Weeping Angel (14 page)

Growing thoughtful a minute, Narcissa said, “I wasn't going to mention this to you, dear, as well you know I voted against the piano going to that saloon. But I did hear why the women voted in favor of the upright being moved to the Moon Rock.”

“Why?” Amelia countered with interest.

“Because, Esther Parks confided in me, they want to see for themselves if Mr. Brody really can slide a beer mug along the bar and make the glass stop wherever he wants.”

“You've got to be joking!”

“I'm sorry to say I'm not.”

“I suspected there was more to their change of hearts about the lessons, but I didn't want to accept they'd do it just to be able to see the interior of that saloon,” Amelia said. “I was here in Weeping Angel when they did everything in their power to shut down Charley Revis's shebang and were very close to succeeding when . . . well, you know what happened.” Amelia put her fingers on her forehead. “Oh, I knew they were enthralled by Mr. Brody's showplace, but I never thought things would go this far. Besides, who's to say he'll perform that little trick for them—if indeed he can?”

“Dorothea Beamguard can be very persuasive when she sets her mind to it. She's a shrewd businesswoman. You know it's really her that runs that mercantile. She has Oscar on puppet strings.”

Amelia took in a long breath. “I'm appalled. Pure and simple. Why if I didn't need the—” She stopped herself short. Even her best friend didn't know she needed money. Narcissa would insist she take a loan if she knew. Amelia was better off not telling a soul.

“Need what, dear?”

“Need the diversion,” she offhandedly rephrased. “I would call a stop to the entire thing. I wouldn't give lessons. Then where would they be? Certainly not inside that saloon.”

Narcissa didn't speak for a moment, then said, “Forgive me for asking . . . oh, blame it on my condition if you must . . . but what exactly does it look like in his saloon? Are there naked ladies on the walls?”

“Not a one.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“Perhaps a little.” She sighed. “I wanted to find fault with his establishment. Actually, the interior is tasteful—for a saloon. Not that I've been in any others.”

Narcissa went to the window again and pressed her palm on the glass. “Whoever came hasn't left yet. It must be Widow Thurman, and the ladies are giving her an earful. I suppose I'll tell them all tomorrow and be done with it. Today I want to keep the news to myself—and those dearest to me.”

“Well,” Amelia said, “I'll leave you to your rest and see whoever it is out the door. Would you like me to clear the house?”

“No. I'll leave that to Cincinatus.” Narcissa turned to face Amelia. “He gets great pleasure in ousting them from the parlor with a stern voice that fairly shakes the rafters and leaves their feathers flying.”

Amelia laughed. “I'll come back for the basket tomorrow.”

“Do.”

“Good-bye, Narcissa. And, I am happy for you. Truly.”

Narcissa smiled and Amelia took her leave. She went down the hallway feeling exhausted and angry all at the same time.

So, now she knew for certain.

The ladies voted against her because of their fixation on Frank Brody and his high-class
parlor.
If only Frank had been a mangy old coot . . . that upright would have been in
her parlor
this very moment. Amelia wasn't sure Dorothea Beamguard even liked the man. Dorothea may have thought he was a handsome devil, but the woman still had a low tolerance for drinking halls. That conviction sure hadn't stopped her from wanting to peek into one, and the piano had given her the perfect excuse!

As Amelia reached the landing, she was building a fine speech on the bonds of female loyalty, but all words fled her mind when she heard Frank's laugh coming from the sitting room. She took the stairs swiftly, paused in the foyer, and peeked around the edge of the thick portieres.

Frank sat in the center of the silk damask sofa, tiny plates of food balanced on each knee—a mound of sandwiches on his left, and a pile of confections on his right—while holding a cup of tea and saucer. His fingers seemed too large to keep the English china handle steady, but he was managing. He took a sip, then before he could figure out where to put the cup, Luella Spivey whisked it from him to set on the service cart.

“Mr. Brody,” Viola Reed chirped, “you haven't taken a bite of the watercress. I made them.”

“And I made the cucumber,” piped Dorothea Beamguard, her lips thin and eyes a vivid blue.

Frank selected one of the small squares of bread on the top and ate it in one bite.

Luella Spivey sat forward from her place in a wing chair. “Try mine. It's that one.” She pointed, and Frank obliged by picking it up while still chewing on the first.

Amelia watched for long minutes. Watched as Frank cleaned the entire plate of sandwiches, ate every last chocolate and molasses brittle, and washed it down with two cups of tea that had to be room temperature.

He was grabbing the crisp serviette off his thighs when Esther Parks called out, “Amelia, dear, is that you lurking in the portieres?”

Amelia stiffened, feeling like a mouse caught in a corner by half a dozen cats. Backing away from the curtain's edge, she took a small step forward. “Yes, it's me.”

“Whatever are you doing hiding?” Luella asked, but
didn't give Amelia the opportunity to reply. “Look who's come to pay his respects to our Narcissa.”

“I can see.”

Frank gazed at her, and Amelia refused to meet his eyes. What was he doing here—besides feasting on loaves of finger sandwiches and boxes of candy? The last she'd seen of him was when she'd gone back to the Moon Rock to collect her music bag. He'd been sitting at one of the tables doodling in a ledger book and hadn't paid her any mind accept to say good-bye.

“Mr. Brody brought Mrs. Dodge cattails,” Altana Applegate said in her naturally soft-spoken voice. She was thin and tall, with prematurely gray hair matching the color of her eyes, but she was still pretty, and Amelia liked her.

“How nice.” Amelia glanced at the jardiniere stand and the cupid vase full of furry brown cattails with long flat leaves. “I'm surprised to see you here, Mr. Brody. Socializing. I would have thought you would be socializing in your saloon.”

“Pap's tending the bar while I'm gone.” Frank leaned back, soaking in the attention with his long legs stretched out before him. He overpowered the room, making everything inside seem dwarflike. “I would have left right away, but the ladies insisted I eat a few sandwiches. They were real good.”

They tittered—all accept Altana. And Dorothea Beamguard who kept her skeptical facade up, but Amelia knew better. Dorothea may not have approved of Frank's occupation, but she knew an opportunity when one presented itself. Her petite sandwiches were her pride and joy and had gained her entrance to many a parlor. She was probably on the verge of asking Mr. Brody about the beer mug stunt, stuffing him with food so he'd do as she asked.

Agitation worked through Amelia. Why, of all the two-faced, dirty tricks! The ladies were consorting with the enemy, conversing around him, feeding him,
and giving him flirtatious glances despite not wholly approving of his establishment. These were the same ladies who'd shunned any saloon in town, other than Lloyd's, and had forbidden their men to set one foot through the doors of the Moon Rock until all the fancy furnishings began arriving. Each day as lavish and expensive decor had passed through those cut glass doors, their curiosity had mounted. And now because of the piano, they'd apparently found exactly what they'd been searching for—a respectable excuse to view a disrespectable saloon.

“I thought bachelors preferred their independence,” Amelia commented. “To live by self-sustenance.”

“Who ever said that?” Frank meshed his fingers together. “A man who can't cook worth a damn appreciates the flavors that come from a woman's seasoned kitchen. Take Mrs. Beamguard's cucumber sandwiches.”

Dorothea sat straighter, her chin high. “What about them?”

“They were my favorite.”

Dorothea shrugged, but couldn't contain a blush. “There's nothing to them, really. Just sliced cucumber—from my garden, of course—a dash of salt and pepper with mayonnaise sauce. No trouble at all.”

“Just my point.” Frank crossed his leg, putting his foot on his knee. The polished black of his boots shone, the leather looking comfortable and supple. “I wouldn't go to the trouble of slicing cucumbers. I'd be more inclined to open a can of beans.” He regarded the women in the room carefully, omitting Amelia from his perusal. “You know, that's one reason a man gets married. So he can have someone cook for him.”

Altana stood with haste, her fingers covering the gasp on her lips. “My goodness! I should have been home to start supper an hour ago.”

“What time is it?” Mrs. Parks asked.

Viola Reed exclaimed, “Half past four!”

“We must be off!” Luella rose.

“Ladies, you're too late.” Frank's voice made them freeze. “I saw your husbands heading over to the Chuckwagon for something to eat.”

“What?” they cried.

“Yeah,” Frank replied without inflection. “One-Eye Otis's special tonight is cowboy beans and red bean pie.”

“Egad!” Luella cried. “I'll have to give Saybrook peptonic bitters for certain. Beans in moderation are good for the digestive system, but anything in quantity begets dyspepsia.”

“Grenville's stomach can't withstand the Chuckwagon. I've lectured him not to eat the food there.”

In a flurry of skirts, the five women rushed into the foyer. They plucked the hall tree bare—except for Mr. Brody's panama—and hastily collected hats, gloves, parasols, and baskets.

“Give Narcissa our best, dear,” Viola Reed said to Amelia.

“Yes, Amelia,” Dorothea hastened. “We'd tell her ourselves, but we've got to rescue our men from sour stomachs.”

The door flew open, scattered children were collected, and the exasperated entourage walked swiftly down Dodge Street in the direction of Divine.

Amelia looked at Frank. He'd remained sitting, one corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile.

“Really,” she chided. “Are their husbands at the Chuckwagon or is there a reason you wanted them out of the house?”

He stood and pushed his hands deep into his linen trouser pockets. The front of his cream-colored silk vest was buttoned for a change. As he strode toward her, his head nearly hit the bottom of the bronze
extension chandelier in the center of the sitting room's ceiling. “I didn't make it up. I saw the men when I left the Moon Rock to come here.”

Amelia frowned. “You could have mentioned that before you ate.”

“And have to eat at the Chuckwagon myself? Hell no.” He stepped around her, snagged his hat, and fit it on his thick black hair. “Even I only eat there when I'm desperate, which is twice a week. More often than not, my culinary creations aren't fit for consumption unless they come out of a can. I have to prepare everything on a single burner. It doesn't leave room for creativity.” He began walking toward the open front door, taking her along with him, his hand on her elbow. She wasn't aware of his steering her until she was on the stoop with him.

“Let me ask you, Miss Marshall,” he said, “what kind of a cook are you?”

The question took her aback. “I'm useful in the kitchen.”

“That's not an answer. What I want to know is, can you make fried chicken?”

“Of course, I can. Why do you ask such a thing?”

“Because every Sunday when I come back from fishing, all I smell on the walk to the Moon Rock is fried chicken. If I don't get me some soon, I'm liable to bust in on someone's Sunday supper and demand to be fed.”

“Why don't you have One-Eye Otis make you some fried chicken if you crave it so much?”

“Sweetheart, have you ever eaten at the Chuckwagon?”

“No.”

“The extent of his menu consists of sonofabitch stew, cowboy beans, sourdough biscuits, red bean pie, and vinegar pie. That's it. From Sunday to Sunday. You try eating that several times a week, and you'll see what I mean about fried chicken.”

Amelia went down the steps with Frank. She had no choice. He was still holding her arm. “Just what do you think you're doing, Mr. Brody?” she asked.

“It would appear,” he replied, opening the gate to let her pass through, “I'm walking you home.”

“I protest.”

“Go ahead.” But he didn't give up his hold.

She tried to free herself by wiggling her elbow. He only held tighter. If anyone saw her walking arm in arm, with him, down the street
to her house
, they might misconstrue the meaning. They might think she was attracted to him, just like all the other ladies. They might think she was falling for the wrong man again . . . just as she'd fallen for Jonas Pray. “I protest,” she repeated in a firmer tone.

“And I said to go ahead.”

“Humph,” she mumbled, realizing it was no use. He wasn't letting go.

“How come you always do that?” Frank propelled them around the corner of Divine Street toward her house on Inspiration Lane.

“Do what?”

“Make that croaking sound.”

She felt her cheeks heat up. “I make no such noise.”

“Yeah, you do.”

“I don't know what you're referring to. My vernacular is faultless. My deportment strictly enforced.”

“I noticed that, too.”

Amelia didn't like the tone of his remark. It certainly wasn't spoken in a complimentary manner. As they passed the numerous vacant lots filled with knee-high grasses and sprawling elms, she decided to comment on his goodwill gesture toward Narcissa. “Why did you bring Mrs. Dodge a bouquet of cattails?”