Authors: Chanse Lowell
She took a shuddering breath, grabbed her coat around her, skulked out the front door and went to Central Park. She sat, numb, on a bench near the Bethesda Terrace.
It was beautiful. The angel was otherworldly, and the waters were supposed to heal somehow.
She walked over, dipped her hands in the water and smoothed it over her face.
The temperature was dropping.
Soon it would be dark, and she had little money on her.
Her shoulders lowered along with her spirits.
Maybe in an hour or two Elizabeth would be home, and Clarissa could ask her to be a mediator between her and Suzie so they could mend this rift.
But as it got dark and cold, she laid down on the bench, crying and feeling exhausted right down to her bones.
She drifted off to sleep.
Only she did not dream of healing waters. She dreamed of a man, whispering salacious promises of never-ending pleasure, and then following through with those very threats, making her peak and topple over with the most powerful waves of bliss she had ever known.
When she woke to a startling, loud cracking noise, it was so dark she was terrified at once.
She staggered down the road, back home, a little disoriented and breathless.
Elizabeth would help her.
This was one time Clarissa was willing to
fix this
, as William had put it.
As she neared the block on Twenty-Fourth Street, her nose scrunched up.
Smoke.
Why was she smelling thick, pungent smoke?
Had Hell officially come after her?
Chapter 8
Her legs bounded forward, and she ran toward what was most likely danger.
When she rounded the corner, her double deck tenement was on fire, engulfed in red and orange massive flames.
She gasped and ran into a police officer.
Her hands gripped his shoulder. “Please, sir! I live here! What happened?”
“Apparently there was a dynamite bomb thrown into the back window. There were reports of threatening letters being given to your neighbor upstairs—a one Mr. Charles Scramger.”
Her eyes darted around. The house opposite her home was now windowless, all of the panes blown out, and the little Italian grocery store Rinaldo’s father stood outside of with his produce stand was transformed into a mass of rubble.
“Do you know the name of the man that owns this store?” he asked her, pointing at it.
“I’m unaware of his name—but his son’s first name is Rinaldo.”
“Oh,
them
. . .” The police man rolled his eyes.
“Have they done this sort of thing before?”
“Yes—many times, unfortunately.”
She stood and shook as she watched her new home continue to turn to ash. “Was anyone harmed?”
“Yes, there was a woman with red hair trapped in the back, along with a man that fit Rinaldo’s description. We are uncertain if it was him, and we have no idea who that woman could’ve been.”
“Suzie. Her name was Suzie,” she said, her heart heavy and barely thudding.
“Well, the man upstairs that got the letters was told to vacate the lower deck of the trashy women, and he’d replied that was not his responsibility. It was not a brothel, and he was not the landlord.” The officer clucked his tongue and shook his head.
He went back to tending to his duties.
She searched for Elizabeth and the other roommate she never really spoke to.
Neither of them were in the crowd.
She swore at one point she had seen William, but why would he be here? He didn’t know where she resided now.
She had nowhere to go.
Maybe a church would take her in?
But her feet were so sore from so much walking today.
She trod on anyway and found the closest church.
Her fists rapped at the door, but no one answered.
She found another, and the same happened.
After the fourth, her legs about gave out on her and her stomach snarled louder than ever.
She had no choice but to break Billing’s rules and ask Leo to let her lodge for the night.
Twenty minutes later, she was standing in front of her old home.
If he said yes, she could give him a dollar for his trouble since she’d be intruding on him and his new roommate.
Scratch, scratch, scratch . . .
She was losing all energy.
The door opened to the tenement and Widow Smyth glowered. “It’s late. Whatcha want?”
“My cousin Leo. He’s in that apartment over there.” Clarissa’s arm almost failed her as she pointed. “Could you please fetch him for me?”
“You looks a sight worn out, little miss,” the old woman said, then hobbled over to Leo’s door and pounded on it.
When he poked his head out, the widow jerked her thumb over her shoulder in Clarissa’s direction.
“Clary! What in the devil are you doing here?”
She stumbled into his arms and collapsed.
“Please—I have nowhere to go. My home—it was bombed, and ‘tis gone. Can I just stay here tonight?”
“Of course.” He hauled her inside, set her in a chair that had once been hers at the table, but now only had three legs on it. He was using half a broomstick to prop it up.
She wobbled for a moment but held steady by bracing herself on the table, settling her hand on it.
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes, very,” she whispered.
He pushed a bowl of soup in front of her a moment later.
With shaking hands, she pulled out a dollar and slid it on the table over in his direction.
“No, you don’t.” He shoved it right back.
“
I’ll
take it,” a man’s voice said from behind.
But rather than look, since that took energy she did not possess, she dug into the soup, slurping it down with absolutely no manners at all.
“This is my cousin Clarissa—the woman I’ve been telling you about. She used to be my roommate,” Leo told him.
“Yes, I . . . Well, hi.” The man walked over to her and stopped at her right side. “I’m Miller Westerly.”
He had a slight British accent. “Oh, I . . . Hello there. You must forgive me. I haven’t eaten in days,” she said, excusing herself.
“I know that feeling.” He nodded his head, then bent down and took her free hand, shaking it.
She blinked and tried not to pull a disturbed facial expression at his index finger that was missing and instead was nothing more than a bandage over the hand.
“How are you handling this?” she asked, motioning toward his hand as he took it back.
“Oh, fine, fine. It’s fine.” He waved it off.
“You must be a very brave man.” Very tall, too. Taller than William even. This man was like a thick wooden column, holding up the ceiling—his skin was almost stained the color of the wooden paneling in William’s dark room as well.
Her neck and chest heated as thoughts of that shiny chestnut table came into her mind.
She turned back to her food she’d almost demolished completely.
“Have some more, please,” Leo said, pulling the pot over to her.
She ladled it herself, taking a generous portion, even though her conscience told her these men might not have eaten yet, and they were laborers that needed to have full bellies to do their jobs effectively.
“We have eaten our fill,” Leo said as if reading her mind.
Was it because she had hesitated at the end with her final scoop into her bowl?
She nodded and took two more large spoonfuls.
A moment later, she was gulping it down, barely tasting it.
The cabbage tasted like it had gone bad anyway.
She did not care. There were bits of bacon in it.
Miller sat down across from her, studying her as she ate.
She rounded her chest over her bowl, ducked her head down and ate with more gusto.
If she finished quickly, perhaps he’d leave her alone.
“You can have my bed,” Miller said, sounding a little too interested in her.
“Oh, no . . . I’ll make a bed on the floor. I know Leo keeps the rats out, so ‘twill be fine.” She twirled her fingers in her kinked-up locks that had fallen out of her loose bun as she’d walked here.
“That’s not all right. You will sleep in my bed. I insist.” Miller’s voice deepened.
She swallowed and was no longer hungry. Her head tipped up, and she straightened her spine. She hated to ask it, but she simply had to. “And where will you sleep?”
“Out here by the stove. It gets a might bit chilly back there anyway.” Miller smiled.
She smiled back. Miller reminded her of Leo and herself. It was apparent he normally spoke like other dock workers, but for her, he was making an effort at sounding more articulate and literate.
“Miller . . . Where is your family? How did you come to be here alone?” She flattened her left palm on the table.
“Well, my sister married a few years ago, but she died shortly after giving birth. I buried her myself.” He sniffed, but he held his gaze on her. “My parents died not long after we arrived here. They caught consumption on the boat ride over, so it was just me. And I was sixteen, so I could work and earn my keep.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Six years ago.” He blinked and shifted toward her.
Was he going to share a secret?
She settled back in her chair to create as much distance as possible. “I lied.” He glanced over at Leo, watching them. “I was only fifteen when I came here, but I didn’t want to be put in an orphanage, so I’m twenty one years now.”
Leo laughed. “I already knew that, and who would I tell anyway?” He shrugged.
“Yes, well . . . The walls always have ears.” Miller winked at her.
She sat with her hands on her bloated belly. How had she gone from completely famished to now overstuffed and unable to leave her seat?
“Are you unwell?” Leo asked.
She felt sort of green.
“I do not know.” She hiccuped, then bile surfaced at the back of her throat.
She got up, and before she could fling herself at the sink, she was losing her dinner.
It was in her hands before she could get to the correct place.
Before she knew it, she was vomiting like mad in a pot.
Miller cleaned her hands with a wet cloth while she finished heaving up her stomach’s contents.
She grew woozy and swayed when she stood up straight.
Miller scooped her up in his arms, tucked her into his granite chest and placed her on his bed.
Her
old bed.
Only it smelled like a sweaty man.
She stopped breathing so she would not retch again. Her stomach was settling, and she didn’t want to derail that from undue foul smells.
Leo came in and washed her mouth for her with a fresh wet cloth.
“Stay here, cousin. I will help you tonight if you fall into peril,” Leo teased with a light tone.
“I am fine. A soft bed is all I require. Thank you.” She gripped Miller’s arm.
“Shall I read you to sleep?” Miller grinned.
“If you’d like.” She tucked her hands under her cheek and rolled onto her side.
The smell was awful.
Leo removed her boots for her.
She stretched her legs and wiggled her toes for a moment.
Her body went from on fire, feeling feverish, to cold all at once.
She shook with chills.
“Blanket,” Leo said a moment later, taking his off his bed and placing it over her, then leaving the room.
Much better. Leo’s smell was familiar. It smelled more like a campfire.
Fire. Oh God!
Tears dripped down her cheeks, over the dip in her nose and onto Miller’s pillow as she recalled the building being consumed in flames. “I am sorry. I am soiling your bed.”
“It’s okay. I cry on this pillow nightly,” Miller admitted.
Her eyes went wide. “You do? Why?”
“Because I have no one. It is not for man to be alone, or at least that’s what it says in the Bible.”
She smiled weakly. “It does?”
“Yes. Man was created to have a companion, but I have none, and I don’t know that I ever will. I have no time to woo a woman.” The back of his good hand drifted down her top cheek.
“Do you think that women need a lot of coaxing to wed?” She blinked and wanted to shove his hand off, but it reminded her too much of William, even if this man’s hand was stained black, gray and brown from hard work. It was scratchy and rough, too.
William’s were calloused slightly, but mostly they were firm, but soft. The contrast had been intoxicating.
“Yes, she would for a bloke like me with little or no means. Do you think a woman would think me capable of giving her a home? I have to lean on Leo’s good graces right now as I grow accustomed to the lack of a finger.”