The Rose of Winslow Street (18 page)

T
he next morning, Libby made certain she would be able to sneak out of the house without scrutiny. It was the Fourth of July and she had already told her father she planned on escaping into the country for a little painting. She was famous for disappearing from the house in the early hours to paint using the morning sun, and no one would think it strange when she disappeared for several hours. Before leaving, she grabbed her canvas bag of art supplies, plus a few treats for the Dobrescu children from the kitchen.

She simply had to tell Michael about the location of the red juniper trees. In the twenty-four hours since she remembered where they could be found, she'd thought of little else besides her need to get the information to him, which was causing guilt to gnaw at her. She still remembered the way her father wept at the prospect of losing his house. Was there anything worse than seeing an old man cry? She ought to fear Michael rather than indulge her fascination with him.

Libby headed to the old Congregational churchyard in search of a subject. The ivy growing along the ancient limestone walls of the cemetery would be an excellent study. No doubt a dull subject to some, but Libby was fascinated by the ability of the ivy shoots to find a crevice in the weathered stone and latch on to spread across the surface of the rocks.

Ivy was an easy subject for her. Much more challenging was the worn, pitted surface of the limestone. Libby pressed her fingers into the cool surface of the grainy rock, feeling its pores and the uneven weathering of the stone. Capturing it in watercolor would be a challenge, but one she was eager to attempt. How could ivy get nutrients from stone? Perhaps Michael would know.

She shook her head, frustrated she could not go even an hour without thinking about the man. Her father's comment about Michael's interest in her as a means to get the house had hurt, doubly so because she knew it might be true.

Two hours later, her painting was complete. She could not leave the churchyard until it dried, so she lay in the grass and watched the white patches of clouds twist and turn across the azure sky above. Some might find it strange to relax in a graveyard, but Libby always found the spot where generations of her ancestors were laid to rest to be an oddly comforting place. What would those descendants from the
Mayflower
think of her odd fascination with Michael Dobrescu? Their stalwart Puritan heritage saturated every drop of blood in her body, but she was tempted to cast it all aside and fling her arms around Michael Dobrescu and dance like a wanton by the light of the fire. Some of her Puritan ancestors would probably be horrified, but weren't the Puritans the original rebels? They led a revolution in England, then plowed forward to America in search of their perfect “City on a Hill.” Somehow she was certain more than a few of them would nod in approval at her choice.

The spreading branches of an old elm tree blocked one corner of her vision, but the occasional sparrow flitting through the leaves amused her. If Ivan were there, those sparrows would be prey. Still, she missed the weight of Ivan on her chest and longed for the simple comfort of her pesky cat.

Was she destined to go through life with only the comfort of her cat and the sound of songbirds to keep her company? She enjoyed playing with other people's children, but those children inevitably went back to their own homes, leaving Libby alone with her cat. Michael Dobrescu already had children. If she married Michael—

She sat up abruptly, so fast it took a moment for her head to stop spinning. Michael Dobrescu liked the way her hair smelled but had never given her any other concrete proof he was attracted to her. Deciding she'd done more than enough thinking for the moment, she lifted her painting of ivy and held it up before the sun, looking for damp patches on the paper. Seeing none, she rolled it into a cylinder, secured it with a ribbon, and set off for the house on Winslow Street.

Libby darted beneath low-hanging branches so she could approach the house from behind. If she walked down Winslow Street, her father would hear about the visit within the hour, so she kept behind the screen of trees that ran along the length of the backyards on Winslow Street.

She heard them before she saw them. Childish squeals mixed with bold adult laughter. Peeking over the back fence, Libby was appalled to see the two boys riding on top of Michael and Turk's shoulders. The boys were grappling with each other as the men moved back and forth across the yard.

Michael was not wearing a shirt. He had both arms raised to brace Andrei, who was sitting on his shoulders. Michael's tanned skin glistened with perspiration and his muscles flexed as he shifted to balance the boy. Andrei's arms were longer, so he was doing a better job at reaching out to nudge Luke, but she could tell Michael was trying to compensate by sidestepping and angling away to make things more even for Luke. What a man! She covered her mouth to prevent the laughter from spilling out, but both boys swiveled to stare at her, their blue eyes wide with surprise.

“It is the jam lady!” Andrei said.

When Michael spotted her, he sank to one knee and lowered his head so Andrei could jump off his shoulders. Turk did the same and both boys came racing toward the back fence, but Libby had a hard time dragging her focus away from Michael. She had never seen a grown man without a shirt, but his broad shoulders and muscular physique made a magnificent sight. After a brief nod to her, Michael turned away and grabbed his shirt. With his back to her, he swiped the fabric across his damp skin, then shrugged into the shirt. It was impossible for her to tear her eyes from the rippling of muscle that played across his back as he performed the simple act.

Luke crawled up the fence to grin at her. “Did you bring us more jam?”

She smiled at the eight-year-old imp who was bracing his forearms across the top of the fence. “What makes you think I brought you jam?”

“You love us and you miss us?”

That much was true! She fought and won the battle to keep the grin off her face. “I love and miss my cat, but I don't bring him jam.”

Michael was still buttoning his shirt as he approached her. She had not seen him since the day in the courtroom and had not spoken to him since he dropped her off at Jasper's after the oddly tender moment in the barn. His expression was guarded as he scanned her face, but Libby could not hold back her smile. She was anxious to tell him where they could find the red juniper trees, but she didn't want to blurt it out in front of everyone. Somehow the moment seemed too special for that.

“I came to make sure you were celebrating the Fourth of July properly.” She scanned the yard, noting the table covered with fruit and a pitcher of lemonade. There was also some kind of squat bread, probably a Romanian delicacy, but at least there was no sign of turkey or pumpkin pie. “Can I join you?” she asked impulsively.

“Andrei, go open the fence door,” Michael said. Before the words were out of his mouth, the boy had gone tearing across the yard to the gate. Michael walked on the other side of the fence as Libby headed toward the gate, and they didn't break eye contact as they strolled the length of the yard. When she reached the gate and turned to enter the yard, Michael stood directly in front of her, blocking her path. There was unease in his blue eyes.

“I was not sure we would still be on speaking terms,” he said quietly.

They shouldn't be. She ought to hate and despise the threat he represented, and yet, when she looked up into his handsome, honest face, all Libby felt was relief. He was not a liar, a thief, or an imposter; he was merely a man who had a legal disagreement with her father. The way his hand clasped the top of the fence and his weight shifted from side to side betrayed his anxiety. He was nervous about her reaction to him. Why should that be endearing to her? He certainly
ought
to feel guilty over what he was doing to her family, and yet all Libby wanted to do was set the man at ease.

She angled her head up so she could see him better. “Am I supposed to call you something fancy? Lord Dobrescu or something?”

A snort of laughter greeted her question. “Michael is fine. Base-born children rarely have titles, and I am no exception.”

Michael stepped back to hold the gate wide and she joined the family. The children swarmed around her canvas bag and she made a great show of rummaging through her brushes and paints before pretending surprise when she found a jar of strawberry jam. Andrei snatched the jar and held it over his head.

“We can put this on the birthday cake. It will make it not so terrible.”

Libby looked up. “Whose birthday is it?”

“Mirela is twenty years old today,” Michael said. “Instead of being born on a saint's birthday, Mirela was born on Independence Day.” He turned his head so he could look at Mirela sitting beneath the pear tree and sent her a gentle smile. “Surely this means you were fated since birth to someday end up in America, don't you think?”

Libby glanced at Lady Mirela. Once again, she was wearing one of Libby's old gowns, but all Libby noticed were the bandages encircling both of Mirela's wrists. Was the girl still suicidal? Libby felt bad about insulting her the first time she saw Mirela, but surely that couldn't have played a role in the girl's drastic actions, could it?

Mirela beamed up into Michael's face as though she worshiped the man. “Yes, surely it was fate,” she said with a bright smile.

Libby walked the few paces so she could stand before Mirela. “We have never formally met,” she said. The brief incident in her bedroom when Michael had carried her from the room hardly qualified, but Libby found herself fascinated by this delicate young woman. Now that she knew Lady Mirela was in fact the daughter of a duke, she had no idea how she was supposed to greet her. Should she curtsy? For pity's sake, though, this was America and titles were not supposed to matter. Besides, it would be hard to befriend a woman with a title, and there was no doubt Mirela needed one. The Dobrescus were pariahs in the neighborhood, and Libby doubted that Mirela had a single friend in America.

Libby sank down beside her. “I am Libby Sawyer and I hope that we might learn to be friends.”

Mirela's china blue eyes widened. “You are very generous.” Her gaze flicked to the boys, who were spreading the strawberry jam across the squat cake. “I know you have brought my family food when no one else in the village would have anything to do with us. I would consider it a great privilege to be friends with such a person.” Then the girl laughed. “I would be happy to offer you a piece of birthday cake, but I am not confident it is fit for consumption. Turk and I made it, but neither of us is skilled in the kitchen.”

Andrei was sawing at the cake with a knife, but the cake appeared to be as tough as a piece of steak. Even the rasping sound of the blade dragging through the cake sounded ominous.

Joseph stepped forward. “I have a bottle of wine,” he said. “The cake will taste better if we have a glass or two before we eat it.”

“I'll get the corkscrew,” Turk said.

Five minutes later, the adults were seated around the tree-shaded table with a glass of golden chardonnay. Even at the round table, Libby was amazed at the way Mirela seemed to be the natural leader. It was not merely because the men deferred to her—it was her quiet dignity that seemed to command respect among the loud, boisterous crew. The moment she suggested a toast, everyone immediately stilled to listen to her.

“To our first Independence Day in America,” she said as she met the eyes of the people around the table. “I pray we can make our new life in America something worthwhile, something we will never regret. If I live to be one hundred, I will never be able to find the words to thank you all for my freedom. I would not be alive today without each of you.” Her gaze traveled around the table. “Joseph, Turk, and especially you, Michael. You are my heroes.”

For a moment, Libby felt like she had stepped back in time and was witnessing a medieval lady pay homage to her knights. All three men looked at Mirela as if they idolized her, and the radiance that shone from Mirela's face seemed almost mythical. Libby had always assumed that Michael was the leader of the family, but now she knew that Mirela was the focal point of this odd group of people.