she’d never been able to move past her revulsion to wear.
The way Miss Barn held Malia’s hat—
The poor dear clung to the brim in desperation not to give it up, yet her brow furrowed as if she were trying to convince herself that this was a joke and any minute Irene would laugh and, like a bad Santa, take back the hat.
Irene, being Irene, did nothing of the sort. She withdrew the apartment key. “I’ll hold this for you until you return, and I will make arrangements with Pieter Joossens like I promised.” She handed Malia the clutch, which Malia took and held to her chest.
Malia shifted her weight uncomfortably. “What am I supposed to do for three weeks with only one set of clothing?”
“Frank has that taken care of.”
“What do I do if I need to contact you?”
“Frank will help you.”
“But what if he is my problem?”
Irene clearly saw Malia’s distress, and didn’t look the least bit concerned. “Frank is the best there is. I’d be in love with him myself if it weren’t for— Well, that’s neither here nor there.”
Malia didn’t say a word. There was no point. Once Irene set her mind upon something, nothing—neither hell, nor high water, nor a handsome man—could change it. Malia admired that about her. Until now. Sometimes she suspected Giovanni’s courtship of Irene in the six months following the funeral was so Malia and Irene could become friends. Malia and Irene had attended the opera together more than Giovanni and Irene had.
Irene gripped the sides of Malia’s arms. “As your lawyer, I advise you to trust Frank.”
Malia felt her upper lip curl.
“As your friend...” Irene leaned forward. Placing her cheek against Malia’s, she whispered, “Look away when he smiles. Trust me.” Then she was off like a rabbit to the door. “Hurry. Frank likes to stay on schedule.”
Frank. Frank. Frank, Frank, Frank. Frank.
She hadn’t even begun her three weeks with him and she was sick of his name.
Malia pinned the straw hat atop her head. She collected her gloves from the table and walked to Irene, Miss Barn silently following.
Irene opened the door a smidgeon, peeked and then opened it the rest of the way.
“Wait.” Malia turned around, and Miss Barn stopped in front of her. “Thank you.” She laid her gloves across her pochette and offered them to Miss Barn, whose pale blue eyes immediately widened.
“Oh, I cannot accept—”
“Please,” Malia cut in, “allow me. Gloves and clutch for a coat? It seems only fair. We can always trade back.”
Miss Barn hesitated. With her translucent skin, flaxen hair and quiet demeanor, she had blended into the room, unnoticed as the pale brows on her face.
Then she looked up and smiled.
Malia did too.
Grand Central Depot
Forty-Second Street and Fourth Avenue
3:42 p.m.
Nearly nine hours after she first saw him in the Park Avenue Hotel courtyard, he led her into a wall of smoke.
Eyes burning, Malia blinked as she blindly walked next to the marshal. If he weren’t clenching her hand in his—and it was quite embarrassing that he was—she would have lost him in the darkness. An engineer led them through the workers’ passage in the shadowy and noisy Park Avenue tunnel, filled with smoke from the hundreds of steam locomotives arriving daily. A rate of one every forty-five seconds, or so the Times recently reported. She’d never concerned herself with trains or the political views of boosting public safety by removing the locomotives from Manhattan’s surface and putting them underground. As if digging for the subway wasn’t enough. Street construction was a way of life in the city.
The last time she had been at Grand Central was when the train brought her home following her graduation from Vassar. Other than an occasional visit to the outer boroughs, she’d simply had no need—or inclination—to leave the island since. She still had no inclination.
Need, though...well, that was debatable.
Not that the marshal
The way Miss Barn held Malia’s hat—
The poor dear clung to the brim in desperation not to give it up, yet her brow furrowed as if she were trying to convince herself that this was a joke and any minute Irene would laugh and, like a bad Santa, take back the hat.
Irene, being Irene, did nothing of the sort. She withdrew the apartment key. “I’ll hold this for you until you return, and I will make arrangements with Pieter Joossens like I promised.” She handed Malia the clutch, which Malia took and held to her chest.
Malia shifted her weight uncomfortably. “What am I supposed to do for three weeks with only one set of clothing?”
“Frank has that taken care of.”
“What do I do if I need to contact you?”
“Frank will help you.”
“But what if he is my problem?”
Irene clearly saw Malia’s distress, and didn’t look the least bit concerned. “Frank is the best there is. I’d be in love with him myself if it weren’t for— Well, that’s neither here nor there.”
Malia didn’t say a word. There was no point. Once Irene set her mind upon something, nothing—neither hell, nor high water, nor a handsome man—could change it. Malia admired that about her. Until now. Sometimes she suspected Giovanni’s courtship of Irene in the six months following the funeral was so Malia and Irene could become friends. Malia and Irene had attended the opera together more than Giovanni and Irene had.
Irene gripped the sides of Malia’s arms. “As your lawyer, I advise you to trust Frank.”
Malia felt her upper lip curl.
“As your friend...” Irene leaned forward. Placing her cheek against Malia’s, she whispered, “Look away when he smiles. Trust me.” Then she was off like a rabbit to the door. “Hurry. Frank likes to stay on schedule.”
Frank. Frank. Frank, Frank, Frank. Frank.
She hadn’t even begun her three weeks with him and she was sick of his name.
Malia pinned the straw hat atop her head. She collected her gloves from the table and walked to Irene, Miss Barn silently following.
Irene opened the door a smidgeon, peeked and then opened it the rest of the way.
“Wait.” Malia turned around, and Miss Barn stopped in front of her. “Thank you.” She laid her gloves across her pochette and offered them to Miss Barn, whose pale blue eyes immediately widened.
“Oh, I cannot accept—”
“Please,” Malia cut in, “allow me. Gloves and clutch for a coat? It seems only fair. We can always trade back.”
Miss Barn hesitated. With her translucent skin, flaxen hair and quiet demeanor, she had blended into the room, unnoticed as the pale brows on her face.
Then she looked up and smiled.
Malia did too.
Grand Central Depot
Forty-Second Street and Fourth Avenue
3:42 p.m.
Nearly nine hours after she first saw him in the Park Avenue Hotel courtyard, he led her into a wall of smoke.
Eyes burning, Malia blinked as she blindly walked next to the marshal. If he weren’t clenching her hand in his—and it was quite embarrassing that he was—she would have lost him in the darkness. An engineer led them through the workers’ passage in the shadowy and noisy Park Avenue tunnel, filled with smoke from the hundreds of steam locomotives arriving daily. A rate of one every forty-five seconds, or so the Times recently reported. She’d never concerned herself with trains or the political views of boosting public safety by removing the locomotives from Manhattan’s surface and putting them underground. As if digging for the subway wasn’t enough. Street construction was a way of life in the city.
The last time she had been at Grand Central was when the train brought her home following her graduation from Vassar. Other than an occasional visit to the outer boroughs, she’d simply had no need—or inclination—to leave the island since. She still had no inclination.
Need, though...well, that was debatable.
Not that the marshal
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