Red. Everything was red. Like a thousand sledgehammers tablecloth. A drift of sheer fabric, like the skirt of a dress made for dancing. Falling petals from a rose. A cardinal in the snow. Autumn leaves swirling on the wind, scarlet against a stark blue sky. A crimson sun sizzling into oblivion on the arc of a blood-red sea. Fireworks exploding against a black velvet sky.
Even before she awoke, Vita knew it was a dream. A crazy, mixed-up dream, full of nonsense images brought on by too much garlic in the spaghetti sauce—or, in old Ebenezer’s words, “an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, the fragment of an underdone potato.”
She opened her eyes. Even the real world—her world—was washed in a translucent red, as if someone had photographed the room with a filter over the lens. The sun was just rising, and the lace curtains stirred on a breeze coming through the half-open window. A beautiful morning. One of those glorious, bracing spring days shot through with possibilities that even Vita Kirk could not ignore.
She stretched and smiled and finally abandoned the comfortable warmth of the bed. Raising the window higher, she leaned forward and inhaled the invigorating air. A remnant of Browning came back to her from a nineteenth-century poetry class ages ago: God’s in his heaven—All’s right with the world.
As uncertain as Vita might be that God was in heaven—or anywhere else, for that matter—she couldn’t help agreeing that everything did seem right with the world this perfect day. Birds singing. The crisp green scent of grass on the air, and petals from ornamental fruit trees drifting like pink and white snowflakes across the lawn. A day of new beginnings.
A day when nothing could possibly go wrong.
Something was wrong.
Rachel pushed open the door and entered the dress shop.
Usually the shop was filled with the ever-present noise of the sewing machine, beating out its familiar rhythms. But today, only silence.
“Hello?” she called. “Mrs. Tyner?”
“In the back!” a voice answered from behind the drape that separated the workroom from the front of the shop. “I’m making tea—come and join me.”
Rachel entered the back room and let the curtain fall shut behind her. Elisabeth Tyner stood with her gray head bent over the small two-burner hot plate, waiting for the kettle to boil.
“Take a seat, dear. I’ll have the pot steeping in no time.”
Rachel settled into the single chair and folded her hands in her lap. At last a high-pitched whine emanated from the kettle, and Mrs. Tyner removed it from the burner and carefully poured the steaming water into the pink flowered teapot.
When the tea was brewing, the older woman turned and faced Rachel. Her eyes, crinkled at the corners by deep crow’s-feet, seemed unnaturally bright. “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you, dear.”
“Bad news?” Rachel parroted.
“Yes. I wanted to talk to you about it this morning, but I was waiting for confirmation, and just this noon—” She pointed to a yellow paper that lay unfolded on her worktable. A telegram.
“I—well, you see, I’ve decided to sell the shop.”
Like an incredibly slow child, Rachel responded, “Sell the shop?”
Mrs. Tyner poured the tea, handed a cup to Rachel, and tucked the tea cozy over the pot. “I fear it’s true, dear. I’m simply getting too old to work so hard any longer. Out of the blue beyond, an offer came in. Entirely unsolicited. A very generous offer—” She shrugged and gave a wan smile. “Like a miracle.”
But what about me—what about my miracle? Rachel wanted to scream. This job was my only possibility of getting to America! An image rose up in her mind of Saturday nights at The Judas Tree, fighting to repel the advances of drunken patrons, and something inside her froze into a cold, hard lump. She stifled back tears of anger and dejection.
“The new owner is taking over on Monday,” Mrs. Tyner went on. “A woman from London, recently widowed, who wanted to get away from the noise and press of the city. Her daughter will come with her, so unfortunately she won’t be needing a shopgirl.
I would have let you know earlier, of course, but this has all taken place so suddenly.”
Rachel nodded dully.
“You’ve been such a blessing to me,” the woman continued.
“And as this will be our last day together, I have a little surprise for you.” She went to the corner, where she kept an adjustable fitting mannequin, and removed the sheet that covered it with a little flourish. “I had to guess at your size, but I’m fairly certain it will fit.”
It was a coat of worsted wool, the rich dark hue of ripe cherries, with a notched collar and bright brass buttons down the front.
Rachel had never owned such a fine garment, and despite her disappointment at losing her job, she took in a little gasp of pleasure.
“Mrs. Tyner, how exquisite! When did you—”
“I’ve been working on it for some time—rather a bonus for all your help, you know. I didn’t realize when I started it that it would turn out to be a going-away present.” She removed the coat from the mannequin and held it out. “I stayed late last night to finish it. Let’s try it on, shall we?”
Rachel set her teacup aside and stood. She slipped her arms into the sleeves and gathered the folds of dark red fabric around her. The lining was made of quilted satin in a deep vermillion color, and the coat draped around her body as if it had been molded to her form. The collar against her cheek wasn’t rough and scratchy like her old threadbare jacket, but exquisitely comfortable, soft as the fleece of a newborn lamb.
“Mrs. Tyner, I—well, I don’t know quite what to say. It’s absolutely beautiful.” Then her employer’s words registered in Rachel’s brain. “A going-away present?”
Her employer nodded. “My son Neville has been after me for nigh onto a year now, wanting me to move to Southampton to live with his family. I’ve finally agreed to live out my final years as an indolent grandmother. He’ll regret it; mark my words—I intend to spoil those children mercilessly.” She refilled their teacups and smiled. “But the coat is also a going-away present for you. For America, you know.”
Rachel ran her hands up and down the luxurious wool. “It may take me longer than I expected to get there,” she managed around the lump in her throat. “I’ll need to find another position.”
Mrs. Tyner wasn’t listening. She came over and put an arm around Rachel’s shoulders. “I do love this fabric,” she said, caressing the coat the way she might have stroked a beloved pet. “Feel the pockets—I lined them with the wool, too, to keep your hands warm.”
Rachel slid her hands into the pockets, and her fingers closed around something thick and stiff. She carefully worked it free— it was an envelope, folded in half. She extended it in Mrs. Tyner’s direction. “You must have left this in the pocket.”
“Look at it.”
Rachel unfolded the envelope and stared at the writing on the outside. For Rachel, it said. Go with the blessing and grace of God.
“For me?”
Elisabeth Tyner’s eyes brightened with unshed tears. “That’s what it says. Open it.”
Rachel broke the seal—a blue wax puddle with an ornate T stamped in the middle—and opened the envelope. Inside were thirty-five crisp, new ten-pound notes.
“Over three hundred pounds?”
“For America, my dear. For your passage, and then some. To get you started. And perhaps to replace a bit of what you’ve lost.”
Rachel struggled to breathe. “Mrs. Tyner, it’s a grand and generous gesture. And I can’t accept it.”
“Sit down, Rachel.”
Rachel laid the envelope on the sewing table, removed the coat, and sank into the chair, grateful for the chance to get off her trembling legs. Her knees had gone weak, and she was shaking all over. When she tried to take a sip of the lukewarm tea, her cup rattled furiously against its saucer.
Mrs. Tyner took the cup from her hands and moved the sewing bench closer to Rachel’s chair. “Rachel, you must listen carefully to what I have to say.”
“Yes’m.”
“All my adult life, it has been my habit—and my joy—to give back a portion of what I earn to God’s work. Normally it goes to the church, or to other worthy causes—” She bit her lip, apparently groping for words. “When I decided to sell the shop, I felt a very strong leading that I should share some of the profits with you.”
“You mean God spoke to you? God has never spoken to me, no matter how much I’ve tried to pray.”
“Not audibly. In here—” Elisabeth Tyner laid a hand over her heart. “More like an inner nudging, deep in my soul.”
“But why? I’ve worked for my wages, and you’ve paid me quite generously, more than I might have expected. I certainly don’t deserve it.”
“Sometimes we don’t get what we deserve, if you take my meaning.” Mrs. Tyner’s gaze pierced into Rachel’s. “To tell you the truth, I’m not altogether sure why. But I do feel very certain that you are intended to go to America as soon as possible—perhaps for some other purpose than you know.” She picked up the envelope full of money, pressed it into Rachel’s palm, and closed her fingers around it. “Take it, please.”
Rachel swallowed hard. “I’ll repay you, Mrs. Tyner, every single shilling.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” she responded. “This is not a loan. It’s a gift. I have no doubt you’ll use it for good. All I ask is that you listen for the Almighty’s direction, and when you’re given the opportunity, that you pass a bit of the blessing along to someone else.”
Rachel felt the warmth of Elisabeth Tyner’s small hands grasping hers, and her resolve faltered. She had been so sure of her purposes in going to America—to track down Derrick and Cathleen, to retrieve the Treasure Box, to make them pay for their betrayal and deception. Guilt began to gnaw at her, but she pushed it aside. This was her one opportunity to get to America, and she had no intention of passing it by.
“You’re certain?” she said at last.
Mrs. Tyner smiled. “Absolutely.” She stood up and drew Rachel to her feet, enveloping her in an earnest embrace. “Be true to yourself, my child,” she whispered into Rachel’s ear. “Be true to your Creator. Find your dreams. Listen closely, and you’ll hear God’s call.”
She drew back and smiled, then retrieved the red woolen coat and placed it around Rachel’s shoulders. “And stay warm.”
Cathleen paused at the bright green door that stood just to the right of the front entrance to Benedetti’s restaurant. The doorway opened directly onto a long flight of stairs leading up to the apartment. It was always kept locked, and even when her hands weren’t full, she sometimes had trouble getting her key to work.
She had to pull out a little on the doorknob and then turn the key—a task that demanded both hands. Today, juggling a small bag of groceries, the two sofa pillows she had purchased at Marshall Field’s, and the big white box containing the red silk dress, she couldn’t even seem to fit her key into the lock, much less get the door open.
“Buona sera, Signora. Having a little trouble?”
Cathleen turned to find Angelo Benedetti standing behind her.
“Allow me.” He fished a key from his pocket, inserted it into the lock, and held the door open for her. “You do a little shopping, I see.”
“Yes.” Cathleen returned his smile. “Just a few things for the house—and a new dress for me.”
“Ah. Your Derrick will be relieved. He was concerned for where you might be.”
“He’s here?
”
“Sì.” Angelo rolled his eyes in the direction of the stairs.
“Waiting for you.” He stepped back and nodded. “I keep you no longer. You go. I see you at dinner, no?”
“N-no,” Cathleen stammered. “I mean yes, of course. Eight o’clock.”
“Until then.” Angelo bowed slightly and escaped into the restaurant. Cathleen began to climb the stairs. This was not the way she had planned it, not at all. But perhaps if Derrick had finished work early, he would be in high spirits. She needed for him to be in a good mood, tonight of all nights.
She reached the landing, leaned the dress box against the wall in the corridor, and opened the door to the flat. Derrick sat in the armchair next to the front windows, staring out through the dusty, streaked glass.
“Where have you been?” he said without looking at her.
“We—well, we needed some food.”
“It doesn’t take all day to buy a few groceries.”
“No.” Cathleen hesitated. “I thought the place could use a little brightening up.” She set the bags down and displayed the two pillows—a bold print, a background of blue and white with a floral design in yellow and green and red. Arranging them on the sofa, she stood back and smiled encouragingly at him. “I thought using the blue blanket would add some color to the room. Now, doesn’t that look lovely?”
Derrick did not so much as glance at the sofa. “And what else?”
Cathleen took a deep breath. She reached around the corner into the hall, brought in the white box, and held it against her chest like a shield. “I bought a new dress. You’ll love it, Derrick. I got it on sale.”
At last he turned and looked at her. “Where exactly did you get the money?”
“I—I had a little put aside,” she hedged.
“And you filched the rest from me.”
The implication that she was a thief—and even more, the haughty superiority in his tone—set off a spark of anger in Cathleen that quickly flared to a full blaze. “Oh, it’s your money, is it?”
“Isn’t it?” He rose from the chair and reached her in two strides, and as soon as he drew close, she could smell the liquor on his breath. “How dare you steal from me!” He jerked the box out of her hands and threw it onto the floor, then grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her, hard. When he released her, the force threw her back onto the sofa.
Cathleen stared up at him. “I thought we were in this together, Derrick. I thought—”
“What? That you had a right to everything that was mine?
Everything I worked for?”
“Yours? That’s all you ever think about—yourself!” she shouted. “And just what is this important work you do? Delivering packages, like a common street urchin? From the smell of you, I’d wager you spend most of your time in the speakeasy on the corner!”
He jerked her to her feet. “For your information, Angelo will be announcing my promotion at dinner this evening.”
The fire in Cathleen’s belly sputtered down to mild annoyance, and a flash of hope streaked like lightning across her mind.
“A promotion? Derrick, that’s wonderful. That means we can—”
“What? Get married, buy a house, live happily ever after?”
“Well, yes. I just assumed—”
Derrick clenched his jaw. “If you have any notion of living off me for the rest of your life, you’d best think again.”
“You can’t mean it.”
“I do mean it.” He narrowed his eyes. “What makes you believe I would possibly want to marry you? I’ve got grander ambitions than you can begin to imagine—and better prospects.”
“But you love me!” she protested. “You told me so, when—”
Cathleen paused. “When we first—”
“You’re a fool, Cathleen. In the heat of passion, a man always says such things to a woman. It means nothing except that he wants her—for the moment. Love you? Marry you? I can barely stand to look at you.” He walked to the windows and stared out into the street.
“But what of all your promises, all your fine words about building a new life together in America? What about me? What about the baby?”
Derrick whirled around. “What did you say?”
“I said, we’re going to have a baby, Derrick. I realized it just today.”
“Since when?”
Cathleen fixed her eyes on the bleak tan rug. Her stomach churned, and she feared she might be sick. “About three months, I think. I believe it may have happened during the crossing, on the ship. I don’t always keep very close track of my cycles, but when I counted backwards—”
“You’re certain?”
“As certain as I can be without seeing a doctor. That’s why I’ve been so sick in the mornings, Derrick. And so moody and depressed.” Cathleen approached him and put her arms around his waist. “We’re going to have a baby, darling. A new life, created from our love. Doesn’t this change everything?”
For a moment he stared at her impassively, neither moving nor speaking. Then he took one step back and slapped her across the face, twice. The second blow split open her lip and drew blood, and she fell to the floor, shaking and sobbing.
“You’re worse than a fool,” he said in a menacing whisper.
“You’re a bloody imbecile! And you’ll not blackmail me into this imaginary life you’ve dreamed up for the two of us.” He wedged the toe of his boot against her throat and applied enough pressure that she began to choke.
“Derrick, please! You’re hurting me.”
“I’ll hurt you a good deal worse if you don’t do exactly as I say.”
Cathleen closed her eyes and tried to breathe. “What—what do you want me to do?”
He glared down at her. “Angelo’s expecting us for dinner. Do not embarrass me; do you understand? Make up some excuse for going away—your poor ailing mother back in England, who is dying and desperate to see her only daughter, perhaps. You can say you’re leaving tomorrow for an indeterminate amount of time.
Agreed?”
She nodded as best she could under the constraint of his boot.
“Fine.” He removed his foot and stood over her with his hands on his hips. “Get up and get dressed. You can wear your new dress—the one I paid for. And cover up that cut. I do not want to see you again after tonight.”
“But where will I go?”
“I have no opinion on that, my dear. To the nunnery, to the whorehouse, back to Merrie Olde England. It’s entirely up to you.”
Vita watched the screen fade to black. Her shoulders knotted painfully, and her whole body was rigid with tension. In spite of herself, she whispered into the gathering darkness: “Poor Cathleen.”
Poor Cathleen, indeed. Vita herself had wished misery upon the two of them, and she knew the girl was simply reaping the fruits of her own betrayal. She deserved whatever she got, but still Vita couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for her. She could tell that Cathleen loved Derrick—at least to the degree that she was capable of loving—and hopelessly craved his love in return. And although Vita knew from experience that unrequited love could in the long run be a gift rather than a tragedy, a one-sided romance always left a wounded heart in its wake.
For Cathleen, the price would be much higher.
It was always possible, of course, that she might learn some lesson from the pain. Some remorse, perhaps, for what she had done to Rachel. A modicum of contrition, a resolution to change her ways in the future. Repentance, as religious folks called it.
Exhausted and ravenous, Vita got up from her desk and went into the kitchen. But halfway through her leftover spaghetti, she realized she had left the light on in her office and hadn’t turned off the computer for the night. She finished her dinner and went back to the sunroom, intending to shut everything down and then read or watch television for an hour or so—something that would help her relax. After a week of long nights and interrupted sleep, she really needed to go to bed early.
Just as Vita reached for the power button, however, the screen flickered back to life.
Cathleen stood in the bedroom twirling in front of the mirror to admire the graceful flow of her new dress, silken and sinuous, a vibrant shade of ruby red. Her traveling bag lay open on the bed, half-filled with the meager selection of clothes and personal items she had brought with her on the crossing.
It was a real bobby dazzler, this dress, with its daring neckline and swirling hem that came just below the knee. The color set off her blonde curls magnificently. All the men at dinner had gaped at her, speechless—all except Angelo, who had immediately taken Derrick to task. “Your signora, she is bellissima,” he said, wagging a finger in Derrick’s face. “You marry at once, capisca? Have many bambini. Else I think you crazy in the head for letting her get away.”
Then Angelo had kissed Cathleen on both hands and both cheeks, rambling about how beautiful she was, how elegant and luscious she looked in the divine red dress. And Derrick had smiled and nodded as if he had every intention of dragging her to the altar as soon as was humanly possible.
With a sigh Cathleen slipped the dress off and held it at arm’s length. In another month it wouldn’t fit anymore, but she might as well keep it. Derrick couldn’t return it, and she simply could not bear the thought of him giving it to any other woman.
She folded it carefully and laid it in the bag along with the other garments that were already too snug around the middle.
Then she turned back to the mirror and smoothed her chemise over her rounded stomach and thickening waist. How could she not have known? She simply hadn’t paid attention. And now she was about to be out on her own, without a husband, without work, without a place to live. And with a baby on the way.
Tears stung her eyelids. Derrick was right—she had been a fool. A fool to trust him, to believe his lies. A fool like thousands of other gullible women who somehow managed to convince themselves it couldn’t possibly happen to them. Never mind that he had betrayed someone else. Never mind that he had left a broad swath of broken hearts and empty pocketbooks in his wake. Never mind that he sometimes struck her—after all, he only did it occasionally, and only when he was drunk or angry.
Never mind all the evidence to the contrary: this time it would be different.
Fighting back tears, Cathleen moved the bag to Derrick’s side of the bed and sank down onto the coverlet. What on earth was she going to do? How would she manage?
A wave of shame rolled over her, and for the first time in months Cathleen thought longingly of England—of Mam and little Colin and yes, even of Rachel. Of the quiet village where she had grown up, the fountain splashing in the center of the green, of the rushing, laughing river that provided a sweet and peaceful background music to their life in the little cottage at the edge of the woods. She had hated that life, had left it behind without a second thought. And now she wanted it back.
She got up, went to the closet, and pulled down Rachel’s Treasure Box from the overhead shelf. Cradling it in her arms, she ran her fingers over the painted blue surface of the box, tracing the outline of the east coast of America, then dragging her finger across the Atlantic to the tiny island that was her home.
Could she return? Did she have the strength, the courage, to face everyone—especially her sister—and ask to be forgiven?
From the restaurant below, she could still hear the sounds of music and laughter as Derrick celebrated his promotion with Angelo and his business partners. No doubt the illicit wine was flowing like a river, along with assorted other bootlegged libations. Prohibition might be the law of the land, but it had never seemed to affect Angelo and his amici much.
And finally Cathleen knew why. Tonight at dinner, Angelo announced that Derrick was, indeed, about to be promoted— from a courier to a runner. From the snatches of conversation around the table—half in English and half in Italian—she had put together a picture of what that meant. A courier shuttled messages back and forth about plans for the smuggling of illegal liquor. A runner made the deliveries. It was a position of importance, of responsibility, Angelo had said, a steppingstone to a future that held the promise of great riches. Tomorrow morning Derrick would be taken to meet the Don.
But by then Cathleen would be on a train to New York. To Hudson Pier. To a ship that would take her home. If she could come up with the fare, that is.
She nested the Treasure Box carefully into the corner of her bag, then returned to the closet and looked up at the shelf that held Derrick’s second-best boots. It wasn’t really stealing, she reasoned. Derrick owed her. And it was for a good cause. Passage back to England. The possibility of redemption and reconciliation. She dragged the boots down and reached inside. Her fingers closed around . . . nothing.
The money was gone.
Cathleen left the bedroom and wandered into the front parlor. Outside the double windows, she could look down into the street and see the traffic going by. Chicago never slept, it seemed—the noise and bustle and commotion never ended. What kind of paradise was this, where you never saw the stars, never heard a nightingale singing, never felt the soft loam of forest moss under your feet? Only gaslights and blaring horns and unforgiving pavement.
As she watched, three shiny black automobiles pulled up and stopped in front of the awning over the door of Benedetti’s restaurant. A dozen men piled out—musicians for the party, no doubt, dressed in dark suits and carrying their instruments in cases.
Cathleen turned away from the window just as the noise began—a deafening clatter, like the backfiring of a hundred automobiles. Like a thousand sledgehammers breaking up the cobblestones. Like an endless string of firecrackers igniting to celebrate Independence Day.
Behind her, the windows exploded. Shards of glass and wood flew everywhere, and something hard and hot pierced into her flesh. She put a hand to the wound and felt the warm ooze of blood seeping through her fingers.
She dropped to the floor. Down below, in the ristorante, she could hear screaming and yelling and more fireworks. Then silence, followed by the screech of tires and the distant wail of sirens.
And everything went black.