A Light For My Love (28 page)

"Aunt Gert, don't bother fixing anything for
me," she said from the kitchen door. "I've got an errand to run.
I'll eat later."

Gert turned to look at her, then shook her
spoon in glowering vexation. "Seems nobody in this house eats at a
regular time anymore, except Cap and me. Jake is never here for
dinner, and now he's out God-knows-where, you're off doing some
other business, Susan hasn't come down. I don't know why I
bother!"

"Oh, dear, I am sorry," China commiserated,
meeting her aunt at the stove. "I'll tell you what. I'll cook
dinner all next week and give you the evenings off."

"Hmph," Gert groused, and turned back to her
fried potatoes, using her apron for a potholder on the handle.

"Won't that help a little?" she appealed.

"Well—I guess." She saw a shadow of a grin on
her aunt's face, her easy, good nature returning.

China patted her arm and went to the hall for
her cloak. Then she heard, "But if things don't return to normal
around here, I'm going to go cook for people who appreciate
it."

What was normal? China had begun to wonder.
She put on her cloak and let herself out the back door to slip away
down the wet morning street to the boardinghouse. Preoccupied and
fretful, she barely noticed that the trees were starting to bud and
crocuses that poked tender green blades from the tidy flower beds
in her neighbors' yards.

She pressed her bag to her side reassuringly.
She carried Jake's check with her, intending to go to the bank
later in the morning. At least she had some money now, more than
she'd hoped for, and she remembered seeing a good dining room table
at a secondhand shop. They needed one for the boardinghouse; maybe
she'd be able to provide it.

The big, ramshackle dwelling came into view
on the next block. Harbor House, they'd decided to call it. China
shook her head at its appearance. It still needed a lot of work,
but she and Dalton were making progress. Three stories tall, with a
lovely wide veranda on the second floor, the once elegant residence
sat high on its corner lot, the white paint worn down to bare wood
in some places. The shrubbery in the yard encroached on the walk
and completely covered two of the main-floor windows. Other windows
were boarded up, and they knew the roof leaked.

But inside, with Willie's help and that of a
few sailors who owed Dalton their freedom, things had taken shape.
They'd cleared away years of junk and unsalvageable furniture left
by the previous occupant (thereby dislocating the rats that had
settled in the emptiness), washed and painted walls, and scrubbed
floors. Dalton, using his most persuasive rhetoric, had managed to
acquire donations of decent used furniture, a few beds, and dishes.
The place wasn't luxurious, but it was a good start.

China slowly made her way up the walk,
following the wide path Willie had hacked out of the jungle of
rhododendron, arborvitae, and straggling, overgrown grass. She
mentally composed a list of jobs that needed doing in the yard. It
had been a low priority, but they couldn't let this go forever—the
house looked terrible outside, and with spring coming it would only
get worse.

Just as she reached the bottom front step,
the door swung open and Dalton walked out to the porch to meet her.
Dressed in dungarees and a gray chambray shirt, he was smiling as
he put his hand under her elbow and waved her through the door.

"Come and see what Peter Hollis sent over,"
he said. China could hear the excitement in his voice. He led her
to the parlor and pointed at a forest green sofa and matching
chair.

"Peter sent them? Dalton, they look
brand-new!" she said, surprised by this show of generosity.

"Not new, but rebuilt. The upholstery shop
just delivered them."

And Jake had told her it was a mistake to
talk to people about the league, she thought. Well, they'd proven
him wrong. It had been the best thing she and Dalton could have
done. So many had come forth because of that one Saturday evening,
to make this house possible.

From somewhere upstairs she heard a muffled
pounding and looked up at the ceiling.

"Oh, that's Willie nailing door molding back
on. I never would've guessed that boy had such a talent for
carpentry."

"I'd bet Willie didn't either," she replied
drily. Dalton had a forceful personality, and he knew how to get
work out of people. "Do you suppose he might have a talent for
chopping back that thicket in front of the house? It really looks
terrible."

Dalton nodded in agreement. "I'll set him to
the task this afternoon."

She told him of her plans to buy the dining
room table, and he positively beamed. A usually intent man,
single-minded in his purpose, he was smiling more these days.

He surprised her even more when he took her
hands in his and danced her across the bare, water-stained floor.
Her skirts flared around her ankles, and she whooped with laughter.
"Dalton, I've never seen you so happy!"

"You bet I'm happy. This is going to work,
China." He laughed too, triumphantly, his eyes lit with a zealous
fire. He twirled her again. "Harbor House is actually going to
work. It's real. But I couldn't have done it without you." He
stopped abruptly, breathless and grinning. Then he looked into her
eyes, his expression growing more serious, and suddenly took her
face in his hands and kissed her.

Dalton's scent was different from Jake's.
That was the first thing China noticed. And he was shorter and more
slightly built. It wasn't an unpleasant experience, but aside from
her surprise, she didn't have that funny sensation in the pit of
her stomach that she got when Jake kissed her. Nor was there that
hopeless feeling of surrender that made her want to wind her arms
around Jake's neck and stroke his hair, while he pulled her hips
against his.

Dalton withdrew, a bit self-conscious, and
smiled at her again. Then he began pacing around her on the
hardwood floor, his features at once animated and thoughtful, his
hands linked behind his back.

"We work well together, you and I," he said,
then gestured around the room. "Look at everything we've done.
Think of the lives we've saved. We make a good team."

She sat on the new sofa and ran her hands
over the fresh upholstery, watching him stride the width of the
room. He had a new idea brewing.

She could almost see it taking shape as he
stared at the floor, his brow furrowed in thought. "You did most of
the work, you know," she said.

He shook his head adamantly. "No, I didn't.
It's been equal—like a partnership. You took as many risks,
struggled just as hard. And you know better than anyone else how
important our cause is." He tapped his chin speculatively. "I've
been thinking about Portland . . . their shanghaiing problem is
even worse than Astoria's. I haven't had much time to give to it,
but once this house is running smoothly, I'd like to go to Portland
and see what can be done." He shifted his gaze to her. "Will you
come with me?"

China was puzzled. "How could I help in
Portland when I live here?"

His pacing brought him around to stand in
front of her. "We'd have to move there together." He dropped to one
knee in front of her and took her hand, enthusiasm radiating from
him. "Marry me, China, and we'll go to Portland and continue our
work with the Sailors Protective League. Think of the good we could
do, the men we could save from the crimps."

Marry him! China stared at him, vaguely
conscious that her mouth was open slightly. "Wh-why, Dalton,
I—uh—"

He was on his feet again, plotting a
strategy, while he circled the sofa. "It's well known that the
Grants are just as active in Portland as they are here. And Jim
Turk works in both towns too."

He went on with this verbal review of the
facts as he knew them, acting as though his stunning proposal was
merely one more element thrown into the mix. Marry Dalton
Williams?

His voice faded to a hum in the back of her
mind as China forced her churning thoughts to slow for a moment, at
least enough to let her consider the situation. If she became his
wife, it would get her away from Astoria and its memories, good and
bad. She had tremendous respect and admiration for Dalton—he had a
great passion for his work. She was positive that he respected her,
too, although she knew without being told that he didn't love
her.

Nor did she feel the fervent depth of emotion
for him that she did for Jake, but maybe that was just as well. She
and Jake certainly had no future together. After all, he'd be
leaving, probably within the next week or so. At that thought, she
dropped her gaze to the piping on the sofa cushion, and a surge of
regret rushed through her, making her eyes sting.

"—and I don't expect you to answer right
now," Dalton was saying. "But will you think about it, China?"

Realizing that he'd asked a question, she
looked up at him again and gave him a shaky smile. "Yes, of course
I will," she replied, standing. "For now, though, I'd better go see
about that table." She'd meant to spend the day working in the
kitchen, but now she wanted to get away so she could think.

Dalton nodded, all business. "Ask them if
they can deliver it this afternoon. I'll be here until three
o'clock, and I'd like to see it." He walked her to the door, his
attitude toward her no different than it had ever been: respectful,
polite, slightly distracted.

The hammering continued from the second
floor. "Willie's going to be sorry he missed you," he teased.

China wasn't. Dealing with the calf-eyed
young sailor was more than she could manage in her present state of
mind. But she smiled anyway. "Poor Willie. I feel sorry for him
sometimes. It isn't much fun to be in love alone."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The sky had turned leaden by the time China I
started for home, and a preliminary drizzle was falling. The odors
of the canneries and sawmills were held close to the streets by the
low-hung clouds. With no distraction but her damp skirts, her gaze
wandered to the mist-shrouded river on her far right, and she let
her mind shift to Dalton's proposal.

She was very fond of Dalton Williams, though
she'd thought of him mainly as a champion, a hero, all this time.
Now she was forced to consider him as a man.

Four years ago she wouldn't have given even a
minute to contemplating such a marriage. A union between herself
and a man of unknown parentage, who'd grown up in doorways and
alleys? It would have been unthinkable. But he was surprisingly
well-spoken and well-mannered, despite those beginnings.

Still, they had nothing in common except the
Sailors Protective League. Without that, what lay between them? Not
love, or tenderness. Not even the hazy outline of a shared history,
such as she and Jake had. Mutual respect? Yes, but again, that tied
back to the league.

She crossed a muddy street, automatically
raising her hem as she went, her train of thought intact. Those
things she craved from marriage—intimacy of spirit and
companionship—she imagined she wouldn't have them with Dalton. She
supposed she might learn to love him—a lot of women learned to love
husbands after the wedding, even in more well-favored matches. But
she and Dalton would always be two isolated individuals, fond of
each other but sharing only their work, a living space, and a last
name. She suspected that would be enough for Dalton. For herself,
she wasn't as certain.

When China was half a block from home, the
drizzle became a full-fledged downpour, and she lifted her heavy
skirt to dash to the front porch. Letting herself in, she stood in
the entry and took off her wet shoes, hat, and cloak, then put them
on the hall tree.

"Aunt Gert?" she called. "I'm back." Hearing
no response, she was about to walk down to the kitchen when her
attention caught on a metallic gleam in the front parlor. She
paused in the doorway, looking at it, then advanced slowly into the
room. Her stockinged footsteps were silent on the deep carpet as
they carried her to the small cherry table near the fireplace. She
stood before it, looking at the gold filigreed box, then extended
her hand. Her fingertips brushed the cool porcelain lid, and she
hesitated.

Do you really want to know?
she asked
herself. What she found on the underside of that box could change
her mind, her heart, her life.

Yes, she wanted to know. She
had
to
know. She picked up the box and carried it to the alcove, where the
light was better. The texture of the gold wire was rough under her
fingers, the whispered scent of old roses still detectable.
Quickly, before her courage failed her, she turned it over and
stared at the bottom.

Her legs suddenly nerveless, she drew a deep,
shuddering breath. She felt behind her for the settee and sank to
the buttoned cushion, unable to take her eyes off the shiny gold
surface in her hand.

There, engraved with a jeweler's delicate
skill, was a small heart that contained the initials CS and JC.

She pressed the box to her breast and fought
the torrent of emotion that tightened her throat. Jake had loved
her, for years, apparently, and she'd been oblivious to it. That
was why he'd signed Quinn's note. Maybe it had been the reason why,
sometimes when she would turn suddenly, she'd catch him watching
her.

And Zachary Stowe? He fell still lower in
China's regard. He had claimed responsibility for the gift, and
with well-acted, self-effacing bashfulness. All the while an
audacious fisherman's son, with a heart that held unsuspected
tenderness, had watched from the background, hoping she would
realize the truth.

With shattering insight, China realized that
she had been the "someone else" Jake told Althea Lambert he cared
for. And, as he'd so specifically pointed out last night, it had
all happened a long time ago. She bowed her head and pressed the
filigreed box to her lips, miserably aware of one thing: Jake
Chastaine no longer loved her.