Twisted River Read online

  Lee thumbed over his shoulder towards the editor’s office. “Check your watch, friend. Smithson’s already here.”

  “What? I look like misery personified!” Reuben fumbled his arms into his jacket and combed fingers through his mussed hair as best he could. But when he glanced at the editor’s door, the glass lay dark. He glowered at Stanley, even though fatigue surely made his expression more pitiful than intimidating. “You bloomin’ well hate me, don’t you?”

  “Mmm, I do enjoy the way you British swear.” Stanley slid his chair into his desk and after retrieving a stack of papers, flung his satchel strap over the chair back. He raised an eyebrow. “Do you know who else enjoys—pardon, takes a fancy to—your accent?”

  “I truly have no interest this early in the morning.” Cumulatively Reuben had only slept twenty-four hours in the past week, and his brain felt trapped in an endless hangover.

  Stanley’s resulting laugh reverberated around Reuben’s skull. “It is never too early to discuss women. When are you going to ask out Miss Vine?”

  “This again, Lee?” Reuben scooped up his notes and shoved them into his satchel. “How about finding me a cheap place to live—that isn’t a prison or a brothel—and then I might consider it.”

  Stanley’s eyes lit up like Christmas. “Interesting you should say that. I actually know of a place, and I’d bet you wouldn’t pay hardly anything.”

  Reuben looped his satchel strap over his head. “Brilliant, Lee. Move me in. Now, excuse me. I have an appointment with a deceased Mr. Hilton.”

  Stanley shouted after him. “See if he has a widow!”

  Reuben shook his head. Stanley’s advice was a far cry from the solid counsel Charles used to provide. But then again, Charles had never been nearly as entertaining.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, he emerged from the stairwell only to stop dead in his tracks. Please let her be a figment of my imagination, he pleaded. God, if you like me at all, please have me start hallucinating again.

  But blast it all, God must have been a jokester worse than Emil because Maggie stood in the foyer, one elbow propped on the reception desk as she openly flirted with Elias Swanson, one of the political reporters. Reuben pressed his thumbs to his temples and rotated them against his hairline. I do not have the energy to deal with this right now. He walked straight for the exit, praying to hit sunlight without her intercepting him.

  “Mr. Radford!” called Miss Newton as his hand landed on the glass of the revolving door. Blast, so close. He turned without removing his palm from the glass. “I’m on my way to an interview, Miss Newton; can it wait?”

  The receptionist nodded in Maggie’s direction. “You have a visitor.”

  Struggling to fashion an apologetic expression while his teeth ground, Reuben tapped two fingers to the brim of his hat. “I’m sorry, Miss Archer; however, I am quite busy this morning. Off to an interview. Perhaps Swanson here can assist you.”

  “Of course,” Elias jumped in, looking ecstatic. Good, thought Reuben as he pushed the door around. Maggie can’t seem to resist anyone of the male gender these days. That should keep her occupied.

  But apparently it couldn’t. When he re-entered the Mid-Mississippi four hours later, she waited on the only chair in the room. Drawing a deep breath, he looked heavenward and approached. “Why are you here? If you need an article transcribed, Mr. Swanson’s a seasoned reporter. He should prove more than capable.”

  “Not with this.” Maggie stood, smoothing the wrinkles out of her ebony suit skirt. She rubbed the small of her back. “Can we take lunch? It’s urgent that I speak with you.”

  “I already took my lunch,” he said, although he hadn’t.

  “Please, it’s important.”

  “I’m not paying for your meal.”

  She tapped her handbag. “I have my own money.”

  “You won’t leave until I agree, will you?”

  “No.”

  “Fine then. I guess let’s go.”

  They walked in silence to the Nightingale, a restaurant one block from the Mid-Mississippi that he never noticed until Hazel invited him there the previous week. The few times Reuben did leave the paper for a bite, he usually grabbed something from a street vendor.

  The establishment was busy at this hour, nearly full with ladies out to luncheon, couples, and businessmen from surrounding offices. Reuben and Maggie were seated in the middle of the restaurant at one of the few remaining tables and handed menus.

  “Good day, miss, sir,” the waitress greeted them, her burnished brown hair pinned in wide curls against her scalp. “Tea? Or would you prefer coffee?”

  “Tea only,” Maggie replied.

  “Iced, please. For both of us,” Reuben told her. Maggie’s eyebrow hitched up at him from behind her menu. “They like cold drinks here. Try something new.”

  “Addy,” Another waitress called from the kitchen door, swiveling their waitress’s head. “Help me with somethin’, will ya?”

  “Pardon me. I’ll fetch those refreshments and be right back.” Addy scampered away after the other woman.

  “Cold tea seems unnatural,” Maggie supplied, reading through the menu options. “How do they brew it with cold water?”

  Reuben stared down at his menu. “I suspect that’s what the ice is for. Brew it hot, then cool it down.”

  “Bizarre Americans.”

  “That they are.”

  Minutes later, Addy set two glasses of iced tea in front of them, took their orders, and scurried back to the kitchen. Maggie took a tentative sip and smiled. “That’s delicious, actually. Fine choice.”

  “Occasionally I do make one.” A strange silence fell across the table. Reuben sipped his tea while he reviewed notes from his morning interview of Marissa Winters. Maggie stared out the window and shifted silently in her chair.

  “You needed to tell me something important?” he asked, eyes still on his notes. “Everything well with Tena?”

  “Not exactly.” He looked up, and Maggie’s hand slid to her stomach. She took a large gulp of her tea and drew a deep breath. “Tena’s tossed me out.”

  “She’s done what? Why?”

  “Because of you, actually. She faulted me with your departure.”

  “She wasn’t supposed to do that.” Laying his notes aside, Reuben reached across the table to cover her opposite hand with his. She blinked in surprise. “I left so you wouldn’t have to.”

  “She’s not doing well without Charles,” Maggie admitted. “She’s so spiteful now. I preferred it when she pretended nothing was the matter.” She flipped her hand underneath his so their palms touched. “No one wants me, Reuben. I have nowhere to live.”

  “Oh, Maggie ...” His fingers wrapped around hers. After all her deceit, he couldn’t believe he felt sorry for her. But this wasn’t her fault; it was his. His departure threw Tena into a downward spiral. He had wanted to restore their sisterhood and only damaged it further. “I’ll speak to Tena. I’ll insist she bring you home. She’ll listen to me.”

  “No, she won’t. I already asked her exactly that. She’s upset with both of us. You for leaving and me for compelling you to do so.” Maggie’s eyes shifted to the window again, their blue haze vibrant against the deep ebony she wore. “Reuben, I’m sorry for my behavior after the funeral and what I said about you taking advantage of our night together. It was my doing; we both recognize that. You were good to me, and I’m sorry I wasn’t the same to you.”

  Reuben’s breath stilled. Apologies? From Maggie Archer? Was the world about to implode upon itself? “What else?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?” Maggie moistened her lips and returned his gaze. He would rather she didn’t. It was too unnerving to see those eyes drinking him in and suddenly doubt why he gave them up.

  “I mean, what else are your intentions? It’s never black and white with you, Maggie. Everything you say has nuance. You need something from me, don’t you?”

  “Here we are.” The waitress
plopped down two plates of chicken in front of them and flounced away. Reuben flipped open his napkin and laid it in his lap, taking a substantial bite.

  Maggie folded her hands on the edge of the table, not even glancing at her food. “I want a second chance,” she said firmly, “to marry you.”

  Coughing, Reuben lunged for his water glass as chicken bits clogged his esophagus. “Are you bloomin’ mental?” he gasped. “I might care about you, but there is no way I’ll marry you.”

  “Why not?” Maggie picked up her fork, nibbling at a piece of chicken. “Because I made a few mistakes? Told a couple lies? It’s not like you didn’t lie to me once or twice.”

  Reuben speared another piece of chicken, waving it in the air. “I omitted what happened between Lloyd and I. I’ll admit my part in that. It was a mistake, but it wasn’t a lie. What I did was nothing compared to your indiscretions. You slept with someone else when we were together then lied about how it happened.”

  “Oh, posh, let it be, Reuben. I apologized several times.”

  “No, actually, you never did. Just the once.”

  “Well, then, my apologies again.” She folded her hands on the table. “Now, about my proposal. I’ve had some more time to think on it, and I can forgive you for abandoning me at Grand Central Station. I think marriage would suit us, and I’m willing to take you back.”

  “Oh, you’re willing are you? What about my will?”

  “But you said you still cared.”

  “As much as I might still feel for you, we can’t go back to the way we were.”

  “Not even if I’m having your child?”

  Reuben dropped his fork on the plate. This was too much. “No, you’re not.”

  Maggie’s hands moved to her middle. “I am.”

  “No,” he repeated. “You’re not.” He grabbed for his tea and chugged. They didn’t need anyone staring when this descended into another shouting match. With great effort, he set his empty glass down and managed a steady tone. “This charade is unnecessary. Your quarrel with Tena will right itself, and she’ll welcome you back. You don’t need to spin extraordinary lies.”

  “Please.” She stretched for his fingers across the table, her voice pleading as her other hand clenched the fabric against her stomach. “It isn’t a lie. There’s a baby coming and I think it should have a father, don’t you?”

  Reuben removed his hand from her reaching fingers. “I think you should stop this right now and go home.” He retrieved his wallet from his jacket to pitch money on the table. Coins bounced to the floor. “This is low, even for you.”

  Maggie sprang from her chair. So much for not making a scene. “Don’t you think I’d know if I’m expecting? Why would I lie about this?”

  “Everything you say is laced with dishonesty. This is simply the fancy icing on top of the cake.” He stooped for the change and smacked it onto the table. “I’m sorry you’re fighting with Tena and that she finally called a spade a spade. I’m sorry for her, not for you. You’re a shrewd little vixen, and I’m not helping you out of this.”

  He grabbed his notepad and satchel and headed for the door, throwing his last words over his shoulder. “Why not ask Halverson? He accommodated your requests so easily before.”

  ~~~

  A blast of blistering air from the city sidewalks sizzled through the restaurant as the door slammed. Maggie stared blankly at Reuben’s retreating form, her cheeks burning while an eerie silence indicated fifty sets of eyes pronouncing silent judgment. She sank back into her chair and returned her napkin to her lap, barely managing to keep from openly weeping. Gradually the tinkling of china and silverware indicated a return of nearby diners to their meals, and Maggie managed to pick up her own fork.

  Somehow she finished her meal, each morsel scratchy as sawdust as she realized that she was out of valid options. Proposing to Reuben had been at the bottom of a brief list she wrote the night Tena evicted her and a solution she never intended to pursue. Laying her pitiful case at his feet revealed a desperation she never should have succumbed to; however, there had been little choice after every possible employment opportunity fell through.

  Buried deep, she understood that even if she secured a position, it wouldn’t be for long. The same fate would befall her as surely as all working girls who landed in a delicate condition, the same tragedy that befell Rita Martin. After only three months as a lady’s maid, Maggie witnessed Lord Alexander physically toss the poor scullery maid out of the servants’ quarters into the dirt. Seventeen years old and six months pregnant, Rita became an example to the rest of the staff of what consequences resulted from extracurricular dalliances. Months later, Derby shared the dreadful news; Rita’s body was found in Whitechapel, frozen to death as she clutched her newborn son beneath a threadbare coat. It was the way of women. Find a husband or be left to die.

  Maggie had never been that type of woman. Until today.

  Laying her payment on the table, she clasped her handbag and forced her feet to the door, each restaurant patron swiveling to follow her path. Still, somehow her chin remained high as she emerged onto the hectic street, streetcar bells and motorcar horns clanging an oppressive beat to match the press of July humidity and crowds jostling her for space on the sidewalk. Her legs pushed her past the stench of alley garbage, as rancid as a young woman’s desperate plea and the rejection she so rightly deserved.

  Despite she and Reuben being completely unsuitable for one another, when she grew large enough, he would return to her. Out of obligation, he would grit his teeth and live a lie that would bring neither of them happiness nor even contentment. But she wouldn’t let him. Not with a child who may or may not be his, not when he so vehemently detested her, when he left her alone in a restaurant because of how he felt. She would no sooner let him save her now than she would slink back to her mother for help.

  She was still the invincible Maggie Archer, and she would do what she had always done. She would save herself.

  TEN

  “Hold tight. Fast Stop.”

  Dust kicked up with the squeal of streetcar brakes as the Southern Electric Railway car came to a halt. Dropping her fare into the till, Maggie hitched her suit skirt upward an inch to descend the steps. Pausing halfway up the walk, she stared upon the Frye home.

  This is where she would gain employment and with it hopefully find this country’s so-called “American Dream.”

  The red-brick house stood on a cliff face overlooking the Mississippi River with the main level sporting wide bay windows on both sides and three dormers indicating a functional attic space. Impressive hundred-year-old elms offered privacy from the street and shaded the property with blessed coolness. To the right, the dirt packed drive wound to a sizable carriage house tucked nearly out of sight. Lifting the door’s brass knocker, Maggie stared up at the covered entrance and wondered what type of man could afford to construct such a lovely home, yet fail to own a suit without frayed edges. It would be one of many questions to ask once she secured a position.

  The door was opened by a middle-aged woman, a day hat pressed low upon her silver hair and a deep frown no doubt as a result of the massive chaos ensuing behind her.

  A tiny girl with bouncing auburn curls, perhaps no more than three years old, ran circles with an energy most likely prompted by the handful of cookies she carried and the resulting chocolate stains on her pinafore. At the end of the wood-planked hallway stood a ginger-haired boy with hands buried in his trouser pockets and a scowl growing firmer by the moment.

  “Sweet sassafras, Henry, we’re only home ten minutes, and I already have to deal with more of your antics?” scolded Mr. Frye, one hand to his temple as he shook his head in frustration.

  Henry gave a half shrug and dug his toe into the floorboard. “Why don’t you get rid of me? I can go live with the newsies.”

  Mr. Frye exhaled. “Henry, go to your room.”

  “But, Dad!”

  “Please, just go, before I lose my patience.” He
slipped past his son into the kitchen and Henry stomped up the stairs. On his way, he shoved his curly-haired sister to the floor then slammed his door with enough force to rattle the wall framings.

  The little girl released a shrill wail and the woman scooped her up, rubbing the child’s back as she crumbled her cookies into dust. “Oh, Miss Isa,” the woman scolded. “Such a mess, child.” With an exasperated scowl, she acknowledged Maggie at last. “What now can I help you with, Miss?” Her tone indicated her to be anything except accommodating.

  Around the corner from the living room peeked a third crimson haired girl, clutching a kindergarten primer to her chest as prim and proper as Maggie’s childhood, if only she hadn’t also been completely barefoot and stocking free. All Maggie could think to herself in shock was, Heavens, he has three children? No wonder his appearance is so frazzled. One more look at Isa’s tearstained face and chocolate covered hands and that thought was quickly followed by, I’m going to have one of those too? I can never manage this on my own.

  Only she swallowed her shock, along with the nearly ever-present taste of bile, and extended a tender smile towards the woman before her. “You must forgive me, ma’am. I visited Mr. Frye’s studio not but an hour ago, only no one was in, so I employed the city directory to locate him here. I wish to inquire about a position.”

  “Fat likelihood of that,” snorted the woman. She jostled Isa to her hip. “I should caution you to turn right around and find yourself another establishment. Which is what I’m likin’ to do soon myself.”

  “Mrs. Humes, are you threatening to jump train on me again?” Hugo Frye appeared from the kitchen. He had removed his jacket, and his tan trousers—similar to the ones he wore to Charles’s funeral luncheon—were frayed and deeply worn around each cuff. Once again it struck Maggie the way he stood eye to eye with her, his brow a full three inches shorter than the woman holding his daughter.

  He plucked Isa from Mrs. Humes and with a kiss to the child’s head, set her to her feet. He wiggled a finger at the other little girl lingering in the living room doorway. “Molly? Take Isa to your room to play. Grown-ups need to talk.”