Since Christmas, since Frank’s appearance, time had seemed to stop, each day a depressing replica of the one before it. Weeks later, no one dared discuss what had occurred that night. I needed to talk about what Franklin said and how I’d find him this time, but I had no one to talk to. My mother and sisters were distressed and angry. Their fury blocked out everything else. They’d barely acknowledged the relief that came in the form of a loan from the bank. It hadn’t been a large amount, but enough to make up our monthly expenses. I’d rejoiced when the letter came, but everyone had simply stared at the paper with a resolute, withered look on their faces. Since then, I hadn’t bothered to initiate conversation with anyone, especially about Franklin. Mae, the only person I would think to confide in, was away in the country—a holiday Henry insisted she needed after her students’ parents caught wind of her relation to the Blaine scandal.
I rubbed my eyes, exhausted by all of the unanswered questions. I’d woken up on Christmas morning truly thinking I’d dreamed the night before—until I spotted the post from my dresser lying unattached on my bedside table. Even now, I marveled at my behavior that night, at the way I’d instantly understood Franklin and jumped to defend him, though his confession had shocked me. I’d read articles on homosexuals before, on the treatments offered to cure them. Physicians said that it was a mental illness, but Franklin hadn’t spoken as though it was something to be cured, only something to attempt to ignore. I thought back, trying to see his adoration for John, but the only thing I could remember were Frank’s random glances across the drawing room during meetings. He’d said that John didn’t know and I knew he was telling the truth. To everyone but Franklin, they’d simply been close friends.
Sitting at Frank’s desk, I closed the novel I’d checked out from the library, Born in Exile by George Gissing, and plucked the first of eight travel brochures off the desktop in front of me, wondering if he’d planned to leave anyway, even before Lydia’s death.
I opened the first brochure. “New York to Paris. The finest staterooms in the world for the lowest fares.” Photographs lined the pages, featuring rooms with canopy beds draped in white linens and balconies stretching over the river. I set the brochure back on the desk, unable to look anymore. He’d never make it there. He couldn’t do anything but run at this point. Father’s watch, his last ticket out, was still here. I leaned against the wooden chair to stare at the sky through the window. I kept telling myself that Mother hadn’t meant it, that she’d write to Franklin and set things straight, but no one knew where he was and her silence indicated that she wouldn’t change her mind or discuss it again. He was no longer a part of this family.
I crossed to his armoire, and opened it. His fancy tailored suits still hung there, flanked by black bowler hats. I was supposed to be going through them, sorting what we could sell. I ran my hand down the wool coat hanging on the door and lifted the sleeve to look at the filigree cuff link. His clothes already seemed like mementos of another life. I felt hollow with sorrow. I glanced at Frank’s tarnished pocket watch on top of his dresser. The chain was tangled, as if in a few hours he’d come home and shove into his pocket. The memory of John and Franklin, Lydia and Tom all laughing in the drawing room materialized in my mind. I could smell the thick smoke, feel the itch of it in my eyes, and see the vibrant jewel tones of the ladies’ dresses through the haze. I felt the anticipation that came with knowing that in the course of a night, a conversation or introduction could forever change my writing. I would never go to the Society again. I sank to the floor and started to sob, but no sound came out, only quiet gasps. John and Franklin had left us all in shambles. Out of nowhere, I felt the solid grip of John’s hand on my arm, but it was gone just as quickly and I cried harder, wondering if I’d ever stop grieving.
“There is a sacredness in tears. They are not a mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.” The Washington Irving quote surfaced in my head in Charlie’s deep whisper. Hours after my father’s funeral, I’d been crying in my room and had apologized to Charlie for it. I could still remember the way he looked at me as he shook his head at my apology and whispered the quote in my ear. I’d agreed with Irving back then—back when I cried five, maybe six times per year—but now I wondered, if one cried daily, if the tears were still sacred. Surely, Irving would tell me that I’d exceeded my holy allotment by now.
Sniffling, I picked myself up off the floor and shuffled back to my room to dress. I glanced at the stack of paper on my bedside table. I had no idea how it had happened really, but through my pain I’d managed to finish revisions on The Web, typing it to perfection on the typewriter in the early mornings when my brain wouldn’t shut off to sleep. I had to mail the manuscript to Frederick Harvey today. It was high time I escaped this house anyway.
I was halfway out the door when Mother stopped me. Thick bags lay at the base of her eyes and her black-silver hair hung limply against her pale skin. She looked like she’d aged ten years in a matter of a few weeks. Though it was cruel and wrong to think, I was glad for it. I wanted her to worry, to torture herself for what she’d done.
“Where are you going?” Her voice was breathy, but her blue eyes were sharp, eyeing me as though I were about to go rob the corner bank. I considered ignoring her, glancing over her shoulder at Bess making a hat for Caroline Astor despite our scandal, because Mrs. Astor found her new milliner unsatisfactory. I could feel Mother’s eyes on my face. I didn’t know what she was after and didn’t feel like trying to figure it out.
“Post office.” I lifted the bulky manuscript in front of my face. “I need to mail this to Mr. Harvey.” I turned to go, but Mother grabbed my arm.
“You listen to me. You’ll go to the post office and come right back. I’ll not have you raking the city for . . . for him again.”
I laughed, a short, huffing sound in the back of my throat.
“Him? Who’s him, Mother?” I’d never seen this side of my mother. It was as if another soul had taken over her body. She stared at me silently, daring me to say another word, but I did anyway. “Franklin? Is that his name? The son you named yourself?”
“I don’t know who that is,” she said mechanically.
“You of all people,” I whispered, unable to lift my voice higher. “You’re supposed to love us no matter what. I’ve always wondered where Bess got her ability to be so cruel. Now I know.” I stepped outside into the frigid winter wind, letting the screen door slam behind me.
“Love and acceptance are two different things!” she yelled. Her words shocked me, crawling along my brain like stinging ants, but I ignored her and started toward town, determined to forget them.
It was only ten in the morning by the time I arrived at the post office. Mr. Markos, the old Italian postman who’d been working there as long as I could remember, was alone at the counter. He smiled as I walked in and I winced in return, my mind still reeling from my conversation with Mother.
“How do you do, Miss Loftin?” His eyes crinkled as he said it, surveying my face. My nose was running from the cold and I sniffed.
“Fine, Mr. Markos. I hope you’re the same.”
“I’ve been on this earth for seventy-one years. You’re not fooling me, dear.” His dark eyes softened as he leaned across the counter. I rubbed my puffy lids and looked at him, unsure of what else to say. “It’s everything going on with your brother, isn’t it?” I opened my mouth to answer, but decided I couldn’t speak without crying. “It’ll be all right. I’ve seen Mr. Loftin walkin’ ’round this town for years now. He didn’t murder that girl. Young men are dimwitted. He’s just gone off because he doesn’t know what else to do. He’ll be back, young lady. He’ll be back.” He patted my hand gripped to the width of my manuscript. If only that were the case, I thought. “I’m guessing you’d like to mail that,” he said, and whirled around to find something large enough to fit it before I could answer.
“Thank you.” I grinned as he forced the manuscript into the envelope, tugging at the rigid casing. He set the sealed package in front of me and handed me a pen.
“When will it be published?”
“There’s no telling.” I scribbled Harvey’s name and address on the front. “It all depends on if my editor likes it.”
“He’ll love it,” Mr. Markos said without hesitation. “It’s a rule. Good news has to follow bad.”
“Let’s hope,” I said on my way out the door, thinking that so far, bad had followed bad all year.
I trudged back toward Mott Haven, burying my neck and face in the collar of my grandmother’s mink. Cold still seeped through, permeating my ruched gray organza bodice. I didn’t want to go home. It had become as eerie as a funeral parlor and I got the feeling that it would remain like that for some time—cold and silent, my family too paralyzed to remember it hadn’t always been that way. Just months ago, our home had radiated with happiness and warmth, with the sprightly arpeggios of Alevia playing the piano and Bessie’s laughter.
Back then, it had seemed we were all on the cusp of something. Franklin had received a promotion at J. L. Mott and was in love, or so we’d thought; Mae had just been married and employed as a teacher; Bessie was finally going to marry the prominent man of her dreams; Alevia had been accepted into the Symphony, and I was on my way to publishing my book and a potential marriage myself. Now, all that remained was the possibility that The Web would be published. Everyone’s lives and aspirations had been stalled with Lydia’s last breath. Until the article, I knew that underneath their anger, Bess and Alevia had held a small flicker of hope that their dreams would all come back as swiftly as they’d gone.
My mother, however, was a different story. I wasn’t certain what had caused her fierce anger at Frank. I didn’t dare ask, though I figured it was a combination of seeing the treachery on Alevia and Bessie’s faces as they sobbed on Christmas Eve and Frank’s confession that he loved a man. I’d wondered at first if they’d even caught that part. For a moment, I’d thought that there was a chance that they’d missed it, that maybe they’d thought he’d meant that he simply loved him like a brother, but I’d known immediately in the wide-eyed panic on his face and figured everyone else knew it as well. My mother’s words this morning were confirmation.
“How do you do, Virginia?” Absorbed in my thoughts, I jumped at the sound of my name. Cherie’s mother waved at me from her front porch and started down the steps. I sighed and waved back. I knew why she wanted to talk, why everyone wanted to talk. It was the same reason The Atlantic Monthly had decided to print photographs of the dead during the Civil War. People were attracted to tragedy.
“I’ve been meaning to pay your dear mother a visit.” Cherie’s mother was a short, overweight woman with a beautiful cherubim-like face. She smiled up at me, small cap shading her eyes from the sun.
“I’m sure she’d like that,” I said, waiting for her first mention of Franklin. My instinct over the past few weeks had been to preempt any conversation with, “Thank you for your concern. We’re fine, and no I haven’t heard from my brother.” Even though my family currently hated Frank, they hadn’t mentioned his random appearance to anyone. I assumed they didn’t want to draw unnecessary attention to themselves.
“I’ve been so sad for all of you,” she cooed. She quickly pulled me into a hug and I found myself standing awkwardly with my arms at my sides as she squeezed me.
“It’s been hard, but we’re coping with it.” She clucked her tongue and pulled away.
“I’m sure you know, darling, but we’ve had a time with Cherie recently as well. I knew that she wasn’t happy, but early this year William wrote to say that he feared she was going insane. The baby was only weeks old, but she didn’t want anything to do with him.” She shook her head. “I can’t understand it. I went up to see her the moment I received the letter and she seemed completely fine, very happy in fact, but then I went up to visit at Christmastime and she was awful. She cried all day, would barely come out of her room, and kept saying she needed to see Franklin, and why hadn’t he come.” I heard the sharp intake of my breath as her words sank in. He’d been selling to Cherie and her mother knew it. Her eyes met mine and she gripped my hand tight. “It’s all right. She is okay, Virginia,” she whispered. I was amazed at her demeanor. She wasn’t the least bit angry; in fact, she was wholly sympathetic. “At first, I thought she wanted to see Franklin because she’d loved him all along and couldn’t stand being married to William. We all knew almost immediately after the wedding that theirs was a bad match.” She rolled her eyes. “But when I saw the article about Franklin in the Times, it all made sense. She’d been on the formula, too.” I blinked at her, speechless.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “He loves Cherie. I know he’d never hurt her on purpose. I’m sure he thought he was—”
“You don’t have to explain it to me, dear,” she said softly, squeezing my hand again. “I’ve known your brother since before he could put two words together. He wouldn’t knowingly do anything to hurt her, and if she was taking it when I went to see her in the fall, then it really was a miracle drug . . . with awful side effects.”
“I’m glad she’s all right,” I said, horrified by the knowledge that Cherie could’ve been one of the casualties. “I don’t know for sure, but I think Lydia and the others . . . I think they took too much.”
“It’s hard to tell,” she said finally. “All I know is that when I asked Cherie about it after I read the article, she denied it. In any case, William seems to think Cherie has recovered from whatever insanity or depression spell she was under, but I know she’s unhappy still and has been for some time. I wish I could say that William’s growing love for her blinds him to her actual state, but the truth is that he’s always been a stranger to her heart.”
“I’ll have to call on her soon,” I said, leaning in to hug her. “Rest assured she’ll not get more of the solution. I doubt Franklin or the Hoppers are anywhere near the state.” I hoped I was right, that they were safe.
“I’m not worried.” She patted my back. “Cherie will learn to live, if not in happiness, in contentedness. Eventually the baby will make her happy and she’ll be fine. I’m more concerned with all of you. I heard about Alevia’s dismissal and Bessie’s failed relationship with that Blaine fellow.” She pulled away and lifted her palm to my cheek. “You’ve always been the strong one. You and Mae. But you’ve lost so much, Virginia.” I stared at her, expecting to feel the grief hit me, but when it didn’t engulf me, I realized the shock of John’s disappearance was dulling. Subconsciously I suppose I’d begun to accept the fact that I’d likely never see him again.
“I’m all right. I have my writing and they’ll never fully disappear in my stories.”
“Ah. I see,” she said. And she did. Her daughter lived through her art like me.
“I better be going, but I do hope you’ll call on us soon,” I said.
“And I will,” she said, squeezing my hand. “My thoughts are with you, dear Virginia.” I tipped my head and walked away, fleetingly wishing that a little of her grace would rub off on Mother.
I clenched my fingers into my palm. Why had Franklin been dealt such a horrible fate? I bit the inside of my lip to keep from screaming in frustration.
“Ginny!” A deep familiar voice startled me, echoing between the rows of homes and over the whir of the trolley as it whizzed past. He was wearing a felt bowler over his curly brown hair, eyes piercing mine. I stopped in the middle of the road, heart pumping in my chest, and then he smiled. Without thinking, I ran to him, purple satin skirt whipping around my legs, lungs jabbing against my stays, and then I was in his arms.
“Charlie . . . I’m so glad you’re here.” Half-crying, I ducked my head to hide it, but he tilted my chin up.
“What did I tell you about tears?” He laughed under his breath and I grinned at him, comforted by his presence. Charlie was one of the few people, if a person was lucky enough to have one at all, that you may not see for months, even years, but the minute you saw them, it was as if nothing had changed.
“I’m sure even Irving would’ve grown irritated with my tears by now,” I said. Charlie’s arms clutched hard around my back, pulling me closer.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been here, Gin. I came the moment I heard.” I sighed. It had been a month since the Times article. I doubted he’d just heard.
“It’s not your responsibility to comfort me,” I said without thinking, not intending to sound so sharp. John had been my near fiancé; he was supposed to comfort me. But he hadn’t even cared enough to write. Charlie’s eyes flashed cold.
“Of course it is,” he said. “I . . . I love you.” The words shocked me. I hadn’t heard them in so long that I didn’t realize I was gaping at him until he laughed. “What? You thought I’d forgotten about you? I already told you that would be impossible.” Leaning down, he hesitated, then kissed my forehead. His mustache tickled my skin and I closed my eyes, remembering the last time we’d been this close. “God, I’ve missed you,” he whispered. “To think you’ve been by yourself all this time. I was away, in Europe. Rachel and I . . . we both needed a break. I went alone and just returned last week. I’m sorry I let you down.”
“Charlie, it’s all right,” I said, trying to pull away. “And, you haven’t let me down. You’ve done so much for me, with Tom and The Century . . . it was generous, what you did.” I found it rather silly that he thought he had to be there for me. He shouldn’t be holding me like this. He was married. He had his wife to look out for.
“Oh. So Alevia told you.” A grin touched his lips. “I suppose I told her she could if my efforts were successful. I knew it was your work. I was on my way to the ship, but I couldn’t bear to leave until I’d had a word with Mr. Blaine.”
“Thank you,” I said. I started to shift his arm from my waist, but he refused to let me go.
“Regardless, my absence is not all right.” His palm flattened on my back. “We’ve always helped each other through, Gin. I’m never going to stop and I know you wouldn’t if it were me.” At once, our memories flipped through my mind—us as six-year-olds hiding in the cabinet in his library working on our project for the Centennial time capsule, the sweet fragrance of the lily of the valley he’d picked for me after the first time he held my hand—and I knew he was right. We’d always be linked by our history, like it or not. If the same had happened to him, I would be there.
“I know, but you have other—”
“No. Listen to me.” He cut me off. “I told you before and I meant it. Marrying Rachel was the biggest mistake I could’ve ever made. It’s my fault and I know that. But you and I need each other, Ginny, and as hard as I’ve tried, I still love you.” His eyes searched mine, pleading. My stomach fluttered. As much as I’d tried to forget him, as much as I’d tried to convince myself that my love for him had deadened, I’d never truly stopped.
“I love you, too,” I said softly, though I had to force the words. It wasn’t only that I didn’t want to tell him; I didn’t want to love him. Even though he’d been mine long before he’d been Rachel’s, he was still married to a woman who adored him, and if John hadn’t disappeared, I would have been near married myself. Charlie exhaled in relief and hugged me close.
“I suppose Mother would have told me if you’d had, but have you heard from Frank at all?”
“No.” I hated lying to him. A year ago I would’ve told him. But things had changed.
“I’m so sorry, Ginny. He couldn’t have done it, at least not intentionally. I hope he’s somewhere safe.” His face was serious, forehead crinkled in worry. He’d grown up with Frank and loved him. He also knew how close we were. I stared at Charlie, waiting for him to ask after John, too, to ask how my heart was faring, but he didn’t. Perhaps his distaste for John ran as deeply as John’s for Charlie, or perhaps it was simply that he didn’t want to hear my answer.
“Me too.” I pulled away a little and Charlie let me, but kept his fingers gripped on my arms. I glanced at Charlie’s house, eyes scanning across the porch to the library window. It seemed like decades ago that I’d stood looking out of it, thinking that he was about to propose to me. That was the first night my life had been rattled out of place and the last time anything had made sense. I looked away, but not before Charlie noticed and followed the path of my eyes.
“Ginny.” He turned back to me, eyes dark with a heaviness I couldn’t place. He lifted his hand, fingers trailing up my neck to rest against the side of my face. “Every time I think of that night, I hate myself.” His voice was coarse with strain. I knew he was telling the truth. Even though I’d never forget it, the pain felt distant. “You have to know that when I . . . when I proposed that night, everything, all of the things I said about her, they were about you.” Goose bumps rose along my arms and I looked at him, stunned. I could still remember every word and hear his voice shaking as he said them.
“Please say something,” Charlie said. A cluster of children rode down the street on their wheels, one of them wobbling unsteadily behind the rest. He held me closer, smoothing the hair back from my face. I didn’t know what to do. “I wanted so badly to disregard Mother. To just turn to you and take you in my arms and tell you that I wanted you so much that I’d die if you wouldn’t have me. Well, I’ve died all right.”
“Don’t say that,” I said. His words reminded me of Frank’s and I couldn’t bear the weight. “I’ve wanted to hear you say that for so long. Thank you. But it’s too late for us.” The last words came out in a whisper and he stared at me in disbelief.
“No, it’s not,” he said. “The whole time I was away, I thought about what I’d do when I returned. I want to divorce her. I don’t care what people think. I just want you, Gin.” Without warning, he kissed me. His lips were soft, opening my mouth slowly. He tasted like cinnamon, like the candy his mother kept in the drawing room, and I clutched the back of his head, unthinking, forcing his mouth into mine, and he groaned. The sound jarred me out of the moment and I stepped away. It wasn’t right.
“I can’t. You can’t do this, Charlie. It’s been too long. It’s too late.” His lips fell and he shook his head.
“You keep saying that, but I promise it’s not. I’ll have the papers drawn up tomorrow and filed by next week.” He said the words so quickly, I stared at him for a moment trying to process them.
“I’ll always love you,” I said. “But I can’t.” Charlie pulled away from me. His hands fell to his sides, jaw working, as if he were either about to punch something or cry. A year ago, I would have accepted him without hesitation, but I’d changed. His words, his ardent promises reminded me of John’s. At once John’s face flashed in my mind—the last time I’d seen him, the last time I likely ever would—every line etched in desire and pain. My heart wrenched. He and Charlie had both said they loved me, but I could no longer stake my future on broken promises. As much as I wanted to trust Charlie, I couldn’t. And over time, I’d learned that I didn’t need to. I had my writing to fulfill me, to give me purpose.
“Why?” he barked, voice cracking. “For the love of god, Virginia. Am I to be punished for the rest of my life for the one mistake I’ve made?” He started to reach for me, but thought better of it, leaving his hand hovering in the air.
“No,” I said, though I knew the real answer was probably yes. Unfortunately, I’d recently found that the decisions we made could either ruin or save us entirely. Franklin, wherever he was, understood that well.
“I swear I will go insane. You’re mine, damn it. I’m yours. I always have been. Every time I see you it’s the most euphoric, miserable torture. Please. I’m begging you.” I wanted him. I always would, but I couldn’t concede. I suddenly remembered my book, what I’d imagined would happen if he ever came back to me. Even if I said yes, it wouldn’t be as simple as he was claiming it would be. He would go back and forth between Rachel and me, between his love for me and his responsibility to her. I was stronger than I’d been before. I couldn’t say yes. I’d given both him and John my heart and they’d fractured it. It wasn’t whole and I didn’t know if I could bear to give it away again for fear it would shatter.
“I just can’t, Charlie. Not right now. Maybe . . . maybe someday.”
“Someday when we’re old and sickly and gray?” He laughed once, though his eyes were heavy.
“Perhaps,” I said. “Maybe then things won’t be so complicated.” I stood on my tiptoes and kissed his cheek. I stayed there for a moment, feeling the warmth of his skin against mine.
“I don’t know how I’ll live until then.”
“We’re strong, you and I,” I said, remembering Franklin telling the story of my grandfather. “We’ll be all right,” I said. Charlie shook his head, his hands pressed to my back.
“Or you could marry me now,” he said softly. “We wouldn’t have to go through life alone.”
“You know it’s not going to be as easy as you think,” I said honestly. He started to open his mouth to argue with me, but I clapped my hand over his lips. “I love you and know you’ll always love me. That’s enough for me right now. I wouldn’t be able to take it if it didn’t work out the way we planned. Regardless of what you say, it would be difficult, and Rachel . . . it wouldn’t be right.” I pulled his head down to mine, pecking his mouth once before taking his hand.
“Come with me,” I said. “This house needs some cheering.”
I turned to lead him up the rest of the walk and into the cold tomb that had become my home.