would go on my side of the card.

I slept without meaning to and awoke as the auto pulled to the curb in front of my house on Hill Street, my head against Drew’s shoulder despite all my good intentions. Straightening and giving a little stretch, I told him, “See? The house is dark. I told you no one would wait up. The day after my eighteenth birthday I told Grandmother I was all grown up and could take care of myself, and she was to stop worrying about me.”

“Did she?” Drew half turned in his seat to face me.

“With her it’s hard to tell, but I don’t think so. She lost my mother twice, first when my parents left for China and then when they were killed, and I don’t think she ever completely recovered from that grief. My father’s family lives in Kansas, but every time I mention going to visit them, Grandmother gets all cool and distant, perhaps fearing I’ll go away and not come back, just like my mother. I don’t have the heart to hurt her.”

“No, I don’t imagine you do.” Then without warning, Drew leaned toward me and kissed me on the mouth, a hard kiss but not lengthy and not intrusive. I wouldn’t have minded if the kiss had been more of both but wasn’t in a position just then to suggest that. I wasn’t thinking as clearly as I usually did and blamed the champagne again.

Catching my breath, I asked, “What was that for?”

He gave a bark of laughter without much humor in it and pushed open his door. “No reason. Just because I thought the situation called for it.” He closed his door more forcefully than was necessary and came around to my side to take my hand and help me step out, all without a smile and without a word. I had no idea what caused his mood change.

“Are you angry about something?” I asked meekly. “I know I fell asleep while you were driving. Was I awful? Did I snore?” He peered at my face in the faded light of the early morning moon and saw something there that made his mouth twitch with a smile.

“Yes,” he told me, “you did and it was awful. I didn’t think a woman could snore with such force and volume.”

“Well, if anyone has the necessary extensive knowledge of women to make such a comparative statement, it would be you.”

At my remark, he said my name with a rough laugh and pulled me into his arms and into a kiss that satisfied all my criteria, lengthy and intrusive, not to mention practiced and pleasurable. He tasted like smoke and whiskey—as delicious as I had expected.

With his cheek against my hair, Drew said, “You don’t kiss like a missionary’s daughter.”

“How many missionary’s daughters have you kissed then?” I asked into his shoulder. As cold as the night was, I believe I could have stood there, warmed and comfortable in his arms well into the next day.

“You’re my first.”

“Then you’re obviously working under a preconceived convention,” I pointed out. With a force of will, I pulled free from his embrace. “Be careful with assumptions, Drew. They can get you into trouble. Now I should go in.” He walked with me up to the porch where we both stopped at the bottom of the steps. It seemed neither of us wanted the evening to end.

Looking up at the starry sky, faint flecks of dawn beginning to show to the east, Drew quoted softly, “‘The white drift of worlds o’er chasms of sable, / The star-dust, that is whirled aloft and flies / From the invisible chariot-wheels of God.’”

“Lovely. I didn’t imagine you were a man to read poetry.”

If there had been more early morning light in the sky, I would have been better able to read the slight coloring of his cheeks. As it was, what might have been a rare, self-conscious flush on his part could just as easily have been the effect of a moon shadow.

“For some reason I have a fondness for Longfellow.”

“I’m surprised. Longfellow’s writing is graceful and sometimes sweet, but I would have thought him too religious and too common for you—with themes of lost love, death, and darkness you’d find relentlessly dismal.”

“Do you think I’m too shallow to appreciate profoundly human themes?”

“Not shallow, no, but you purposefully cultivate such a sophisticated facade, I would have thought anything shadowed or tinged with melancholy would clash with the image you work so hard to perpetuate. Who would believe that Drew Gallagher, bon vivant and man about town, spent his leisure time reading ‘The Children’s Hour’?” I mocked him but gently, gently. The evening was still mine.

He answered in a tight voice that indicated he didn’t find me amusing. “Don’t take up a career in diplomacy, Johanna. You haven’t the tact for it.”

“I know. You’re not the first person to point out that fact. It’s a great character flaw for which I have no excuse.” He laughed once more, the familiar laugh he used to camouflage his feelings, sardonic, with no true emotion in the sound.

“Good night, Johanna, although more accurately it should be good morning now.”

“I suppose it is morning, but I much prefer the ‘melting tenderness of night.’” At Drew’s quick, searching look, I smiled. “Longfellow, too. ‘It Is Not Always May.’”

“I recognized it. ‘There are no birds in last year’s nest!’”

“Yes,” I said, “exactly. The past can’t be relived, can it? It’s always irrevocably gone. Good night, Drew. I had a splendid time. Thank you for everything.”

I went up the porch steps and into the house without a backward glance. Once inside, I leaned with my back against the closed front door and stood there mute for several minutes, shaken and exhilarated by the emotions I felt, all of them new to me and not completely welcome. Finally, I went up the dark, still stairs and undressed, draped the amber gown lovingly over a chair, and fell deeply asleep before I had the chance to waste any more time in useless introspection.

Therefore I hope, as no unwelcome guest,

At your warm fireside, when the lamps are lighted,

To have my place reserved among the rest,

Nor stand as one unsought and uninvited!

Chapter Twelve

The following week sped by without a word from Drew, which shouldn’t have surprised or bothered me but did both. I suppose I thought that somehow he must have shared my emotional epiphany, despite the fact that he’d offered no evidence on which to base such an assumption. For Drew Gallagher passionate kisses must have been as common as wind off the lake and held as much meaning. Realistically, I understood that the late night, the time spent in proximity dancing, and the freely flowing alcohol encouraged intimacies. An ordinary night on the town for Drew and nothing to think twice about. I was annoyed that I should be the only one who came away from the evening changed, dreaming of a man who probably hadn’t given me a thought once he pulled away from the curb. The whole situation was straight out of a romance novel, and its commonness was another sore spot. I felt more unsettled than passionate and was determined not to allow love— especially an unreciprocated love—to get in the way of my life and plans. Not for me the pining heart and melancholy expression. Drew Gallagher needed to be pushed into some far corner of my heart, where he could reside in relative obscurity while I decided what to do about the situation.

One evening Crea and I joined Grandmother for supper in the dining room. Grandmother could now sit and eat downstairs, comfortably pulled up to the table in her wheeled chair, and we discussed the birthday party planned for the following Sunday afternoon.

“It’s just a small group,” I explained to Grandmother. “Uncle Hal and Aunt Kitty, Jennie, Cousin Roslyn and Cousin Thaddeus, your friend Mrs. Florence from church, Reverend Briscoe and his wife, and I’ve asked Allen Goldwyn despite Aunt Kitty’s protests. Peter’s home and I think he’s bringing Carl Milford. Counting me, that makes twelve guests.”

“Thirteen,” replied Grandmother.

“You don’t count as a guest.”

“I know that, Johanna. I’m the guest of honor, or so people have been telling me for the past month. However, I wasn’t thinking of myself. I invited Mr. Gallagher.”

“You what?”

She fixed me with an innocent eye. “I invited your friend Mr. Gallagher and he accepted.”

“You’ve met him once. You don’t even know him.” From the corner of my eye, I noticed a quick smile on Crea’s face before she picked up her fork and continued with her meal, careful not to look in my direction.

“It’s my party, Johanna, and I’ll invite whomever I choose. I liked Mr. Gallagher. He reminded me of Richard.”

“Of Grandfather?! That’s ridiculous. He’s nothing like Grandfather.” Grandmother gave me a cool stare.

“Mr. Gallagher is a good example for you to emulate, Johanna. I’m sure his tone would remain respectful even if he disagreed with me. One anticipates impeccable manners from the most recent recipient of the Starr Award, and I can only hope he’ll be a good influence on you.” I opened my mouth for a sharp retort but closed it without voicing the comment I was thinking.

Instead, I replied calmly, “You’re right. It is your party. Invite anyone you like. Are there any other unexpected guests I should know about?”

“No.”

“Fine. It’s thirteen then, fourteen counting you and fifteen with Crea.” That brought Crea’s head up with a jerk.

“Oh, I’m not attending, Johanna.”

“Why not? For the past months you’ve been closer to Grandmother than anyone else, closer than her own family.”

“I have other plans.”

“Such as?”

“Johanna, I can only hope Mr. Gallagher’s influence on your behavior takes effect soon,” Grandmother interjected. “Crea knows she is welcome to attend the party, but if she says she has other plans, why is it your business to know what they are?”

She won’t come because Peter will be there, I wanted to say, and then, reading Grandmother’s glance, realized she knew it, too. A week ago I would have insisted on a meeting between Peter and Crea regardless of its effect on them or on any of the other people present. After Saturday night, however, I saw things differently, realized how vulnerable love made a person, how painful it would be for Crea to see Peter in a family setting, how difficult for them both to be close and yet unable to speak freely. This uninvited stir of feeling in my own heart gave me a curious empathy for lovers everywhere.

“I’m sorry, Crea” I said, looking at her directly. “Of course, you have a life apart from Hill Street. Grandmother’s right. Your plans are none of my business. I only wanted you to know that you were welcome at any party or gathering we have. Please forgive me.”

“I know, Johanna. Thank you. There’s nothing to forgive.” After Crea’s quiet response, she finished her meal quickly and excused herself.

“I didn’t mean to distress her,” I confessed after she left. “I didn’t consider the situation from Crea’s perspective.”

Not arguing with my confession, Grandmother said only, “No, you didn’t, but you’re getting better at thinking before you speak, Johanna.” I recalled my Saturday night meeting with Ransom Pruitt.

“I try, but I admit I’m much more comfortable with saying exactly what’s on my mind.”

“Discretion is a learned skill.”

“It seems dishonest somehow.”

“Not dishonest,” countered Grandmother before returning to her supper, “but smart and kind.”

Later that evening I went to Crea’s room. “Crea, you do believe I didn’t mean to invade or question your privacy, don’t you?”

She was tucked into a chair with an open book on her lap, one of several books an acquaintance of mine at the Chicago Teachers College recommended Crea complete before entering college in the spring. She raised her head as I entered and smiled. With the light spilling across her hair and face, she looked especially young and lovely.

“Yes, Johanna. It’s just that—” I held up a hand.

“You don’t have to say any more. I can be thick-headed sometimes, but I understand how difficult it would be for you. Peter would monopolize you if he could, regardless of who’s present, and I know you’d be uncomfortable with that. Only, you won’t snub him, will you, or be unkind to him?” Her green eyes flashed.

“I would never be purposefully unkind to him.”

“Purposefully?”

“I may have to act a certain way for his own good, but I would never willingly hurt him. He says he understands that but—” She stopped abruptly.

“So you’ve heard from him?”

Crea colored slightly at my question and hastened to reply, “Yes. Perfectly innocent letters that talk about school and classes and the weather. Nothing his mother couldn’t read. And I never respond.”

“That seems rude, but of course, if you feel you must be discourteous to one of the nicest men in the entire world, who am I to judge?” Crea glared at first but followed that with a look I could only describe as sly.

“It seems to me, Johanna, that you should control your own heart before you worry about everyone else.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Your face turned the color of paper when Mrs. McIntyre mentioned Drew Gallagher. Not that I needed such a reaction to tell me something’s going on there.”

“Nothing’s going on there, as you put it. You’re just trying to distract me from talking about Peter.”

“What time did you wander in the other night? Four in the morning or was it five? What other man could hold your interest that long? Don’t bother spinning a tale for me, Johanna. You’re in danger of succumbing to a man, just like the rest of us common women. Look at you now. Your cheeks are as pink as cotton candy.” Then she softened. “He’s no one I would have picked for you. I don’t think he’s good enough, and I’m not quite sure he’s trustworthy. You will be careful, won’t you? My mother used to say men like that carry heartache in their back pocket.”

“Regardless of how I feel about him, I owe Drew Gallagher something for what he’s done for so many of our friends at the Anchorage.”

“He might ask for something you’ll regret giving.”

“He might, but I doubt it. We have an understanding of sorts.”

“So you say.”

“I admit my experience and knowledge are limited, Crea. Anyway, I’m all grown up and he’s not one to hide his intentions, so neither of us can make a claim to innocence, whatever happens.”

“I worry about you.”

I smiled. “You don’t have to, but thank you. That’s the kindest thing you could have said. You should be spending your time thinking about my cousin Peter’s grand passion for you, though, and not dwelling on the little dramas in my life.”

She gave a diffident shrug and responded only with “Goodnight, Johanna.”

Despite my bravado before Crea, the experience of being in love was new to me and not agreeable. Where before I had contemplated Grandmother’s birthday party with pleasant and comfortable anticipation, I now felt the uneasy flutter of butterflies in my stomach just because—I hated admitting it though I knew it to be true—Drew was coming. I had not given my own appearance much thought before because a family birthday party was hardly high society, but now I was suddenly preoccupied with what I should wear and how I should arrange my hair. The realization that simply contemplating one man’s presence could throw me into fluttering disarray put me out of temper.

Saturday was sunny and unseasonably warm, Indian summer, a final, teasing, slightly cruel good-bye to the season just past. Grandmother was in good spirits, looking as well as she’d looked in months, even before her stroke. Her hair was a soft, attractive halo of white and her eyes sparkled. I thought affectionately that although she was a brave woman with no tolerance for complaining, the past months had been difficult for her, had compromised her independence and her dignity. Now she contemplated company and a modest celebration with a delight out of proportion to the festivity. Stopping by her chair, I leaned down to give her a light kiss on the cheek.

“You’re looking very pretty in that green stripe, Grandmother. I don’t recall seeing it before.”

“You’re not the only person in the house who enjoys a new frock now and then, Johanna,“ she retorted, but she smiled when she spoke and patted my hand. “I might say the same thing about your ivory shirtwaist. Isn’t the skirt new, too?” I looked down at myself critically.

“Yes. I saw it when I was out with Jennie recently, and she coaxed me into buying it. She’s very good at spending other people’s money. I think it would look better on a woman of more height, but I can’t do much about that, can I?”

She didn’t answer directly, but after giving me an objective review, pronounced, “Jennie was right. The style is becoming to your small waist and those long narrow pleats give the illusion of added height. Stick to your specialty of social reform, Johanna, and trust your cousin when it comes to fashion.” The front bell rang and I heard Uncle Hal at the door, so I could only grin a response. I was pleased to have Grandmother back, sharp tongue and all.

Allen Goldwyn arrived on the heels of Aunt Kitty and Uncle Hal, Peter, Jennie and Carl Milford. I met Allen at the door and was surprised by the change in him, his face thinner and his manner restless. I’d never seen him unsettled before.

“I won’t stay very long, Johanna,” Allen told me after he made polite conversation all around and moved over to my side, “but I haven’t seen much of you and wondered why. You must be busy at the Anchorage.”

“The Anchorage and Grandmother do keep me busy. What about you? You’re too thin, Allen, which makes me think you’re working harder than I am. Doesn’t the firm give you time to eat?”

“I’m engaged in a number of projects,” he responded evasively. “Now excuse me while I greet your grandmother. She looks and sounds remarkably well.”

“To Crea’s credit.” When I said those words, I saw Peter turn toward me briefly. How easily one heard the name of one’s beloved, I thought. Of all the conversation in the room, Peter had caught Crea’s name. I wasn’t surprised when my cousin drifted over to my side later.

“I thought she might be here,” Peter said without explanation.

I shook my head. “No. I told her she was invited and welcome, but you understand why she wouldn’t come, don’t you? How’s the letter writing campaign coming along?”

“She never responds.”

“I’m working on that. I know she reads and rereads every letter, so I think you’re making some headway.”

“It’s been hard.” His usually pleasant face was grim. “Do you think there’s any hope for me?”

“As much hope as you have patience. She’s upstairs in her room. Why don’t you slip upstairs to say hello? We’re still missing several guests and your mother is busy trying to boss May around in the kitchen, which should keep her occupied for a while yet.” A too shrill laugh drew my attention to Jennie. “What do you think about your sister’s engagement, Peter?”

“I don’t know what to think. She and Carl both seem to treat the relationship like a business arrangement.”

“Jennie doesn’t seem happy.”

“Happiness seems elusive all the way around lately.” Then on a more hopeful note Peter added, “I think I will just pop upstairs and say hello. The worst she can do is slam her door in my face.”

Sometime during that conversation with Peter, Drew arrived, and for all my theorizing about being instantly aware of the beloved’s presence, I missed his entrance entirely. I watched Peter disappear from the parlor and when I turned back, Drew was bending over Grandmother’s hand and extending a wrapped package to her. She took the box, as animated as a girl, and patted the seat next to her as an invitation for him to sit down. The two looked thick as thieves and the sight made me unaccountably wary. Practically speaking, there was no reason to suspect they were discussing me, but they had an air of collusion about them that seemed suspicious. I paused for a few innocuous words with Cousin Thaddeus before drifting over to where Drew sat with Grandmother. He stood when he saw me.

“Hello, Johanna.”

Grandmother looked up at me. “We were just sharing our mutual fondness for good cognac, Johanna. Your grandfather favored it as you recall.” Reminding me about the fiction that Drew resembled Grandfather, was she? What a rascal!