Weeping Angel (26 page)

Mr. Beamguard stood over the case, absently adjusting the knot on his black tie. “It comes ten yards to a roll for twenty cents.”

“Oh.” Amelia did some quick calculating in her head. “All right. I'll need a roll of each color.”

Oscar dropped open the lid on the case back and went to work. Amelia wandered through the store, looking at the various buttons and sewing accessories, thinking by next year she would be able to afford some of the more frivolous items.

The door opened, and she glanced up to see Emmaline Shelby coming inside. Amelia had to concede Emmaline didn't appear wilted from the heat, even though she manned a washer and iron all day. Her black hair curled around her face beneath a straw bonnet tied under her chin with pretty yellow ribbon. Her cheeks had just the right amount of natural pink.

“I'll be with you in a minute, Miss Shelby,” Oscar said as he began to wrap Amelia's items in brown paper.

“I'm in no hurry,” she replied. “All I need is some blueing. While I wait, I'll just look around.”

Amelia didn't say a word; she pretended to be
engrossed in a box of safety pins, hoping to avoid a confrontation.

“Miss Marshall,” Emmaline stated in an oh-so-casual tone. “I thought that was you. I recognized your suit.”

Amelia had to gaze at the woman and force herself to smile.

“I've always admired that color on you when you've worn it.” Emmaline paused, her voice too sweet.

Amelia felt herself stiffening, waiting for the blow.

“And you have worn that suit often. How long now?” Emmaline tapped her chin with a slim finger. “I think I've seen you in it for the past five years. At least.”

Before Amelia could launch a counter retort, her opponent was firing again. “And that hat. Is it new? No . . . I don't think so. Why, it reminds me of the one your aunt always wore.” Emmaline took a step closer. “I can see now that it is. How clever of you to remodel it. Why I wish I was as creative as you.”

To anyone with any reason to listen—solely Mr. Beamguard—their conversation would have sounded like one woman complimenting the other. But Amelia knew an insult when she was the object of one. She racked her brain for something offensive, yet pleasant-sounding, to hit Emmaline with.

“Thank you, Miss Shelby,” she said with mock cordiality. “I do believe your sunburn is looking much improved today.”

Emmaline raised a hand to her cheek. “I don't go in the sun without a bonnet.”

“Excuse me.” Amelia sounded appropriately apologetic. “It must be the heat of your washer, dear, that's making your face so healthy.”

Emmaline squared her shoulders with a tiny squeak. “If you don't mind, Mr. Beamguard, I'll just help myself to the blueing and you can put it on my account.”

“Very well, Miss Shelby.”

Emmaline took the bottle from the shelf, then gave Amelia a silent glare. In a lowered voice, she warned, “Don't think I'm not onto you. Fancying yourself up in Sunday clothes and dousing yourself with lemon verbena isn't going to make him notice you. Frank doesn't like a woman who's not modern—modern in fashion, thinking,
and
music. He told me all you play are songs from dead people. Well, let me tell you, I know gay tunes and I sing them for Frank all the time.”

On that, she left energetically humming, “Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay!”

Amelia was so vexed, she saw stars without having to look at the festive case of decorations. Ooh! That Emmaline Shelby was fast becoming a thorn in her side. It wouldn't have been so bad if the woman hadn't read her like the
Gazette.

“Is there anything else, Miss Marshall?”

“Yes . . .” she said tentatively, thinking she would have to take drastic action. “I'll be just minute.”

Amelia put the pins aside and strode to the wooden stand of sheet music. The selection wasn't very large—there being only two pianos in all of Weeping Angel. But the owner of the Oak Tree Hotel, Eugene Thistlerod, did own a zither. And Saybrook Spivey had an accordion he'd play at social functions. Not to mention there were countless harmonica players in town.

She thumbed through the scant folios. At a glance, “Daisy Bell” looked complicated. There were many left-hand chords, and the song was spread out over five pages. Biting her lower lip, she set the music aside and continued her search. “In the Baggage Coach Ahead” had four flats. “Oh, Promise Me” had just as many flats—the same ones as “In the Baggage Coach Ahead”—but the lyrics were romantic. “Rock-a-Bye Baby” would be pushing things a bit far. Catching the
corner of another she saw “Sweet Rosie O'Grady.” Then, just what she was looking for seemed to pop out at her, and she grabbed the last folio with a broad smile.

In the end, she chose six
gay tunes
she would have normally frowned upon. Setting them on the counter next to her streamers, she did frown when Mr. Beamguard totaled the cost of the music. She tried not to worry about it too much. Her students paid her on Friday and that was today. She'd just have to be more frugal on her grocery bill.

After exchanging money with Mr. Beamguard, Amelia gathered her parcel and departed. As she crossed Holy Road, she glanced down the street. The men's dormitory that housed Reed's sawmill workers and a few of the bachelors was that way on Gopher Road. She never would have paid it any mind, if not for the fact Pap O'Cleary resided there. As of late, he seemed to come out of nowhere to walk her to the saloon. It didn't matter where she was coming from, he'd find her.

Stepping onto the corner, she gave the street one more gaze, just to make sure. She didn't see a trace of him. She passed the doctor's office, and as she did so, she thought of Narcissa, who was blossoming in her condition. Her sickness had eased and her color had returned. It was amazing the difference three weeks could make on a woman almost four months into the family way.

Amelia used her key to let herself inside the Moon Rock, then closed the door. She knew precisely where to find a lamp now. And the smells of stale cigars and spirits didn't bother her as much as they used to. She still didn't find the odors attractive, but she wasn't sickened by them anymore.

After setting her music bag and package on the bar, she slipped off her gloves but kept her hat on. She went to the oil stove next to the icebox and lit the single
burner. Then she prepared a pot of coffee so strong, the aroma of bubbling grounds was as thick as stew. Frank liked his coffee robust enough to float a silver dollar on it—at least that's what she'd heard him say to Mr. O'Cleary once.

She arranged her piano teaching necessities as she normally did, all the while casting furtive glances at Frank's closed apartment door. She couldn't understand how he could sleep so soundly while she was making noise. There had been those few times when he rose early and surprised her, though that hadn't happened recently.

She opened her parcel and shuffled through the music, knowing just the one she would select first. Putting it on the piano's music stand, she scanned the notes, trying to get a sense of the tune before she played it. Then, feeling ready, she went directly into the chorus. She played the song with as much airiness as she could muster. After stumbling through it once, she tried again. The second try was much smoother, and by the third, she felt breezy.

If she hadn't been blaring the piano keys, she probably would have heard Frank yelling at her. As it was, his shrill whistle between his fingers made her lift her head and take notice of him in the doorway. She stopped playing immediately, her eyes coming to rest on his exposed navel.

He wore a pair of form-fitting Derby ribbed drawers with three pearl buttons at the sateen waist placket—all of which were
un
buttoned. The fine combed white cotton had to be staying up by sheer will alone. Since he'd let her know he slept without the benefit of a nightshirt, he must have slipped these on while half asleep. Was he aware they weren't fastened?

“Hello, Frank.” Despite her pulse speeding, she tried to sound very calm and matter-of-fact. “I didn't know you were awake.”

“How could I sleep with you belting out that Tin
Pan Alley stuff?” His tousled black hair fell into his eyes, and he combed it back with his splayed fingers. “Damn, I dreamed Emmaline was out here. That's all she sings.”

Amelia's nerves grew brittle, and she fought for a fitting reply. “Doesn't everyone appreciate the melody of ‘Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay!'? I just bought the sheet music this morning, along with a few others I find very contemporary.”

He hitched the band of his drawers higher on his hips, the sinewy cords of his legs stretching the thin material. Absently, he fit each tiny pearl button into its hole. A brief shiver rippled through her. She stared at his masculine hand, his powerful fingers as they worked to close the gap in his underwear. Even put together, she couldn't refrain from taking in the thick definition of muscle on his chest, the flatness of his abdomen . . . and even the outline of his crotch.

She averted her eyes as he stepped into the room wrinkling his nose. “What's that smell?”

Delighted, she said, “Coffee.”

“I wasn't referring to the coffee.” He sniffed and made a face. “What's that rotten lemons smell?”

Rotten lemons?
On the pretext of smoothing her hair, she lifted her hand. She turned her nose into her wrist and quietly sniffed. No one had ever told her aunt Clara she smelled like a rotten lemon when she'd worn the perfume. Lemon verbena had a sweet lemony scent.

Amelia lowered her arm. “I don't smell a thing offensive. Your nose must be playing tricks on you.”

“All I know is, I was in a deep sleep. Then I started dreaming Emmaline was out here singing her boom-de-ays off.”

“No, it's just me.”

Laying his palm on his belly, he stifled a yawn. “What time is it?”

She checked the hour on her chatelaine watch. “A quarter to one.”

“You put coffee on.” It wasn't a question, rather a statement of fact.

“Would you like me to pour you a cup?”

“I can do it myself.”

Then he disappeared into his room, only to reappear a scant minute later in trousers—no shirt or shoes—and with his hair a little tidier.

While she put a new song on the music stand, she heard him pad to the bar. The clang of enamel, and the clink of a metal spoon against stoneware signaled he was stirring sugar into his coffee. As he did so, she broke into her second melody, “Oh, Promise Me.” This popular tune was more suited to her classical background. There weren't nearly as many snappy chords.

She played the piece through once, Frank not interrupting her. When she was finished, she put her hands in her lap and turned to see where he'd gone. He sat at his usual table, his large hands corraling his coffee mug in his grasp. He would have been absolutely more handsome than a new catalog bonnet if he hadn't been scowling at her.

“Have you heard anything from Rogers and Company?”

“No.” She felt crestfallen. “I just posted the letter four days ago. I'm sure they've been informed of the train accident and will expedite another New American posthaste.”

“Yeah, let's hope so.”

Amelia knit her brows. Well, he didn't have to sound so expectant. What happened to insisting she play at the Moon Rock? He acted as if he were counting the minutes until he got rid of her.

Their conversation, if Amelia could have called it that to begin with, came to a standstill. She tilted her
head to one side, just enough for him to lift his gaze to her new hat.

He didn't say a word as he took a sip of his coffee.

She sat a little straighter, smoothing her navy skirt across her lap.

He seemed engrossed with the table's wood grain.

She stared at him.

He got up, took his coffee, and went behind the long bar.

She could have screamed her frustration. She might have, too, if Pap O'Cleary hadn't come in, causing both of them to shift their gazes on him.

But Pap only had eyes for Amelia, so she gave him one of her most charming smiles in the hopes of making Frank jealous.

“How do, Miss Marshall?”

“I'm quite fine, thank you.”

Pap didn't acknowledge Frank as he entered the saloon and crossed over to where she sat on the stool. “I've been looking for you.”

“Have you?” She wished he hadn't found her.

“Yup.”

She waited, but he seemed to have nothing further to say. She didn't pursue the matter, knowing there was no point to it. Every time she'd tried to have a conversation with Pap O'Cleary, he turned it onesided. With him doing the talking—more like rambling—while she lent a patient ear.

Amelia tried to include Frank before he could make his escape. “Mr. Brody and I,” she began, gazing directly at Frank, “were discussing Dishpan Alley music.”

“Dishpan?” Pap scratched the back of his ear.

“She means Tin Pan,” Frank put in while he bent over his hot cup.

She inwardly cringed. “Yes, that's what I meant.”

Pap cocked his chin to the side. “That's the only
kind of music there is, Miss Marshall. Now, I didn't want to offend you or nothing, but this dead guy stuff you teach the kids isn't up to snuff.”

She pursed her lips. “Classical composition is the root of all music, Mr. O'Cleary.” Then seeing Frank head for his room, she quickly added, “Mr. Brody, what do you think about dead composers?”

“Don't dig 'em up.”

He was nearly at his doorway, and she was beside herself with a way to stop him. On impulse, she gathered her sheet music and pretended to “accidentally” drop it. But the folios were more apt to be described as sailing toward him. Whatever the case, he stopped in his tracks and looked at his bare feet where the sheets had scattered.