Forbidden Love (27 page)

Guilt flashed across his face as he spun around and dropped a pair of black lace gloves, his hands shaking. He faced her, his guilty look becoming one of self-righteous arrogance. "Since when do I need to ask your permission?" He smirked, his expression full of scorn. "Or have you forgotten you're my wife?"

 
“Have
I
forgotten?” She laughed without humor. "Look who's talking!" She pointed to the articles that cluttered the floor. "Now please explain the meaning of this."

"Ah, yes," he remarked, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. "You want to know the meaning of this--" His pudgy hand made a wide gesture, indicating the mess on the floor--, "and I shall certainly tell you," he said in his pompous voice. "I've long suspected that you've taken a lover, and I intend to find proof--a love note, a letter . . . anything." Hands clasped behind his back, he rocked on his heels, his look contemptuous. "Don't deny you have a paramour."

 
She gave him a cool stare. "There you go again, William, your wild imagination. I fear you have been working too hard." Angrier than she could remember, sheer willpower enabled her to appear unruffled. "Now please leave my room," she said in a quiet voice. When he refused to budge, she pointed to the door.
"Out!
The less I see of you, the better."

"What a bitch," William snarled,
then
threw up his hands in mocking acquiescence. "But of course I'll leave, my dear. Would I want to upset you?" He turned on his heels and stalked out of the room, taking forever to close the door.

After William left, Lisa stood motionless, clutching the edge of her dressing table. Her heart pounded, and one deep breath followed another until she felt calm enough to survey the mess on the floor, a jumble of shoes, gloves, handkerchiefs, and lingerie.

 
Minutes later, she folded the last lacy camisole and scanned the room, satisfied that everything appeared tidy and normal. The servants must never catch a hint of this disorder.

More than ever, she needed Owen now, missed him with an unbearable ache. She could almost taste his
kisses,
feel his warm arms around her.
He expects us to stay apart, but I can't wait to hear his voice, see his smile,
savor
his kisses.
So, he's in for a surprise, she vowed as she straightened the doily on her dressing table and made one more check of the room.
Owen is going to get another visit.

* * *

 
As Owen relaxed at Anton
Hrajak's
kitchen table, he glanced around the one-room apartment with its hodgepodge of furniture, the rickety kitchen chairs,
the
sofa with its stuffing spilling out. How in the world could Anton support himself and Emma while the
Homestead
mill remained idle?

Stretching his leg out, he dug a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and ran it across his sweaty forehead, then nodded toward Anton's arm in a sling. "Come now, my friend, you'll be up and about in no time," he said in his halting Slovak to make conversation easier for Anton. "Nothing can keep a good man like you down for long." Between his uncertain Slovak and Anton's broken English, they'd managed a tentative conversation.

Anton threw him a skeptical look. "Yes, Mr.
Cardiff
, and when I'm up and about, as you say, what will I do then?
Tak
mi teds
provedzte
,
kde
budem
procovat
?"

Silent for a moment, Owen mentally translated the question, carefully choosing an answer. Where will I work? Anton wanted to know. Good question. Where was anyone going to work? Since his own recovery and with more available time, he'd visited Anton and Emma as often as possible. Before the strike, Anton had been only a casual acquaintance, but now, Owen considered him a good friend. Besides, these visits greatly improved his Slovak.

"This strike can't last much longer, Anton. How can Frick open the mill again without workers? Now, you tell me that!" He slammed his fist on the table. "How's he going to run the mill?" He turned toward Emma, who stood by the stove, coffeepot in hand. "Don't you agree, Emma?"

Emma turned away from the stove, a pained expression on her face. "Anton could be right, Mr. Cardiff."

Anton held up a hand. "
Dovol
,
aby
som
s
tebou
nesuhasil
," he said. "Permit me to disagree with you. That Mr. Frick is no fool. He'll have the mill open soon, and without the union workers." Scowling, he shook his finger at Owen. "He’ll hire scabs. You mark my words."

 
Owen opened his mouth to reply,
then
paused while Emma set steaming cups of coffee on the table, along with milk and sugar. "Thank you, Emma." Deep in thought, he tapped his fingers on the table as he stared at a lithograph of the Holy Family on the wall. The aroma of garlic and spices scented the room, a smell he'd become used to since having Emma as his housekeeper, and one he'd come to appreciate. Here in this enclosed space, however, the smell overwhelmed him.

While Anton stirred a spoonful of sugar in his coffee, Owen pondered how much longer Anton and Emma could manage with scarcely any money coming in. How much longer would they be able to drink their coffee with milk and sugar? At least he had union funds, but Anton and the other non-union workers had only the scant amount donated by the Amalgamated.

"Enough mill talk for now, gentlemen," Emma said, adding a plate of
kreple
--raised doughnuts--on the table. "Relax for a while." A forced smile on her face, she wended her way among the pieces of furniture that crowded the room,
then
sank onto the sofa to fold freshly-laundered clothes.

Owen drank his coffee, resisting the urge to wipe his forehead again. The apartment window was raised as high as it would go, but no breeze stirred. The oven, still warm from baking, radiated heat throughout the small room. Sweat drenched his clothes and streamed down his back.

"How's your arm?" he asked Anton. He bit into the
kreple
,
savoring its sugary taste,
then
took another long, slow sip of coffee. He would've preferred beer on this hot day, but at least the coffee quenched his thirst. "You seem to be moving it better now."

Grinning, Anton flexed his arm. "My arm is better, Mr. Cardiff, and--"

"Call me Owen, why don't you."

"Yes, well . . . Owen, it's a good thing that bullet didn't go any deeper. Dr.
Slobodnik
dug it out with very little trouble."

"But it took two strong men to hold him down," Emma interjected from the sofa.
"
Ach
!
You should've heard him. He squealed like a pig."

"Well, I'm glad to see you're better," Owen said, then drained his coffee cup. "We'll see you back at the mill soon with the other workers--and no scabs." He scraped his chair back and stood. "Emma, now that Anton's better, why don't you come back to help me? You know I'm not very good at keeping house."

Emma rolled up a pair of black socks. "I like that, Mr. Cardiff. We sure could use the money."

Owen grabbed his hat to leave, trying to ignore the flypaper studded with dozens of dead flies dangling from a light fixture. He clapped Anton on his good shoulder. "I tell you, my friend, we'll have the mills open soon, and it'll be Amalgamated workers who open them. No d--, uh, darn scabs."

"You have me convinced," Anton replied, looking anything but as he rose to his feet and walked Owen to the door.

Owen gave them both friendly smiles, then left to return to his lonely house on the hill.

* * *

Dabbing a linen handkerchief across her forehead and down her cheeks, Lisa ran her finger under the high collar of her silk blouse. She shaded her eyes against the sunshine as she climbed the hill to
Owen's
house. It's just as well I like to walk, she thought, her legs straining up the hill.
Like climbing a mountain
.
The late morning sunlight shone from a clear blue sky, shimmering on the pavement. The ailanthus trees, no longer a dull gray since the mill had closed, sparkled with moisture after a brief shower.

Stopping to catch her breath, she turned back to look at the empty and lifeless mill, where the brilliant sunlight glinted off the tops of the mill buildings, momentarily blinding her. She

continued
up the hill to
Fourteenth Avenue
, wondering how in the world the good people of
Homestead
made this trip in the wintertime. As
Owen's
white frame house came into view, she quickened her pace, oblivious to neighbors' disapproval.

Reluctant to startle him with an abrupt entrance, she knocked on the door and waited a few seconds. She looked down the street, where she saw several children playing jump rope, but their merry chant was the only sound in this quiet neighborhood. After a minute or so, she turned the doorknob and let herself in, grateful that no one in
Homestead
ever locked his door.

"Owen!" she called as she stepped into the parlor.
Silence.
She called up the stairs but still there was no answer.
The lace curtains hung limply by the open window, the house stifling hot.
A shaft of sunlight caught the dust motes that floated through the air. A glance throughout the downstairs showed her that someone--Owen, she supposed--had tried to keep the house clean but hadn't quite succeeded. She wondered where his housekeeper was.

 
And where was Owen? Useless to wonder, she decided as she started to straighten the parlor, where engineering books and a jumble of magazines cluttered the room. Seeking diversion, she sang while she worked.

In the gloaming, oh, my darling

When the lights are dim and low

And the quiet shadows falling

Softly come and softly go

Hours later, the house--upstairs and downstairs--looked clean and welcoming, magazines in a neat pile on the table, books returned to the upstairs bookcase. A stew made of vegetables from
Owen's
back garden simmered on the stove, its heady aroma scenting the house.
But still no Owen.
Lisa settled herself on the sofa and leafed through a copy of
Scientific American
,
continually looking out the front window, certain Owen would step into the room any minute.

As she tried to concentrate on an article about a man named Diesel and an internal combustion engine, a knock at the front door made her jump. She set the magazine down and rose to her feet, a hundred questions churning in her head. A second knock sent her rushing to the door, a calm expression fixed on her face.

She opened the front door to see a blue-suited policeman, an envelope in his hand. "
Wha
--what do you want?" She ran damp hands up and down her skirt. Her heart pounded; her legs shook so much she felt sure the policeman could see the flutter of her cotton skirt.

The policeman gave her an apologetic look. "Is this the residence of Owen Cardiff?"

Lisa took a deep breath. "Yes, it is."
Another deep breath.
"I'm his wife," she said, the lie heating her face. "Please tell me what this is all about."

He spoke with compassion. "I have a warrant for his arrest."

No, please, no!
She grasped the edge of the table for support. She would not faint.

The policeman reached his hand out to her. "Madam, are you all right?"

"Yes, of course," she replied, determined to remain calm. "What is the charge?"

"Murder."

Chapter Eighteen

"Please, God, no!" After the policeman left, Lisa sank onto the sofa, clutching her stomach. She swallowed hard, at a loss to understand the warrant’s meaning. How in the world could Owen be charged with murder? So as soon as he
arrived
home--

The door opened and Owen stepped inside, bowler in hand. "Lisa!"