The jammed cable car had let Cole off three blocks from the William Penn Ballroom, and walking the crowded streets in his tuxedo wasn’t his idea of enjoyment. He attracted hand-over-mouth giggles from a band of schoolgirls and smirking appraisals from their mothers. Couldn’t a man stroll down Forbes Avenue in peace?
The frigid wind, sodden with exhaust fumes, bit his face, and he ducked his chin into his starched collar. He turned the corner onto Cherry Way and came toe to toe with a millionaire.
“Mr. Shelby.” Surprise edged his voice, and warmth flooded his chest as Cole stuck out his hand to the man who’d inspired a lot of his early articles, though none had been published. “How do you do, sir?”
The older man’s mustache twitched until recognition struck his eyes like the gust of air that stole through Cole’s overcoat. “Cole the menace.” Grinning, Shelby withdrew his hand from his pocket, a handkerchief spilling out onto the sidewalk. “I thought you were terrorizing New York. You didn’t come back to peek in my windows again, did you, boy?”
The fragrance of wildflowers assaulted Cole’s nostrils. He drew in a breath and spun on his heel. No Elissa. Only a group of men huddled outside the barbershop, smoking. He palmed the back of his neck. Crazy. He was going crazy.
“Something the matter?” Shelby stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket, eyeing Cole with a raised brow.
“I’m being haunted by a woman.” All there was to it. When he’d remained three hundred miles away in New York, the tremors of emotion had been manageable, but with his desk now only three feet from hers … the fierce current pulled. Like standing a yard from a tornado. Being sucked in was inevitable.
“Females. They do that, don’t they?” His focus traveled over Cole’s shoulder, and his mouth flattened into a grim line. “Hard to understand too. Even after thirty-five years of marriage.”
Flickers of sadness shone in his former mentor’s gray eyes. The heavy scent which punched Cole’s senses a moment ago deadened, intensifying his confusion. “And to answer your first question, no. I gave up snooping around kooky inventors’ homes.” He fixed a smile on his face. “Did I ever thank you for not ratting me out to Mr. Tillman?”
“Ah, that was forever ago when you were a nosy delivery boy. Now you’re a nosy reporter.” Shelby’s throaty chuckle followed. He withdrew a cigarette case. “I read your column every day.” He snagged a smoke stick and offered one to Cole. “Impressive stuff.”
Cole raised a hand in refusal. “Thank you, sir, but not nearly as impressive as all those inventions you came up with during the war. The scaled-steel bulletproof vests? That was genius.” The flow of pedestrians thickened, and Cole shifted to the edge of the sidewalk. “I never knew one man could sell so many patents to the government.”
Shelby lit his cigarette and shook out the match, tossing it to the ground. “It’s only money. Paper with ink on it. No different than your newspapers.”
No different. Right. “Except one holds value, and the other holds articles.”
Shelby released a puff of smoke and regarded him with an easy smile, his cheeks tinged pink from the crisp air. “But both hold a considerable amount of influence and power.”
“Indeed.”
He glanced over Cole’s shoulder again and narrowed his eyes. “Best be going. I have a late meeting to attend.”
From the deep scowl on his face, it appeared to be an unpleasant sort of meeting. If Shelby’s office—which doubled as a workshop—was located north on Reed Street, why was the man traveling south? “Did you move operations?”
“No.” He raised his chin, and an odd spark of what appeared to be determination tightened his features. “I’ve no plans of going to my place tonight. It’s time to meet them at their headquarters.” His voice sharpened on the word ‘headquarters,’ and the awkward shift in demeanor reminded Cole of past conversations with this inventor. The man would speak as if you were privy to his thoughts but leave you as blank as a fresh roll of newsprint paper.
“Who are ‘them,’ sir? Are you working with someone on a new project?”
“I can’t say at present.” The breeze gusted, smacking his coat collar against his neck, and he adjusted it. “Good seeing you, Cole the menace. Stop by sometime. You still got your key? I remember how tickled you were when I gave it to you.”
“I’ve got it tucked away, Mr. Shelby.” Tucked away in his wallet, but he wouldn’t let the man know. It was one thing to be sentimental about an influential gent taking you under his wing like Tillman had, but another to be mushy about it.
“Remember when I tutored you for that science exam? That was a special time for me.” He took a long drag on his cigarette. “I still have it, you know.”
“The test?” At the time, Cole hadn’t the money to buy anything for Shelby as a thank you, and so Cole’d gifted him the exam.
“It’s on my desk.”
Cole’s brows edged higher. With Shelby attaining major success, it would seem that tutoring a poor newsie would’ve been easily forgotten. “I’m thankful you helped me, sir. If it wasn’t for you, I’d still be in ninth grade.”
“Well, well.” Shelby rocked on his heels and nearly collided with an old woman shielding her face from the wind. “It was good times, as I mentioned.”
“Be certain you tell Hank that I’ll be stopping by the office to challenge him in another round of chess. I’ve improved since the last time we played.”
“He moved to Kansas a few years back to be near family. I have a new lab assistant now. Matthew’s not as experienced as old Hank, but he’s astute. Just what I need.”
“I’m looking forward to meeting him.”
“Matthew is a private person. Likes to keep to himself. Oh, before I forget, there’s a small matter of a motorcycle.” He dipped his chin, peering at Cole from above the rims of his glasses. “I was under the impression I’d be holding it only a year.”
Cole’s jaw slackened. “You still have my Triumph? I was sure it’d been scrapped by now.” That two-wheeled chariot had taken a lot of punishment during Cole’s teenage years, but he’d gladly take it back, even in pieces.
Shelby’s false annoyance faded into rich laughter. “No, I still have it. I may have tinkered with it here and there, replaced a couple parts. Honestly, you should be thankful Jeffrey hasn’t demolished it yet.”
“Say, how’s Jeffrey these days?” Cole had met the only Shelby child a handful of times. Must be in his late twenties now.
“Like I said, Cole, stop by and we can go to lunch. I really must be on my way.” He tipped his hat and strolled off.
“I’d like that. Good day.” Cole called after a rapidly retreating Mr. Shelby.
The man acknowledged him with a raised hand but never looked back. Odd fellow, that one. Acted like he’d never heard Cole inquire after his son. But Cole wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to dine with the famous Mr. Shelby. Eccentricities and all. Cole would even foot the bill, especially if it meant a chance to pick at the inventor’s brain. It’d be well worth the two-dollar lamb chops at the Penn Hotel.
A car horn blasted from down the street, snapping Cole back to his original mission. The gala.
Cole entered the ballroom, and by doing so, stepped into tradition. Forty years of “Appreciation Galas,” as Mrs. Tillman called them, though Cole had only been present for nine, counting this one.
Gold ribbons of light unfurled from the swollen globes gracing the ivory pillars. But the queen of the room was the chandelier, postured with grandeur and brilliance as if it upheld the ceiling rather than being suspended from it. The glossy oak floor boasted more layers of wax than all the heads of Cole’s old bosses back in New York. He never put that glop in his hair, even for swanky parties such as this.
“Mr. Parker.” A female voice bled into his musings. Irene Harper approached, clopping heels matching the pace of a frenzied racehorse. “I am so glad I ran into you.”
“Good evening, Miss Harper.” Cole dipped his chin. “It’s been a while since we last met.”
“Too long.” Her lips slanted, and her heavily sequined dress dulled in comparison to the sparkle in her brown eyes. “Not since high school. But back then, we ran in different circles.”
Circles as in social classes. In those days, Irene Harper wouldn’t have been found dead chatting with the poor son of a nobody. Seems Cole’s job at the Dispatch had elevated his status in her opinion.
“I came over to tell you”—she placed a gloved hand on his bicep—“that I loved your article. Adored it.”
His brow spiked, and he stepped back, her fingers falling to her side. “You enjoyed the article about an execution?”
“Oh no.” Her beaming grin dimmed, pink dusting her cheeks. “The one from yesterday. I had no clue the women’s shelter was being foreclosed on.”
“Ah, I see.”
“How did you discover this before the broadcast of the radio bulletin?” A note of awe sprinkled her tone.
Luck. The spread of gossip rivaled the speed of light, especially in a cramped apartment complex. He hadn’t expected any truth to the claim, but when he’d called the shelter, the manager had confirmed it. But leaking sources was bad form. “Right place at the right time, Miss Harper.” Nothing like a journalist using an overdone cliché.
Her high-pitched laugh clashed with the music as she angled herself in a flattering way. “I told my father, and he’s going to make a donation.” The words themselves innocent, but the heavy batting of eyelashes spoke danger.
“That’s kind of him.” The Harpers not only possessed considerable wealth but also had been the prominent patrons of the Review for decades. “Please relay my thanks.”
“With pleasure, Mr. Parker.” She fingered a sequin on her neckline. “If you ever need inspiration for a story, there’s always something going on at the medical center where I volunteer. I’d be happy to give you a personal tour.”
“Thank you. I’ll keep it in mind.”
She smiled again, and her gaze drifted to the dance floor. “I always love the Review parties. I rarely get a chance to dance.”
An aggravating ultimatum stretched before him—encourage the flirtatious millionaire by indulging her with a dance or receive a rebuke from Tillman for disappointing the darling of the family who supported the paper. “I believe, Miss Harper, that—”
“Cole.” Mrs. Tillman appeared, stepping between him and Miss Harper. “I have an issue I must discuss with you.” With poised grace, she shifted her attention to the younger girl, whose smile faltered then renewed. “Excuse us, please, Irene. It’s a pressing matter.”
“But of course.” Miss Harper dipped her chin and retreated to corner another notable bachelor.
Cole couldn’t celebrate the victory of escaping Miss Harper because now he faced a worse scenario than an awkward dance with a shiny-eyed girl. After his last encounter with Mrs. Tillman, he’d decided it’d be best to avoid her this evening. He resisted the annoying urge to tug his collar. “What can I help you with, Mrs. Tillman?”
Her lips curved in a gentle way. “I want to apologize for the way I received you yesterday evening. I was surprised at your coming and didn’t respond appropriately. Will you forgive me?”
The gift of words ran deep in him, from smoothing his way out of trouble to flattering his way into high society. But here, in front of Elissa’s mother, talent deserted him. She asked him to forgive her? After all he’d done to the two people she loved so dear? She couldn’t know the motivation behind his actions. No one knew except him and God.
She patted his arm, softness flooding her eyes as if she understood his struggle. “Please know, Cole, you’re welcome in my home anytime.”
“Glad to hear it, Mrs. Tillman.” Arrogance flavored his speech, and he despised it. Why couldn’t he sound thankful or genuine? Even as his stomach soured, her small mouth tipped into a soft smile before she joined her husband’s side. Only ten feet beyond the parents stood the daughter. In another man’s arms.
Cole’s chest tightened at the sight of Elissa dancing with Kendrew. Her golden-hued gown accentuated her figure. Her hair, swept up with combs, revealed the graceful curve of her neck. A few curls framed her face, stealing his attention. Like the night Elissa had coaxed him to dance the Castle Walk with her despite Cole’s busted thumb from a baseball injury that morning. They’d had an open field for a dance floor and crickets for an orchestra. He hadn’t been able to peel his gaze from her then and couldn’t now.
Kendrew’s hold tightened on her waist, his mouth bending to her ear, whispering. Cole’s heart iced over, reality freezing his veins. If Elissa had moved on, then he should too.
She spotted him, and her neck, so elegant a moment ago, strained. He swallowed a groan and joined the handful of newsmen by the refreshment table.
“Here, Parker.” Frank shoved a glass of sparkling juice into Cole’s hand.
“It’s been a while. Glad to have you back.” Henry, the longtime copywriter, lifted his glass in cheers. “I never thought we’d see you again. The New York Dispatch.” He let out a low whistle. “Why you’d leave there to come back to this place, I’ll never understand.”
“It was time for a change.” Cole took a sip and smiled. “Besides, you riff-raff are more of my kind of company. You wouldn’t believe this, Frank, but there wasn’t a spittoon in sight.”
Frank chuckled and smacked his rotund belly. “Ah, no wonder you came back. Them uppers don’t know how to live.”
Kendrew and Elissa joined their small group. Could the man grip her any closer to his side? You couldn’t slide a typewriter ribbon between them. A growl stalked around Cole’s chest. Dancing with Miss Harper seemed more pleasant than enduring Kendrew’s calf eyes at Elissa.
“Evening, Cole.” Kendrew nodded with a satisfied smirk.
He dipped his chin in response. What was Kendrew trying to communicate with that gesture? Cole’s eyes strained from the challenge of keeping them from narrowing. Of all the delightful people in the world, why did Elissa pick the one who’d provoked Cole the most? He should’ve exposed the clown years ago.
Elissa flicked a glance at him then locked her stare on his boutonniere. A yellow rose. Just like the one adorning her gown. Her brow lowered and then hiked, blue eyes hazed as if contemplating Cole’s motive. Their gazes connected, and she broke the moment, training her focus on the table beside them.
Conversation lulled among the group, awkwardness setting in.
Elissa’s attention snagged on an older man with a thick mustache. “Bartek.” She motioned for him to join their circle. “Did you bring the Graflex? I’d love a picture of the table centerpieces. Greta loves gardenias.”
“Not tonight. The missus made me leave everything fun at home.” Bartek nodded toward the opposite side of the room where his wife chatted with Mrs. Tillman. “Don’t even have my tobacco.”
“Too bad, Elissa.” Adam patted her hand like she was a toddler. “That might have also been good for your little society column.”
Little?
Fiery flecks lit Elissa’s eyes, and Cole all but cringed. Growing up, there’d been many a night when Elissa had filled Cole’s ears with her dreams of being a success in a man’s world. No way could she be satisfied with a monthly editorial with a masculine byline. Because with Elissa it’d always been about something big. Getting the big article. Then having a big career. Kendrew couldn’t have chosen a more condescending word.
Elissa nudged a warning to Adam and snuck a glance at Cole. Did she truly think Cole was oblivious to her writings? Elissa penning under the byline of Elliot Wentworth could be no more of a secret to Cole than Samuel Clemens for Mark Twain.
Frank leaned over, his vest buttons pulling taut, and lowered his voice. “My nephew is a bellhop here. Says there’s a speakeasy under the lobby. Complete with a tunnel leading outside in case of a raid. Ironic, huh? A swanky place like this is also a juice hall. Want to go check it out?”
Speakeasy. Drink. The words pulsed in Cole’s skull.