Twisted River Read online

  “Influenza then.”

  “I have a flu that lasts weeks and doesn’t infect anyone else? Am I reverse Typhoid Mary?”

  Tena chuckled. “Goodness. I certainly hope not.” She tentatively brought her tea to her lips, jolting at the taste. “My word, how many leaves did you put in this?”

  Maggie smiled. “Enough.”

  Tena drank another sip. “It’s potent. If I’m awake all night, I’m poking you in the ribs until you stay up with me.” Her smile fell and she laced her fingers around the cup, her eyes drawn out somewhere far beyond them. “I should have stayed with him.”

  “Who?” Maggie asked. Tena’s eyes glimmered with tears. “Charles? Oh, no, Tena—”

  Tena turned, eyes—and heart no doubt—full of sorrow. “Do you know what one of the last things Charles said to me was?” she asked. Her tone took on an edge of annoyance. “‘I will find you.’ I believed he would. I believed he could have ripped the world apart to return to me. Why wouldn’t I do the same?”

  “You didn’t know. You thought everyone would be safe. Lots of ships are towed after wrecking. You thought that’s all it was.”

  “Charles knew it wasn’t. That’s why I’m so spitting mad at him. He should have told me. Moreover, I should have figured it out. I should have stayed.”

  “You would have died.”

  “Then I died. He did. We can’t live forever anyway. I would rather be loved so completely for a little while than live long remembering how it felt.”

  “You’ll find it again. Maybe there’s someone out there for both of us.” It was a lie. Of course it was. Tena saw straight through it.

  “Oh, Maggie, please. You don’t believe that. You never have. Why would you start now?”

  “Because you believe it, and heaven forbid, I try to be supportive.”

  “I would rather you be honest.”

  “Oh, blast it all. I doubt that’s truly what you want.”

  “Maggie, don’t you treat me like a child too. All of them have been walking eggshells around me since I arrived. Acting like I can’t deal with reality. Emil’s the only one who treats me like a normal person, but he’s Emil so …” She drew another sip of her drink and winced. “My word, that’s strong!” Yet she took another without hesitation. “Be my sister, please. Not my parent.”

  Maggie adjusted herself on the grass, cold sweat trapped between her undergarments and her skin, her discomfort as invisible as the baby trapped inside her. Despite what she said, Tena didn’t need the truth. She needed an illusion as much as Maggie needed one, probably more.

  “Tena, I wish we still understood each other like we used to. As though the last year never happened. Charles tried to see something in me that’s simply not there. He invited me here, at least in part, because he thought we were alike. Only I’m not like you, and I don’t want to be. I’m selfish and cynical and I can’t love anyone ... at least not the way they deserve. That’s the ugly truth you ask for. You and Charles were willing to give your entire lives for each other. That kind of sacrifice is beyond my realm of understanding.”

  “I know it is. You live life with logic and my reasoning is illogical.”

  “So, by your reasoning,” Maggie countered, “you would run into a burning building when there was little hope of escape?”

  “Of course not.”

  “My point is proven.”

  “But one day, Maggie, I think you will.” Tena set her teacup on the grass and scooted closer, until their knees touched like little girls whispering secrets. “I think one day you’ll surprise everyone. You might not believe it now, but someday you will.”

  Maggie opened her mouth to argue until Tena cut her off. “Let’s not beat a dead horse.”

  With a minuscule smile, she tilted back to stare into the clouds, shining brilliance laughing back in random formations. She released a dry bitter laugh, a noise that sounded much too old to be connected with her youthful features. “Besides, that belief sounds crazy even for myself. Right now in this moment, even though I know the truth, the notion is impossible to hold onto. Like dandelion seeds in the wind. You can see them, you know they exist, and you know you could grow a new life if only you could catch them.” She stretched forward to pluck a puffy white dandelion from the grass, fingering the soft cotton seeds. With a flick of her wrist, they came apart and floated away on the wind. “That’s how I feel right now. Like I’m standing in a field watching the seeds of my future blow away, and I can’t run fast enough to catch them.”

  Slowly, she twisted her engagement band. “I thought I could prove to Mother that it was possible. For two people to be together not for any socially contrived reason, but simply because they loved each other. My children would have freedoms we didn’t, and I wouldn’t disown them if they chose a different path. I planned to write Mother hundreds of letters about every way she was wrong and end them all with, ‘I told you so.’ I didn’t want a life like Edith or Bianca or any other girl in Fontaine. Everything would be different. But in truth, nothing changed. At least nothing except me.”

  Maggie tugged another dandelion from the ground, this one soft and golden. The pollen smeared her fingertips. “I’m sorry, Tena.”

  “Honestly, what else could you have to be sorry for?”

  If only you knew, Maggie thought, but that was for another day.

  “If I hadn’t met Reuben in that cemetery, if I’d only gone to the May Day festival with you as planned, none of this would have happened. If I never met Reuben, you would never have met Charles, and I would have been there with you when Father died. We never would have left Fontaine. I probably would have married Lloyd.”

  Every part of Maggie clenched, a dull pain enveloping her middle. If she never met Reuben, she never would have gone to London to escape him. In the end, she would have done what was expected of her if for no other reason than to please her father. Lloyd would be her husband now. She could very well still be expecting, and there would be no question as to whom the father was. No disparaging looks when the news was revealed. Only joy from her mother and pride from her father. She had fought marriage tooth and nail, but maybe it would have been better than what she chose instead. Maybe it would be better than the life she was living.

  Maggie extended both her palms up in offering and willed her voice to remain as strong as she wanted to be. “If I never met Reuben, if you never met Charles, we would have been different people, and I think we could both do with being someone else right now.”

  “Oh, Maggie, I wish that too.” Laying her hands upon her sister’s, Tena stared into the clouds as though the heavens could divine all her answers. “Sometimes I wish we never met them. Does that make me horribly wretched?”

  Maggie followed her gaze into the afternoon sky. “Wishing for a better life doesn’t make you wretched, Tena. It makes you human.”

  SEVEN

  Reuben stared up at the sign for the Mid-Mississippi shining in the late afternoon sunlight and clutched his traveling case tighter. This is what life had come to, literally running away from home, or at least what had served as a home for the past few months. Sneaking out through the back alleyway, he walked for over two hours, until his heels pinched from rising blisters and his muscles ached.

  He shouldn’t have left them how he did. He shouldn’t have deserted without so much as a proper goodbye or any explanation. Heaven help him, he should go back. He should, but he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

  The scent of soot and horse manure—the stink of the city—flowed through his nostrils. It swirled in his brain, and the only sound able to slip through was Tena’s voice. It had been so broken, so helpless, so full of anguish and resentment, and all directed at him and Charles.

  “I wish we’d never met them.”

  He had listened to the sisters’ entire conversation from his upstairs bedroom window. He went there to be alone after his argument with Maggie and received an earful instead. He was the cause of all their problems. They were better
off without him. If not for him, Maggie would have married Lloyd.

  Reuben’s fingers curled until they formed white-knuckled fists, thoroughly primed for ruining an enemy’s face—or the brick wall in front of him—but he did neither. He pushed his way through the Mid-Mississippi’s revolving door, unable to conceal his scowl even for Miss Newton. He lowered his eyes and trudged up twenty-seven stairs, each step carrying a mule’s weight, each one pressing him closer to the ground.

  The day he arrived in St. Louis, he promised Tena he would stay for her. He promised he could overlook what Maggie did, accept Charles’s death, and stay for her alone. God help him, but he couldn’t bear to see her crumble when he broke that promise.

  He was a coward. She was better off. With time, so would he be.

  Rolling his shoulders, he paused on the third floor landing to plaster a convincing smile on his face and walked into the typists’ room with head held high.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Radford,” came the usual calls.

  He tapped two fingers to his hat, sliding them across the brim and off the other side. “Afternoon, ladies.”

  Hazel Vine’s grin spread ear to ear, cheeks flushed under his glance. “Have a fascinatin’ day, sir!”

  With a silent nod, Reuben shifted his traveling case to his left hand and pushed open the newsroom door, saying a silent prayer that Smithson had already departed for the day, and thanking the good Lord when the editor’s office window lay dark.

  He lumbered across the room to topple into his desk chair, grateful that the newsroom was relatively empty for a Monday afternoon.

  After stowing his traveling case under the desk, there was precious little room remaining for his legs, but it was better than overtly advertising his extended stay. He removed his notepad and pencil from his satchel, then slung the bag over the chair back.

  “Thought you had the day off?”

  Pencil in hand, Reuben glanced up from Widow Claremore’s obituary notes to find Stanley standing over him with hands folded around a steaming mug of coffee. Reuben cast his eyes back to the notes and pressed pencil lead to paper. “Change in plans.”

  “How was the funeral?”

  “It was a funeral. How would you suppose it was?”

  Taking a swig of coffee, Stanley set the mug on his desktop and rummaged through the top drawer, retrieving a folded up sheet of paper. He opened it then smoothed it out on the already cluttered desk. “I finished Charles’s obituary. Do you want to read it?”

  No, thought Reuben. No, no, no. Definitely no. Reading the obituary about his dead friend that he failed to write himself was very near the bottom of his list, right below “Contract dysentery” and a step above “Eat a salad of arsenic and straight razors.”

  Yet, he held his hand out for the paper anyway. And wouldn’t you know, it was faultless. Without even having met Charles, Stanley’s words captured Reuben’s best mate to a tee.

  Slowly, he folded the sheet up. “It’s perfect, Lee. You sure can write. Keep that up and you’ll put me out of a job.”

  “No thanks, I’ll stick to murders and mayhem.” Stanley set his latest article next to a blank sheet of paper and began copying without the scratch marks and squiggling marginalia. He swallowed another heavy dose of coffee. “That said, if you ever need another one—I hope you don’t—but if you do, I’ll happily oblige.”

  “Thanks, Lee. You’re a real friend. It seems I don’t have many of those these days.” Before Stanley could do more than look up and open his mouth, Reuben filled in the gap. “Any more of that coffee left downstairs?”

  “Should be. Miss Newton made a fresh pot about fifteen minutes ago.”

  Snatching up Charles’s obituary, Reuben spun his chair and headed from the newsroom, making a brief stop to lay the paper in Hazel Vine’s inbox. “This needs transcription today, Miss Vine. For tomorrow’s edition.”

  Her fingers slid from her typewriter keys to examine the sheet, eyes swiveling to meet his with a frown. “But it doesn’t have approval.” She flipped the sheet over. “No, see, it doesn’t have a signature.”

  He snatched the pencil from her desk and scrawled his initials on the top right corner of the page. “It does now. Type it, Miss Vine, and send it to the paste room. If Smithson doesn’t like it, he can flay my hide, not yours.” He tossed the pencil back on the desk and swept from the room. Then he climbed the last flight of stairs to the roof landing and lost control of everything.

  The exterior door released a dull groan as he fell against it, one fist pounding frustration out against his thigh. For the first time since his arrival in America, he wept for Charles and the friendship they lost. His friend’s absence was like a daily gut-wrenching punch, worse than anything he felt when Lloyd left him battered on the Höllenfeuer, more painful than the deaths of all his family combined.

  He scrunched his eyes tight until colors spiraled behind them. He could taste salt in the corners of his lips.

  “Mr. Radford?”

  Reuben jerked upright at the sound of Hazel Vine’s voice. Blue embroidered handkerchief extended, she stood slightly behind him with the most brilliant smile; its kindness reached all the way from her lips to her eyes. He found it incredible how she could maintain a presence like that while a fully grown man stood before her bawling his eyes out like an infant. He couldn’t care less; he was out of cares to give today.

  “I know it’s thoughtless to intrude,” she said softly, “But I read the obituary. I heard he was your friend, and I wondered, well, might you prefer a shoulder to cry on instead of a door?”

  Reuben ignored her outstretched handkerchief to retrieve his own from his jacket. He blew his nose and blinked through lingering tears. “Did Mr. Leonard send you up here?”

  She blushed as she folded her handkerchief and slid it up her blouse cuff. “You’ve caught me. He did. But that don’t change my sincerity.”

  He didn’t even consider it. He didn’t know her well, and he certainly didn’t feel like discussing his problems with a near stranger, no matter how many times they flirted. Besides, she already read the obituary. He didn’t need to spell it out for her. “I’m sorry, Miss Vine, but I don’t think so. It wouldn’t be professional.”

  She nodded, that wide smile never faltering. “I understand, Mr. Radford. Still’s though, a group of us are planning to have a bite at the Nightingale after we’re done for the day. Mr. Leonard says he’ll come if you do. Perhaps you’d be free to join us?” Clasping her hands, she rocked back on her heels with the sweetest little giggle he had ever heard. “My treat.”

  A faint smile hit his lips, and he wiped his eyes on his shirt sleeve. Do it, something whispered.

  “You know what, Miss Vine? I won’t allow you to pay, but all the same, I think I’d like that.”

  EIGHT

  The clock in the Kischs’ hall chimed five in the afternoon as Tena marched down the stairs ready to strike wrath into her sister.

  Twenty minutes ago, she felt like a new woman. Although emotional, her conversation with Maggie also brought new insight into the situation. After a strained couple of days, they were finally on speaking terms and sharing stories of father and Charles and dreaming of better times. Tena finally pictured their lives in St. Louis as a possible opportunity rather than an interruption.

  When Elsa called them for tea on the porch, Tena skipped upstairs to freshen her makeup and rejoin the family as a civilized human being. She sat down at the dressing table, barely recognizing her own smile as she swiped rouge across her lips, and noticed a scrap of paper wedged between the mirror and the vanity frame. Setting down her lipstick, she dislodged the parchment and unfolded it to familiar masculine penmanship.

  Tena, forgive me for what you’re about to read ...

  Twenty minutes later, she pushed open the rear screen door and paused, her flushed cheeks and heaving chest a radical difference to the merry group situated at the other end of the porch. Karl and Elsa now occupied the settee at the end of the
porch, Karl’s muscular arm wrapped around his wife’s plump shoulders while she fanned herself with a folded sheet of newsprint. Maggie, Mr. Frye, and Damaris occupied three of the four chairs now pulled away from the tea service on the wooden table. In the yard, Emil tossed a cricket ball with Jakob and Terry Schneider, the curly haired teenage boys from down the street.

  Pull yourself together, Tena, she thought, managing to draw deep breaths and lower her heart rate. No one will thank you for causing a scene after all that has already transpired today.

  “Three questions, you say?” Mr. Frye asked Maggie as he sipped a bottle of beer, his left leg crossed over his right. He had shed his jacket, his distressed charcoal vest now visible over shirt sleeves rolled past the elbow.

  “That’s what Father always said.” Maggie settled back in her chair, fanning herself even as a breeze whistled across the porch. “Heavens, it is sweltering out here.” She reached for her water and finding the glass empty, swiped Mr. Frye’s beer instead. “Ah, that is delightful. Where have we been hiding this?” She attempted to give it back to Mr. Frye who gently nudged her hand away.

  “No, thanks. You finish it.”

  “You know, Maggie dear,” Elsa said, her newsprint flapping away, “If your stomach’s been bothering you, alcohol may not be the best solution.”

  Maggie frowned at the bottle, then turned and shoved it into Damaris’s empty hands. “You haven’t said a word all afternoon, Miss Frye. Drink this and loosen up.”

  Neck muscles tensing, Damaris handed the bottle to Hugo who reached behind him to set it on the table. “So, those questions?” he asked.

  “Why did you become a photographer?” Maggie asked, eyeing the beer as though she might climb over Mr. Frye to get to it. She was the only person Tena knew where one was always one too many.

  Mr. Frye ran a hand through his hair, and it slicked back with sweat. “That question is oddly specific for something he would ask anyone.”