Olive becket plays the r.., p.26
Olive Becket Plays the Rake, page 26
part #1 of Advanced Reader Copy Series
“That’s true,” he said with a light chuckle. “But since that’s still a long way off, we’ll aim for two or three times per week.”
She stilled in his arms. “A long way?”
“Until we marry, yes. But we can enjoy ourselves in the meantime.”
“I know we can,” she said, her voice slipping into that careful, neutral tone she used with strangers. She pushed off his chest, and the cold absence of her touch was immediate. “What exactly does that mean? When do you think we’ll be married?”
He blinked up at her. Christ. He hadn’t even caught his breath, and now she wanted to talk about dates and promises? “I don’t know. I haven’t given it much thought.”
Her frown deepened. She slid off his lap and began dressing. The rustle of fabric was thunderously loud in the tight space of the automobile. He followed suit, slower than usual, his fingers clumsy at the cuffs. His mouth opened, then shut. He had no smooth answer. No easy footing. Is this what she felt like half the time?
“You told your family you’re courting me,” she said, her voice low. “We are intimate. I think I deserve to know what that means. How you envision our future.”
He focused on his buttons, unable to meet her gaze yet. Of all days for her to finally speak her mind. He couldn’t even be angry. He’d just told her he admired her boldness, her unpredictability. Just not, it seemed, when it worked against him. Damn it all, this was exactly why he had rules in place. Still, he’d never lied to her. He wouldn’t start now.
“We are courting,” he said, the words coming out sharper than intended. He cleared his throat. Tried again. “But there’s no need to rush. There’s no fixed timeline.”
Her brow knit. “I don’t know what that means. No rush to be with me?”
“No, not that. What I mean is…isn’t it freeing knowing that we control our future? That we can move at a pace that suits us?”
“No.”
He blinked. “No?”
“No, Emil, it doesn’t make me feel free. It makes me feel uncertain. Like you’re regretting your decision.”
“I’m not,” he said quickly. “But I can’t be rushed. You know how I am. It makes my skin crawl, makes me want to fight—”
“The thought of marrying me makes your skin crawl?”
“That’s not what I said.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. How were things getting away from him so quickly? She’d seen how his father tried to own his future—how he’d rejected that. Why couldn’t she see she was doing the same thing?
“I don’t like having everything laid out in advance. I need space. To choose things on my own terms.”
“You sound like a spoiled little boy.”
“And you sound exactly like my father.”
“Thank you,” she retorted. “He’s a very wise man.”
“It’s not a compliment!” His voice rose. “He’s controlling. He wants to dictate every part of my life. And right now, so do you.”
“God forbid someone asks you to follow through on your word. Did it ever occur to you that your father might want the best for you? That I want the best for both of us?”
“The best according to you,” he barked. “Why must I decide, right this moment, how the rest of my life will look? What if I’m happy with how things are?”
She gave him a long look. “I’m going to stop talking and let you reflect on what you just said. Maybe you’ll hear the irony. And the stupidity.”
His jaw dropped. She turned from him, climbing into the front seat to sit stiffly with her arms folded over her chest. When she fixed her gaze out the window, he plunked his hat on his head and moved into the driver’s seat.
“I don’t understand,” he muttered. “I thought today was fun. I thought you were happy.”
“It was fun. I was happy. But Emil, we can’t continue like this forever. I can’t keep sneaking around without a chaperone. Someday I’ll be caught. And then what? I’ll be ruined. I need more than fun.”
“Winnie and Mack seem content without a timer on their relationship,” he tried weakly.
She sighed, a long, weary sound that cut off his argument before it began. “I’m not like Winnie, Emil.” Her mouth twisted into a wry smile. “It’s funny. Last month, I compared myself to her and felt lacking. Now I understand we’re simply not the same.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Winnie is a widow, and she supports herself. She—not Mack—is the one who isn’t ready to remarry. I have my mother. My brother. The rent. My risks are greater. Especially when they involve a man who doesn’t want to marry me.”
His hand struck the steering wheel. “I never said never! Just a—a year. Maybe two.”
“I need real help, Emil. And I need it now.” Her voice was strained and soft, but unwavering. “Help that comes from a legal husband. A partner in the truest form. I thought that man was you, but it appears I was mistaken.”
“I’m not the man for you because I want to wait a while longer? That doesn’t make sense. Plenty of people wait—”
She held up her hand. “I don’t wish to upset you. But you’re the one who opened my eyes to the truth. I do deserve more. I deserve everything. And if you can’t give it to me, then…then I’ll have to move on.”
No.
No, no, no.
Panic surged in his chest. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. She was supposed to challenge him, maybe even pout a little, but she was supposed to negotiate. Not leave him. He licked his lips, floundering for something, for anything, that would make her stay. “This is your chance to be bold, to defy society, to live on your own terms, like me—”
“How nice it must be,” she cut in, her words sharp, “to be a man, free of consequences, accountable to no one.” She turned, her expression flat, unreadable. “And Emil, I am saying no. To you.”
Her words were a slap. He stared, stunned, as the silence closed around them.
“I would like to go home now.”
Numbly, he slid from the auto and into the bracing cold. He wound the crank. The auto sputtered and died. He tried again. Nothing. A third time—the engine roared to life with a growl of protest. He welcomed the noise, anything to drown out the echo of her rejection.
They rode in silence. He stole glances at her profile, but she stared resolutely out the window. Her posture was still, her hands calm. As if none of this had affected her. It was maddening. How could she be so calm? So sure?
He wasn’t certain of anything.
He squinted through the windshield, his hands a vise on the steering wheel. The city lights blurred through a fine drizzle, and the streetlamps were haloed in mist.
Still she said nothing.
He pulled up in front of her building and slammed on the brake, not caring who saw them. He jumped out, circled the auto, and opened her door. She took his hand, stepped down, then let go. The only hint she felt anything at all was her unwillingness to meet his gaze.
“Please don’t do this,” he whispered. “I’m falling in love with you.”
Her breath frosted into the air. “I was falling in love with you, too.”
Then she walked away and took with her all the light in his heart.
Chapter 25
The day after Olive ended their courtship, Emil awoke on the porch swing, one boot on, the other missing. A seagull pecked at the remnants of what must have been his supper. The plate lay shattered, its contents dried and unrecognizable. He had no memory of eating. No memory of much at all, except for how heartbroken Olive had looked when she’d finally realized he couldn’t be the man she deserved.
He staggered inside, dug through the empty icebox, and found a bottle of Rainier. He drank it warm, leaning weakly against the kitchen table. He rolled cigarettes with shaking fingers, cursing softly each time he lit one. Olive, Olive, Olive. Each puff raised an unavoidable question: Why did marriage feel like a chain? His mother and father were happy. Why couldn’t he be, too? What was wrong with him that he couldn’t commit to the most wonderful woman he’d ever met? By sundown, he was doubled over with a sour gut and a heart like lead.
The next night, he went out in search of company. But Mack was in Olympia, and who the hell knew where Jude had gone. Undaunted, he ventured to familiar places—Harry’s Tavern, the card room, the billiard hall. But the talk was small, the faces tiresome. The dance floors were no better. His legs were sandbags, his rhythm off. The girls were pretty and charming, but none of them had doe eyes. None of them surprised him mid-step with a strange, fascinating comment. None of them smelled faintly of violets. He ended up at the racetrack, but quickly lost his money on a pony called Fortune’s Favor. Disgust rose like bile in his throat: how could he fritter away money while Olive struggled? Another reason she was better off without him. He drank too much and had no idea how he got home.
He didn’t bother getting out of bed on Wednesday. The sun rose, crossed the windowsill, and fell again, and still he didn’t rise. At some point, he consumed an entire pound cake with his hands, leaving crumbs across the quilt and smudges on his undershirt. He pulled the soiled quilt over his head and drifted in and out of dreams where Olive walked away from him again and again. Always with the same look of pity and disappointment and finality. He tried to reason with the dream version of her; woke up sweating, mumbling. He spent the evening wondering why he’d ruined something rare. Wondering if he could carry on without her. Wondering why the hell he was such a selfish bastard.
On Thursday, he woke filled with disgust for himself. He stripped the bed and hauled the sheets outside to air. Beneath his pillow, coiled like a tiny noose, lay a long, honey gold hair. He stared at it for longer than was decent, then tucked it into a matchbox. The groan that escaped his throat sounded suspiciously like a sob. But that was nonsense. He didn’t cry over women, even one as special as Olive. He bought another crate of Rainier and sat drinking on the porch to wait out the day. That afternoon, a package arrived. It was the scarf and hat he’d given her, folded neatly and returned without a note. She’d spent her meager money to return his gifts. That, somehow, hurt more than any words could. It was the final proof she needed more than a man drowning himself in beer. He wanted to be that man, but he didn’t know if he could. If he tried and failed, he didn’t know if he could survive the pain of losing her all over again.
After that, there wasn’t anything he could do but drink too much, cry into Olive’s scarf, and jerk himself off.
On Monday, Olive didn’t get out of bed. It felt like a weight was on top of her, pressing her into the thin mattress. Her head ached, and her throat burned. Her mother fretted, worrying she had caught a cold. But Olive knew better. Her heart was broken. She’d dared to hope, to have the courage to ask for what she wanted—and she’d been rejected. It hurt. It hurt so badly. Eventually, her mother climbed into bed beside her and gently stroked her forehead while she cried herself to sleep.
The next day, she woke in a daze. Cotton-headed. Wrapped in a bubble. But she dragged herself out of bed. Shivered her way over to the stove and added more coal. Put the kettle on. Got her brother up while her mother made the porridge. Ate silently, miserably, unable to banish thoughts of Emil. When Robbie finished breakfast, he set his spoon down, stood up, and wrapped his thin arms around her neck. She laid her head on his shoulder and choked back her sobs. Once she gained control of herself, she staggered to the dressing cabinet and dressed in warm layers. The groceries wouldn’t buy themselves.
She dragged herself to the local Horticultural Society for an afternoon performance on Wednesday. The small sum would ensure she made rent in March, so she played despite the lingering soreness in her wrist. If anyone had asked why tears slipped from her eyes—Emil would have noticed—she would have told them she was moved by her music. But no one asked. She left the luncheon and made her way to Robbie’s school. His teacher wanted to speak with her: young Robert wasn’t taking his classwork seriously. By the time she’d convinced the teacher she would work harder with him, both she and Robbie were red-faced and cranky. He kicked rocks the whole way home. When it came time to leave for the suffrage meeting at Longfellow House, she found she didn’t have the energy to put her shoes back on. Her friends would have to plan the last few days before the Senate vote without her. She crawled into bed with a sigh of relief.
Thursday, she decided to be done with crying, even if she had to dig her nails in the palms of her hand to hold them at bay. Red-rimmed eyes raised questions during lessons. Bleary eyes made it difficult to read music during performances. And most of all, Emil Anderson didn’t deserve any more of her tears. It was time to admit he wasn’t going to change his mind. He wouldn’t marry her unless it was on his terms. She would follow through on her promise and move on. She had to move on, for her own sake and for the sake of her family. The longer she wallowed, the quicker her mother’s declining health, the faster Robbie’s dwindling patience with learning. If she didn’t hold them together, who would? Not Emil, that was clear. Before she could change her mind, she stuffed his scarf and hat in a box and took it down to the post office.
By Friday, she knew to stay busy. She gave her lessons and ran errands. She practiced extra hours in the nearby churches between services. In the evenings, she helped her mother cook and forced Robbie to practice reading. An invitation arrived to accompany Winnie and Clem to Olympia to be present for the Senate vote, but she turned it down with regret. There was no way she could leave right now. And besides, she would be unpleasant company at best. No matter how hard she resisted, there were moments when it felt like she was about to be swallowed by an enormous wave. All she could do was keep moving. Keep finding ways to make her mother smile. More families who needed lessons. Another way to make the meat stretch farther. And as each day passed, she realized she had made it through. That alone gave her the strength to rise the next.
She wouldn’t give up.
She wouldn’t give in.
She would survive.
Chapter 26
Emil rowed hard across Lake Washington, fighting the need to vomit up a breakfast of beer and cigarettes. He needed this. Needed to sweat out the poison clouding his mind, to claw his way out of the mire he’d been wallowing in. Harvey Gunn’s summons had arrived at dawn. Finally, a job. He wasn’t about to show up still drunk. He’d already lost Olive; he couldn’t afford to mess this up as well.
The scull skimmed across the steel-grey water. He sucked in great gulps of frigid air that burned his throat—good. Let it burn. Sweat soaked the small of his back, and the wind chapped his cheeks, but still he drove the oars through the lake. Harder, faster. He ignored his running nose, the raw blisters forming beneath his gloves. The pain was welcome, a thin distraction from the gaping hole in his chest.
He finally slowed a few houses shy of home. Letting the oars drag, he leaned back in the scull, his breath ragged, his legs trembling. The current could carry him the rest of the way. Or drag him under. Either would be fine.
“Jesus, lad.”
Emil cracked open one eye. Seán Meany sat at the edge of his deck, his pale, thin legs dangling free of his dressing robe.
“You trying to kill yourself? Haven’t seen anyone row that hard since we were chased by pirates in the South Pacific.”
Emil snorted and sat up, his muscles already screaming. “Some self-flagellation is involved, yes.”
“Thought so.” Seán patted the metal cleat beside him. “Toss me your line and stay a while. I could use some conversation.”
Emil hesitated, then nodded. Meany was a good sort, if too chatty. They were the only winter residents in the floating houses, yet Meany had never overstepped his bounds. He’d never judged Emil’s capers. Hell, he’d never even asked for a favor. From what Emil had seen, he was content living his own life. Enjoying a freedom many—including Emil—longed for. Perhaps a chat was just what he needed to throw off the remaining cobwebs.
“Will do,” he said, unwinding the docking line and tossing it to Meany, who looped it neatly around the cleat.
“Weather’s been fierce the last week.”
Emil welcomed the small talk, banal as it was. “Sure has.”
“Wonder if it’ll snow.”
“That would be a sight.”
“It would indeed,” Meany murmured, his voice trailing into a thoughtful hum. He glanced out at the gray sky. “Probably why that sweet lady and her young brother haven’t been around.”
Emil’s jaw tensed. He glanced at the tie line, now pinned beneath Meany’s hand like a leash. So much for a guilt-free conversation.
“Aha,” Meany said lightly. “So that’s the reason for the flagellation.”
Emil gave him a look, but didn’t answer. Instead, he let his gaze drift pointedly to the pale calves suspended over the water. “Aren’t you freezing?”
Meany grinned, but let him change the topic. “Course I am. But I found it helps me prepare for the plunge.”
Emil eyed the gently lapping water and shivered. “How the hell do you swim in weather like this?”
“Simple. If I don’t swim every day, I’ll never swim again.”
“I suppose that’s one way to see it.”
Meany shrugged. “Plenty of us thought that way back in Ireland. The sea is cold, even in summer. You either get in, or you don’t.”
“Do you miss Ireland?”
“Sometimes. Did I ever tell you why I left?”
“Come to think of it, no, you haven’t.”
Meany blew out a breath and stared into the distance. “Times were tough back home. Very tough. My da worked land he’d never own, no matter how many seasons he broke his back over it. And the landlord—greedy bastard—kept raising the rent, like we were made of coin.”
Emil grimaced in sympathy. He’d seen firsthand how much Olive struggled—no, no. He mustn’t think about Olive. This was about Seán. He dragged his attention back to the story.
