Into the Whirlwind (18 page)

He squeezed his eyes closed. “Mollie, would you please just stop? Please.”

His hands were shaking again, and Mollie felt like her heart was splitting in two. Ignoring Declan’s pain had never helped in the past, but it seemed discussing it only made things worse.

A barrel-chested man shuffled up the steps, pulling an equally large woman beside him. He banged on the door, which was promptly opened by a laborer wearing a stained apron.

“I hear there is an attic for lease here,” the barrel-chested man said. In his hand, he held a roll of bills. “I’ve got a leather-tanning business, and I’ve got cash if I can take possession today.”

Mollie’s heart lurched. While she and Declan had bickered on the sidewalk, that couple had slid in front of them and may have just snatched the last suitable space for lease in the city. And, given the size of that wad of bills, Mollie couldn’t compete with him in a price war.

The brewer nodded. “If you have cash, I’ve got space.”

Declan vaulted up the stairs, pushing in front of the leather tanner. “We’ve got cash,” Declan asserted. “And I can do better than he can.”

Mollie’s palms started to sweat. This wasn’t going to be good. The leather tanner puffed up his already overinflated chest and took a step toward Declan, almost knocking him off the small landing. “Move on,” he growled. “We were here first.”

Declan stood his ground, refusing to look away from the brewer. “We can pay your price,” he said. “And I can fix the rust you’ve got on those pipes leading down the west side of the
building.” Stepping out to the sidewalk, Declan pointed to the rust corroding the drainage pipes on the roof. “If you don’t fix that rust, your gutters and drainage system will be ruined by the next hard ice storm.”

The brewer looked surprised. “You know pipes?”

“We are watchmakers and know metalwork,” Declan said. “You won’t find better tenants.” Declan’s face hardened with determination. “And watchmaking doesn’t stink like a leather tannery would.”

“Hey!” the tanner shouted.

It did not take the brewer long to make his decision. Mollie held her breath as the brewer led her up a narrow staircase and into a spacious attic, swept clean and well lit by a row of narrow windows. After the brewer named a price, Mollie quickly agreed and signed a contract for the space.

She’d be back in business soon! Excitement surged through her as she and Declan strode back to the streetcar stop. She glanced up at him. “What made you think to offer to repair the pipes?”

Declan looked a little sheepish. “I thought about what Colonel Lowe would have done in such a situation. It worked.”

Mollie laughed. “Then tonight we will raise a glass to Colonel Lowe!”

12

Y
ou agreed to pay us six dollars for the bricks, not five.” Mollie fought to block frustration from bleeding into her voice, but it was hard. Foraging through mounds of useless rubble in search of a few useable bricks had cost Mollie a sore back, scuffed knuckles, and two days toiling in air thick with ash.

“Lady, times are tight and I’ve got a business to run. Take it or leave it.” The brick man’s voice was small, hard, and rude. Tempers were growing short all over the city as the goodwill that had energized people in the early days after the fire evaporated. Crime was getting worse, with looters beginning to prey upon shops under the cover of darkness.

For the first time in her life, Mollie was beginning to understand the desperation in fighting for every spare dime. The brewer who leased his attic to her expected a four hundred dollar payment within a week, and she had no idea how she was going to pay it. With every beat of her heart, she was working toward hauling the 57th out of the slag heap and back into business. The idea of letting someone cheat her, even out of a dollar, was maddening.

She could refuse to sell the bricks to this man, hoping for a better offer, but she’d also run the risk of hoodlums showing up
in the middle of the night and carting away all her hard-earned bricks while she slept . . . and sleep was a precious commodity. Nightmares about the fire jerked her awake almost every night, and she couldn’t afford to lose any more sleep over an extra dollar. “Very well,” she said, holding out her hand for payment.

Besides, she had something far more valuable in her bodice. Bringing up the subject of the deed to Zack was like playing with a lit fuse, but that deed was worth something, and she’d be a fool to overlook it. Everyone knew Hartman intended to rebuild his store on the same plot of land, and he didn’t have clear title to do so until she surrendered this deed. Now that she knew there’d be precious little coming in from insurance, the deed was her last remaining asset to get the 57th back in operation.

It was time to find Zack and negotiate a settlement over the deed. He was the last person in the city of Chicago with whom she wanted to haggle. His reputation as a negotiator was legendary, and confronting him without Frank would feel like going into battle without a weapon, but Frank was likely to antagonize Zack. The two of them seemed biologically incapable of sharing the same air space without needling each other, so she’d be better off on her own.

Mollie sat on the church steps and finger-combed her hair. Despite her nerves, a part of her looked forward to seeing Zack again, and the man adored the sight of her hair. She took a little foolish pride in it as she let it stream down her back.

She used the long walk to his office at the Chinese laundry to run through her arguments. If she walked into this meeting unprepared, he’d have her hogtied and helpless within two minutes.

It took her over an hour to cross through the burned district as she navigated around piles of debris that swelled to monumental proportions. With the footprint of the ruined buildings erased from the landscape, the only indication of where the streets had
once been were the weird twisted shapes of the lampposts. As the iron posts melted during the fire, the weight of the lamps caused them to bow to the earth. Hundreds of contorted lampposts, bent over like hairpins, were haunting reminders of the ferocious heat of the fire.

The Chinese laundry had escaped the blaze by only two blocks. As she stepped inside, the warmth of the kettles enveloped her, and she sighed in pleasure as the heat penetrated her numb limbs. She rubbed her hands as she glanced around the space. Two Chinese ladies used huge paddles to nudge clothing in the oversized kettles. In the back of the room, Zack sat behind a makeshift desk.

He shot to his feet. “Mollie!”

By heaven, he was attractive. In the heat of the laundry, he had removed his jacket and collar, leaving his white shirt open at the throat and showing a wide swath of his warm, tanned neck. But most disconcerting was his expression. With a smile so bright it lit his eyes and transformed his entire face, she knew her next words would erase that look of delight and throw a healthy dose of chaos back into both their lives.

“Hello, Zack. I’ve come to discuss a little business.”

Even from across the room, she could sense the ripple of tension that gripped his frame. The light in his eyes faded, but his voice was carefully neutral. “Ah.”

She held up both hands. “Now, don’t get defensive. I want to discuss the deed like a rational person. I know I haven’t always done that in the past.”

Without a word, Zack pulled a chair from the corner of the room and placed it beside his makeshift desk. He nodded and gestured for her to sit. Even in his casual clothing, he instantly reverted to the Zack Kazmarek she had known for these past three years. Formal, stiff, and intimidating.

“What would you like to discuss, Mollie?”

There was nothing hostile or aggressive in his tone. He was flawlessly polite and rational, but she was quaking in her battered, insubstantial boots. She didn’t want to risk their friendship over that deed, but if she didn’t, where would Frank and Declan and all the others find employment?

She cleared her throat and began with the first of her carefully planned arguments. “I don’t know why my father still had the deed to that piece of land in his trunk. You say Louis Hartman paid for it, but if that’s true, the deed should have been surrendered. I don’t suppose we will ever know the truth of the matter, but I am willing to compromise on a negotiated settlement. It seems like the quickest way for both sides to reach a resolution.”

“I agree.”

“Secondly . . .” She drew up short. “You do?” She searched his face to see if he was joking, but he looked impassive and businesslike.

“I am not at liberty to offer you a settlement without Mr. Hartman’s agreement, but I’m working on that.”

“You are?”

His black brows lowered. “Of course I am! What kind of idiot do you take me for?”

He went on to explain that he’d already been trying to soften Louis up to the idea. There was likely to be a backlog in the courts for years, but parties that had a mutual agreement might be able to shortcut that line.

“Don’t get too excited,” Zack said. “Louis is willing to spend a hundred dollars on a bottle of champagne, but he will also go to court if he thinks he is being cheated of a single dollar. It may take a while.”

Zack’s gaze flicked down to her mismatched plaid skirt and
flowered blouse. “While you are in this part of town, let’s swing by my townhouse. You can pick out a bedroom for yourself and borrow some decent clothing from Mother. I’m tired of the thought of you shivering in that church. Not when I can provide you with a decent roof over your head.”

“I’m fine at the church.”

Zack would have none of it. “Mollie, that burned-out ruin isn’t safe. Packs of vagabonds are roaming the streets, causing trouble. For pity’s sake, that church doesn’t even have a front door.”

“Zack, it wouldn’t be proper to move in with you.”

“Don’t be a stubborn idiot. You’re wearing rags, and it looks like you haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks!”

He was shouting at her now. Mollie glanced nervously at the two ladies hoisting dripping mounds of sodden cloth from the kettles, listening to every word.

“Could we please step outside? It’s getting overheated in here.”

He threw down a pencil and followed her out into the bustle of the midday street. “Mollie, you
can’t
go on staying at the church. Winter is coming on.”

She walked along the wooden plank sidewalk, drawing her cloak tight against the chill. How could she tell him the real reason she was afraid to move into his house? Frank and Ulysses’s warnings echoed in her mind. Frank Spencer was possibly the wisest man she had ever met, and he had been sounding the alarm bells about Zack from the moment the man had offered to buy the 57th.

But even more disconcerting was that portrait of the girl in the garden in Zack’s house. If what she suspected was true, how could she move into his home? She paused so she could look him in the face. “Zack, there is a painting in your dining room.”

He stiffened. It was barely perceptible, but it was as if a wire had just pulled taut every muscle in his body. “What about it?”

She tried to think of a graceful way to ask her question. “Dr. Buchanan said it looks like me,” she blurted out.

“I agree.”

She waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t. “That’s it? You agree?” Pedestrians walking in the midday traffic jostled her, and a boy hawking eggs made it hard to hear. Zack pulled her into the courtyard of a boardinghouse where they were out of the line of traffic. He braced his boot along a low brick planter and stared at the hazelnut shrubs growing within.

“That painting shows a pretty girl holding a watch,” he said softly. “There is no more practical, functional piece of equipment than a watch, and I admire watchmakers. The skill and the patience it takes to assemble hundreds of tiny components into something that functions in perfect, flawless harmony. If one tiny part breaks, the whole thing collapses.”

It surprised her that he had paid such attention to the details of her business. He had seemed indifferent the day he’d visited the workshop, but as she was coming to learn, Zack was a master at disguising his interest. He had not stopped speaking, and she had to lean forward as his voice lowered, became sadder.

“I grew up watching the two people I love most in the world fling themselves against a brick wall year after year in a hopeless quest,” he said. “My parents will be fighting to restore the Polish nation until their dying day, and they will lose. My father once saved six hundred dollars from backbreaking work hauling concrete off the docks. It took him a decade to save that money, but he gave every dime of it to a Polish lawyer who said he could block Russia from conscripting Polish men into the army. The lawyer took the money and was never seen again. My parents
will never stop pouring whatever resources they have into their ridiculous, foolish quest. I can’t stop them. I’ve tried.”

Pain shadowed his black eyes, but there was hope too as he stared into the distance. “There is a beautiful insanity in their dreams,” he said. “They flounder with no plan or wisdom to guide their passion. They will never be more than dreamers who shake their fists at the wind.” He turned his shoulders, and Mollie could see his face plainly. “I see the same beautiful insanity in you, but it is different. You produce the most gloriously impractical watches on the face of the planet, but in doing so, you’ve got a business that feeds forty families. You’ve found room in your workshop to support a man whose hands tremble, for a lawyer who can’t see. It isn’t the world of watchmaking that spurs you forward, it is a commitment to those veterans.”

Her heart expanded in her chest in a curious mix of pain and pleasure. How perfectly he understood her! No one had ever connected with her on such a level, and it was like stepping into a warm bath, surrounding her with comfort and security.

A curious light illuminated Zack’s face. “My parents are driven by their hearts, and so are you. But, Mollie, you’ve got the brains and the patience and logic to make your dreams soar. Do you know how attractive that is to me? Even the way you dress is so prim and controlled, but you’ve got the instinct and heart of an artist bottled up inside.” His gaze trailed to the waist of her skirt. Watching her with caution, he reached out to caress her hip, landing on the small hard disk of her father’s watch in her skirt pocket. His voice was as warm as velvet. “You create spectacular watches, and yet your own pocket watch is a plain, sensible piece used simply for keeping time.”