Circled Heart (3 page)

“I’m home for your party, Johanna. Mother commanded an appearance.”

“That was thoughtful.”

Another grimace followed by, “You know there’s often an ulterior motive with Mother. She encouraged me to bring some college friends home with me. You know the kind: good family and—”

“—old money,” I supplied, and we both laughed.

“Exactly. You’ll meet them at the party. Sometimes I think I was only sent away to school to find a husband for Jennie.”

“Is Jennie ready for a husband, do you think?” I meant it teasingly but his face sobered.

“Jennie’s nineteen going on forty. She thinks she’s Miss Sophistication but she’s just a girl. Not like you, Johanna.”

“Thank you, I think.”

“You know what I mean. You have some experience in the world, good sense, and a feel for people. Jennie has no experience in the world and a very narrow perspective. I wouldn’t exactly call her an innocent, though, so a husband might be what she needs to keep her out of trouble.”

I would have continued the conversation, but Grandmother came to the door and Peter rose to greet her. Like all of, she favored Peter. Her eyes always lit up when she saw him, and he was as fond of her in return. I never detected anything false in his tone when he spoke to her or about her.

Later, after Peter left, I remembered I had been interrupted on my way out for a walk, so grabbing a coat, because the day was cool and the wind off the lake even cooler, I strode briskly around the neighborhood. As I did so, I clearly remembered my first glimpse of Hill Street and how enormous the houses had seemed to me, how palatial and luxurious. I imagined royalty must live on Hill Street because until then all I had known were small, rustic dwellings, where many people crowded into one or two rooms and did everything communally, where privacy was a luxury along with indoor plumbing and beds on legs. Chicago and Hill Street had seemed very foreign, and I had felt lost and anguished but too cautious and proud to let my feelings show.

Striding along the walk that late April day, I considered Hill Street the closest place to home I would ever know, loved the large, stately houses with their handsome front doors and green lawns, appreciated front porches and urns of freshly planted flowers. Probably too early for them to last, I thought, but I understood that by April in Chicago people longed for spring with impatient desperation.

Returning from my walk, I noticed an auto parked at the curb in front of our house and a man coming out the front door, pulling the door shut behind him. With a cry, I called, “Allen!” and ran forward, abandoning all dignity, tripped up the steps and fell into his arms for a warm hug.

Grinning, he set me down and said, “That was worth the trip, Johanna. I know you used to run for sport, but I’ve never seen you move quite that fast.”

“Haven’t I always run into your arms?”

“Not in recent memory, but I do recall one episode with a spider.”

The memory made me laugh. “I wasn’t exactly running toward you, more like away from that large, hairy arachnid. It scared the dickens out of me.”

“Your years away must have mellowed you because I’ve never heard you confess to a fear of anything.”

I pushed open the front door and took his hand. “I admit to a loathing for anything with eight legs, large or small, smooth or hairy. Come back inside. Were you going to leave without saying hello?”

“I stopped by to say hello, but your grandmother told me you were out for a walk, and I figured it would be hours before you were back. What have you done to your hair?”

I stopped to examine myself in the hall mirror. “Cut it as short as I could without scandalizing Grandmother. Is it awful?” I hadn’t really given my hairstyle much thought before, but now, seeing it through his eyes, I was inclined to be critical.

He turned me away from the mirror to give me a sober inspection, finally telling me, “No, it’s not awful, not at all. The style suits you somehow.” Then, hands still on my shoulders, he added in a different tone, “I don’t know of anyone who’s had your share of adventures in life, Johanna. How are you?”

Five years before I had met Allen Goldwyn on the train to Philadelphia, I on my way to Bryn Mawr College and he traveling to Temple University, both of us away from home for the first time and sensing in each other a kindred spirit. We were friends since that meeting, good friends, and sometimes I wondered if we might not become more than friends, although nothing ever passed between us that would have led me to such speculation.

“I’m fine. I suppose it was an adventure but more a tragedy, I think.” I shook off the memory of Douglas Gallagher shielding his match to light a last cigarette and patted the sofa cushion next to me. “Sit down and tell me what’s happening in your life. Are you still with the same firm?” He nodded.

“Yes. I have the feeling I’ll be offered a partnership in the company next year. They like everything I design and my clients seem to be pleased. You’ll have to let me show you some of my buildings. They’re springing up all over the city.”

“I’d love that. I knew you’d be a success. You once told me you were born to build.”

“You remember that?”

“It seemed poetic at the time, I recall.”

“I’m not a very poetic man, Johanna.”

“Not in words, but I have a feeling your architecture speaks to people.”

“You’re a kind woman but wait until I give you the grand tour before you say any more. I don’t want you to have unrealistic expectations.”

“About your work?”

“About me.” He went suddenly quiet, a little half smile on his face, and I thought he had told me something besides the obvious with his last remark. “Now,” he continued, “what about you? You finished your social work studies with honors from college, then crossed an ocean to attend nursing school. What’s next?”

I hesitated. “I know this will sound odd, but I’m not quite sure.” Allen looked at me with surprise.

“That’s impossible. You are the most sure woman I know.”

“I don’t know if that’s good or bad, but I’m going to take some time to think things through.”

“That will make your grandmother happy. She told me earlier that she hoped you were home to stay.”

“If she could, she’d have me live in this big house forever, grow old in the front room, take up needlework, and putter around the kitchen, but she knows me too well to believe that will ever happen. I have my mother’s sense of adventure.”

“Which is why Mrs. McIntyre wants you to stay close to home, I imagine.”

I looked at him guiltily. Of course, that was true, and I should be less dismissive of Grandmother’s concerns. She lost a dearly loved daughter and missed her as much as I did despite the intervening years.

Allen added, “She’s not the only one who would like to see you stay close to home, you know.” Surprised, I met his innocent gaze as he continued, “I’m sure your aunt and uncle and cousins all feel the same.” Allen stood up. “I’m on my way back to work, but I’ll see you tomorrow night. Your grandmother arbitrarily invited me to your homecoming party without, she told me shamelessly, even consulting you or your aunt.” We walked together to the door.

“Grandmother always gets what she wants,” I commented, but even as I said it, I thought of my mother buried in a cemetery an ocean away and knew it was not true.

Allen leaned to kiss me lightly on the cheek, a brotherly kiss with nothing but friendly affection in it, and said, “I am glad you’re home safely, Johanna.”

I waved to him from the open doorway as he left, then turned to find my grandmother watching me from across the hallway.

“Aren’t you glad I insisted you buy that lavender silk dress?” she asked, too sure of herself for her own good, and before I could respond, added, “May’s set supper and it’s getting cold.” I followed her into the dining room.

“You don’t always know everything, Grandmother.” She didn’t dignify my remark with a response or a look, only let a little smug smile tug at the corners of her mouth as she sat down at the table.

I quickly settled back into the placid life of Hill Street except for the discomfiting matter of Douglas Gallagher’s jewelry. The ring and the pin haunted me in a peculiar and inexplicable way. Rising in the morning, I always stopped long enough to open the lid of my jewelry box and stare at the two pieces lying on their velvet bed, sometimes touching the ring gently or picking up the stickpin and turning it so the diamonds sparkled in the morning sun that streamed through the window. I knew I could not keep the pieces but neither could I bear to part with them. Somewhere in Chicago a man named Andrew Gallagher went about his daily business, grieving for his brother and unaware that I had these meaningful mementos. I knew it wasn’t right for me to hold onto them, but I couldn’t help it. Something of the man was in the onyx and diamonds and gold, something of his cool poise and dark charisma, and I could not bear to part with the pieces he had entrusted to me. I would not betray his trust but I would delay it for while.

The loss of the Titanic affected me more than I was willing to admit to anyone. I seldom thought about the experience during the day, but at night I was provoked by dreams of men toppling from the deck like rag dolls and women weeping seawater. Douglas Gallagher inhabited my dreams, too, stared at me accusingly over the railing as I rowed away, or reached up a flailing hand—the ring gleaming in the moonlight—through the black waves, or called something to me as he plunged into the ocean, I straining, desperate to hear, and furious that I could not catch his final words. The ring and pin became part of the dreams, haunted—and comforted—me in a strange way so that I could not part with them. Not yet.

The night of my welcome home party I opened my jewelry box to reach for my mother’s strand of pearls and the little diamond G twinkled up at me, begging to be let out of its plush prison. I felt suddenly guilty and ashamed of myself. I had no right to hold onto either it or the ring. The jewelry belonged elsewhere and I determined to go in search of Andrew Gallagher and find him before the month ended.

The lavender dress that looked so beautiful on the hanger did not look beautiful on me, and I could only sigh at my reflection. It would have been perfect for Jennie’s soft complexion and rosy lips but did not suit me. Too much coal in my hair and brows, eyes too dark, unbecoming freckles scattered across the bridge of my nose, and skin too warm a brown to wear such a cool, soft color. Although I gave lip service to nonchalance about my appearance, I had a strong streak of vanity, and how I looked mattered more than I cared to admit. How often had I been a dark foil for my cousin’s fairness! And I knew as soon as I stepped into the parlor that I would be again.

Jennie was already there, wearing spring white threaded through with soft green, a vision of blue eyes and gold-streaked hair, astonishingly beautiful and definitely all grown up. But despite her extraordinary appearance and her air of sophistication, I could tell from her expression that I was important to her and that she was sincerely glad to see me.

There was no pretense about Jennie when she drew me into Grandmother’s large front room and called to the people there, “Here is our guest of honor, Miss Johanna Swan, lately of London, England, and now back in Chicago to set the city on its ear!” She turned to me. “Come and meet Peter’s friends, Johanna. And your friend Allen Goldwyn is here, too. I forgot how pleasant he was.”

I looked quickly for Allen and found him by the punch bowl, watching me. He smiled and lifted a cup by way of greeting, looking handsome in his usual neat way, dressed in an evening suit that matched the color of his brown hair.

Peter detached me from Jennie and led me to two young men conversing with Aunt Kitty. “Johanna, may I introduce you to Carl Milford and Frank Mulholland?” he said by way of introduction.

“Which is which?” I asked with a laugh, extending a hand to the young man nearer me.

“I’m Frank Mulholland. How do you do, Miss Swan?”

“Johanna, please. For the past two years I was always called Miss Swan so it’s music to hear my given name again.” Frank Mulholland had sandy hair and eyebrows and pleasant green eyes, slimmer than Peter but similar to my cousin in his good-natured expression. “So you,” I said, turning to the second young man, “must be Carl Milford.” He responded with a little military salute.

“Indeed, Ma’m, if I must then I am and have been for the last twenty-two years. I’m delighted to meet the family paragon, though I admit to being even more intimidated now that I’ve met you.”

“Really? Why is that?”

This young man was nothing like Peter or Frank. I would have assumed a few years past twenty-two, tall, good-looking and well aware of it, flirtatious and smooth, and I would guess possessed of a strong predilection for the ladies. I hoped Aunt Kitty watched him carefully when he was around Jennie. I didn’t think it would bother him at all to seduce a friend’s sister.

“So much intelligence in such a small package would intimidate any man.”

“Not any man, Mr. Milford. Only one who recognized in himself a proportionate deficiency of the same quality.” After a small pause all three young men burst out laughing.

Peter thumped Carl on the shoulder, saying, “See, I told you. No one gets the last word with Johanna.”

Behind me, Jennie stated mildly, “I missed the joke,” and stepped next to me. I was instantly forgotten by both of Peter’s friends, who eagerly turned their attention to the new arrival. Their easy loss of interest didn’t bother me. They were all younger than I and besides, the men’s reaction was perfectly understandable. I drifted toward the punch table, stopping to greet friends of my grandmother and a few guests from my Aunt Kitty’s side of the family. I didn’t know them well, but if I were not appropriately cordial and attentive, I would certainly hear about it later.

Reaching the place where Allen still stood, I asked, “Do you know anyone here except me and my family?”

“Not a soul.”

“I thought that might be why you took such an unobtrusive spot by the punch bowl, poor man. Are you sorry you came?”

“Not at all.” At my questioning look, he added with a straight face, “Your aunt promised a buffet.”