Twisted River Page 24

  The rest of the room stood silent, eight typists now openly staring. Rosalea stood with arms folded beside her desk, ready to pounce when signaled. Half a dozen reporters including Stanley crowded around the newsroom door.

  Reuben rocked back on his heels, flexed his fingers around his satchel strap, and exhaled. He was making a scene. Well, who cared? It had been a hot minute since he made a scene and inside he was a balloon of unhampered emotion ready to burst.

  He stepped around the desk, wrapped his hand behind Hazel’s neck, and kissed her hard. To his right, someone gasped.

  “Radford!”

  He straightened up to find Smithson leering in the center of the doorway, eyebrows pressed together with a glare likely to burn that day’s edition. When he released Hazel, she sank into her chair with a shudder, fingers typing furiously and face burning. All other eyes were on him.

  “What in the blue blazes is wrong with you, Radford?” Smithson yelled, his face redder than Hazel’s. “Are you drunk?”

  “No, sir, Mr. Smithson, stone cold sober,” Reuben asserted. “Give me my own beat. You know I can write as well as any of these half-wits.”

  “You’ll get beat all right, but not with the paper. Get back to your desk before you don’t have one to return to.”

  For once Reuben did as he was told.

  ~~~

  Twelve hours later—long after every other reporter made for home and not one with a holiday greeting towards him—Reuben lingered in the shadowed newsroom with a cigar between his teeth and Geraldine Murphy’s obituary on his desk.

  That afternoon, while his thoughts were still wrapped up in Hazel, Reuben interviewed Geraldine’s parents in their cottage outside the city. Having been deserted by her intended, their daughter suffered a nervous breakdown and threw herself into the Mississippi. A twenty-four-year-old girl dead three days before Christmas. The body still hadn’t been recovered.

  “She was attending St. Louis University,” Her mother tearfully acknowledged. “Not many women are admitted. Why wasn’t it enough?”

  “She would have married eventually,” her father said. “To think that she felt so alone ... it doesn’t reason. She had us. She had her sisters. We loved her.”

  Reuben accepted the coffee mug they offered without drinking. “Grief can make it difficult to remember what you still have.”

  Her mother nodded. “You still grieve someone close to you?”

  “Too many,” he replied. “My parents. My sister. My best mate. ... far too many.”

  “Tell them you love them.”

  “Who?”

  “Whoever you have left.” Mrs. Murphy tapped a finger to her nose with a heartrending smile. “Tell them you love them. Make amends. Take it from a mother—there’s no greater time to love than Christmas.”

  Tell them you love them.

  Reuben hadn’t told them often enough. Not his parents nor his sister when they were alive. He simply ran out of days. Proclaiming his love to their gravestone was not the final endearment they deserved.

  Make amends.

  How many did he need to ask for forgiveness from? How often had he made an unwise decision and hurt those he loved the most? Too often to count.

  The newsroom clock read twenty past eleven. If he hurried, he could make it to St. Francis de Sales’ Christmas mass by midnight. He wasn’t exactly dressed in his Sunday best—his shoes were scuffed and his jacket didn’t match his trousers—but it had also been months since he stepped foot in a church. He doubted God would mind what he wore.

  He would do as Mr. Murphy asked. He would sleep in his own bed tonight and wake with the sun. He would make amends with those who needed it most and apologize to Hazel under the mistletoe come morning.

  After all, there was no greater time to love again than Christmas.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Massaging discomfort from her lower back, Maggie hefted herself up from the bedroom writing desk where she had finally finished penning a letter to Amara.

  One toll of the clock. Half past eleven on Christmas Eve. Time to play Father Christmas then to blessed sleep. She would have settled down at the same hour as the girls but feared she wouldn’t wake in time to play the red-suited hero. Molly and Isa would have scampered downstairs on Christmas morning to no presents and end Santa Claus fantasy at the tender ages of five and three. That would have only ruined the holiday.

  Her outstretched fingers brushed the packages on the top shelf of the wardrobe when, in the upstairs hallway, a bedroom door closed and soft footsteps descended the stairs. Those girls still believe they can outwit me, she thought. They had begged her to sleep beside the Christmas tree until Maggie insisted they sleep in their own bed or Santa would never come. Although, she understood how they felt after the excitement of the day.

  As though he hadn’t already done enough, Reuben ordered a small Christmas tree to be delivered earlier that morning, and the girls whiled away the afternoon stringing popcorn and cranberry garland and singing carols. Afraid Molly might overexert herself, Maggie insisted the girls assemble from the security of the sofa and leave her to the actual trimming. When they were finished, the top listed slightly and the garland was haphazardly spaced, but its electric lights glowed against their grandmother’s hand-painted ornaments and she found it beyond beautiful. With tender voices, her stepdaughters read the nativity story from their worn family Bible, and she tucked the carved baby Jesus in to sleep with Molly exactly as Tena had done for so many years. When they insisted on extra kisses, she obliged willingly. If this was to be the only Christmas she shared with those girls, she wanted it to be magical.

  Nudging the presents back into their hiding place, Maggie tiptoed down the stairs, determined to catch the girls in the act. Halfway down she paused, confused by the gentle humming of O Come All Ye Faithful floating from the living room in a tenor too low for either Molly or Isa. Inside the front door set a stack of luggage and a familiar collection of camera cases.

  Mr. Frye? she wondered. At this late hour? Had he brought Emma home? She gripped the banister for support as her pulse quickened and the baby flipped in her womb. With cautious steps, she descended the final five stairs and paused in the doorway.

  Her eyes swiveled the room, reached into every darkened corner and behind every shadow, only there was no one else present. No one except the man stooping beneath the Christmas tree, five small presents in his arms, the lights of the tree casting a gentle glow upon his unkempt crimson locks. Hugo continued to hum the old-time carol, his heels bouncing with the rhythm.

  Maggie’s heart plummeted. To be so pleased, he must have reconciled with Emma. Although it appeared he had at least been delicate enough to keep the woman at a hotel until morning—when he could break the news to his second wife himself. She would at least thank him for that.

  Straightening up, he stepped back to rake his gaze up and down the tree. “I never expected her to do something like this.”

  The baby pressed hard into Maggie’s stomach at the same time something firm and terrible clenched inside her. It latched onto her breastbone and clawed its way up to settle behind her eyes. She had a dozen questions, likely more, only her voice wouldn’t obey.

  Hugo adjusted a fallen garland and caught sight of her lingering in the doorway. “Merry Christmas, Miss Margaret,” he smiled. “The tree looks incredible.”

  His expression was nearly electric with excitement—so unlike any amount of happiness he had shown before—that Maggie lost every ounce of her reserve. In that tiny pocket of time while they stared at one another from across the room, she forgot to be steadfast in her strength. The fear of the last month enveloped her—the utter terror of Molly’s illness, the anxiety of being overrun by Emma, and the overwhelming apprehension of bearing her child at the women’s home alone. She pursed her lips around the admission that she invited another man into their home and he made a highly adequate substitute husband. With one exception—Reuben wasn’t the man she pledged seven years
of her life to. Now that man she had truly missed.

  She missed Mr. Frye? Utter nonsense. She couldn’t. He wasn’t hers to yearn for.

  Hugo cautiously stepped towards her. His smile wavered. Nervous fingers caught in his hair. “I’m sorry the hour is so late. The train was delayed, and I carried Henry up to bed first thing. Did we wake you?” When she didn’t respond, his hand slipped into his pocket. It emerged holding a gold ring fashioned with a diamond and flowers on either side—her wedding ring. She puzzled why he hadn’t given it to Emma.

  Hugo blinked slowly, something undistinguishable hidden in his viridian stare. He drew a deep breath and offered her the ring. “I want another six years. Please.”

  Six years, she thought? But that was impossible.

  Nothing is impossible, a voice ticked in her head. Don’t you understand, Maggie? There is no Emma. If you want to, you and your baby can stay.

  Tears cascaded down her cheeks and she hid her face behind her fingers, turning away to sob like a child. It didn’t make anything better when Hugo’s sturdy arms enclosed around her. He smelled of the stink of travel, like leather luggage, railway soot, and photography chemicals. Like someone who hadn’t bathed in a week. He must have ridden for days on the train and paid extra in order to arrive before Christmas.

  “Is it so terrible to see me?” he asked gently.

  His warm breath brushed her ear, and Maggie shook her head, embarrassed as her untamed hair flew, for all she could do was cling to him and cry.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “Fröhliche Weihnachten, Herr Kisch, and a merry Christmas.”

  “Danke, Herr Rothschmitt. Fröhliche Weihnachten.” Karl Kisch tipped his hat to the gentleman holding the door open to St. Francis de Sales Catholic Church. The clang of bells peeled in the tower above, announcing the final ten minutes before Midnight Mass would begin.

  Heeling the snow from her boots, Tena followed the Kischs through the church’s ornately carved double doors, all the while willing her tension to melt like the snow dripping from her shoes. After her unintended dip in the Grand Basin and the week that followed, she could certainly use a bit of spiritual intercession.

  From what she had gathered from Emil’s account, he, Stanley, and Reuben dragged her from the water, not Charles as she believed at the time. She had been delirious, talking nonsense the entire ride home. They could barely rouse her enough to ease her from Earhart’s motorcar; however, after a bath, a warm blanket, and some chamomile tea, she slept peacefully through the night.

  Being Emil—and always ready for an elaborate tale—the account also included one too many colorful phrases plus nonsense riddles with quite a few laughs for good measure. Only he could make her near demise sound a skit worthy of the theatre. Karl said the humor was because Emil had been scared out of his wits the entire time, and it only added to Tena’s love for him.

  For a week after, the family treated her like a delicate egg that could shatter at any moment. No one breathed a word about the incident or Charles or her father or Maggie or anything that had the slightest possibility to invoke negative emotions. The fewer questions the better. Simple replies were best. They hadn’t acted so cautious since she arrived fresh off Titanic. But they also hadn’t thought she was a hair’s breadth away from doing herself in before, either.

  Sliding into the narrow church pew, she settled herself between Friedrich and Emil and craned her neck to stare up at the dazzling cathedral ceiling. Decorated columns rose into intersecting arches between rose-shaded frescoes, everything leading her eye down to the main altar. Tucked on either side of the central worship space were smaller altars, one honoring the Blessed Virgin Mary and the other for St. Joseph, the Carpenter.

  “Impressive, is it not?” Fred whispered. “Were you most aware that this church’s construction was modeled after the tallest church in the world, Ulm Minster? In addition, the entrance portal is an exact replica of the one in Munich Cathedral.” He pointed discreetly towards the altar’s vibrant artwork. “All of the frescos were created by Fridolin Fuchs—ow!”

  Friedrich rubbed his arm where Emil had reached across Tena to pinch him. He shot his brother a loathsome glare to which Emil merely grinned. “You’re boring the lady with your history lesson, Professor.”

  “Stille, both of you,” Elsa scolded. The pew returned to silence as organ strains beckoned the congregation rise for the processional.

  The sweet perfume of incense rose as the processional passed, its aroma mixing with the lingering scent of four-year hewn timber and the slight must of hymnals. At this hour, only darkness lay beyond the stained glass, but Tena imagined how exquisite the space would shine with the sun. A thousand colorful rays of light would flow over the congregation, and even though the ceiling rose into shadow above them, not one person would feel small.

  For far too many months, she had lived without faith in much of anything. Not since the Sunday evening service on Titanic—four hours before Charles handed her a book of poetry and kissed her goodbye forever. She read that one marked poem every night before she closed her eyes, the words now dedicated to memory. They played as sacred as a hymn, as though the words were written for the very melody played in the church loft above her.

  Wait not the night for me / If the sun refuse to shine

  If the grass does cease to grow / If the music loses rhyme

  The glorious organ strains swirled deep inside, and in a place she had closed off from herself a door opened. Only a crack, the tiniest amount, but enough. Enough to pry open and free her weary heart.

  Wait not the night for me / If my tomorrow never starts

  If the dark goes on forever / If death has pierced my heart

  Wait not the night for me / It wouldn’t do you any good

  To spend life waiting for my heart / When to have me you never could

  A week and a day ago, she was certain Charles was the only man she could ever love as she had, the only person to make her heart sing as he did. A week and a day ago, the pain of abandonment was still fresh as a new wound—from Charles, from her parents, from Maggie, even from God. She lived with only a toe grounded in truth and the others dangling over the edge. Then a week ago, she saw Charles under the Grand Basin’s murky water, believed he saved her, and thought she kissed him. An illusion; however, an effective one. It planted all ten of her toes on the ground and slowly moved her forward for the first time since that dreaded day on Titanic.

  Wait not the night for me / For when the day is done

  To love you was to have loved you / And our hearts shall be forever one.

  Tena’s heart soared, lighter than it had in years. She sang the Latin hymns and chanted the unfamiliar prayers and finally offered thanks for a night in a lifeboat and the man who forced her into it without him.

  “There it is, Tena.” Elbows propped on Titanic’s stern rail, Charles had pointed into the radiant brushstrokes of the ship’s final setting sun. “Can you see it?” he urged.

  Tena strained to locate anything in the open water. “What am I looking for?”

  Charles grinned, his face alight like Emil’s when he told a joke. “The future,” he breathed. He kissed the back of her fingers and placed her hand in the crook of his arm. “Our future. It is as bright as the sun.”

  All Tena saw were the ripples of miles and miles of ocean waves. The future to her was still a world away. “When will it start?”

  “Do you not know, meine liebe? It has already begun.”

  ~~~

  When mass concluded, Tena followed the Kischs down the expansive aisle and out into the cold December night. A full moon lit the church steps—and her future—with the same hope Charles must have felt staring into the setting sun on Titanic. The moon was but a reflection of the sun, a suggestion of all the joy her life might one day hold. There was eternal loveliness in her short time with Charles; she would carry its magic with her always. Then one blessed day, many miles down the road, perhaps God would shine that same e
nchantment with someone else.

  Perhaps it was time to forgive God for how her life had altered. Maybe with His help, she could forgive everyone including herself.

  She was halfway to Karl’s motorcar when someone tapped her shoulder. “You were honestly going to walk right past me without so much as a ‘Happy Christmas’?”

  Tena spun with a smile, knowing she would see the familiar chocolate eyes that stared back at her now. “Reuben Radford,” she cried. “Whyever are you here? You’re not Catholic.” Praise the heavens he was though. She hadn’t yet had a chance to thank him for his part in her rescue.

  “Neither are you,” Reuben winked.

  “You lousy bloke, what are you doing here?” Emil, having now noticed Tena lagging behind, walked up with Fred at the same time Winnie tackled into Reuben. Her skinny arms looped his waist with her enormous smile. “We missed you,” she giggled.

  “Some of us more than others,” Emil said. “Twice in one week, mate? You might want to lower the frequency.” He frowned, but then his upper lip lifted into a smirk. “Happy Christmas, mate.”

  Reuben reached around Winnie to clasp Emil’s hand. “I had a few issues to get off my chest with the man upstairs. Besides, I wanted to be the first to wish your family Fröhliche Weihnachten.”

  “Sorry, mate. Herr Rothschmitt claimed that honor at the door.”

  “Upstaged by a man thrice my age,” Reuben declared with a shake of his head. “Winnie, between us, can we pretend I was first?”

  “’Course.” She motioned for him to bend closer. “Do you think Father Christmas will bring my presents here or take them to our old house in Fontaine? I wrote him a letter, but I’m still worried.”

  “My word, Winnie,” Fred admonished. “You still believe in that old superstition?”

  Winnie pressed a hand to either hip. “’Course I do. I bet Reuben does too.”

  Reuben threw Fred his fiercest scowl. “You bet your plum pudding I do. Don’t listen to him, Winnie. Father Christmas knows exactly where to leave your presents.”