Bitter Spirits (15 page)

Winter walked to his desk and dug around in a drawer for a letter opener to cut the strings. When he lifted the top of the box, he found himself staring at the gown Ju had made for Aida. The pain he'd been nursing for the last few days reared up, making his chest tight and hot.

“Helvete,”
he swore under his breath.

Not the gaudy yellow fabric, but the color he'd wanted, so delicate, like silver and sand. At least Ju had some sense. It was finely made. Looked like something a goddess would wear. He imagined Aida wearing it, and the unending hollowness he'd felt since their fight grew wider.

He crammed the box top back on, crushing one side of it in frustration. He should just throw it in the trash. She wouldn't take it anyway.

“It's a beautiful gown,” Bo noted.

Yes. Ju's girls had gone to a lot of trouble making it, and it was exceptional work.

A shame to let it go to waste.

Maybe Astrid would want it. Then again, if she ever wore it, it would likely just remind him of the spirit medium.

Only sensible option was to just give the damned thing to Aida. She might not accept it. He wasn't going to get his hopes up—he knew better now. This was just the logical thing to do, that's all.

 • • • 

Someone pounded on Aida's apartment door when she was getting ready to leave for her late show at Gris-Gris. Who would be calling on her at seven on a Friday night? And why did it make her so angry? Everything made her angry lately, and it was all Winter Magnusson's fault.

She was ill—physically sick to her stomach. She'd lost her appetite and had spent the last four nights rolling around on her narrow bed, feeling every spring, kicking the covers, cursing Winter's name.

Even one-way conversations with Sam about the matter, usually a comfort, gave her no support or relief. She tried to recall a Sam-ism that would apply to the situation and only remembered warnings about the uselessness of love, which she didn't care to consider—maybe because she was weaker than he'd been when it came to these matters.

It was ridiculous, all this anger and disappointment Winter stirred up inside her. She wasn't mad at him anymore about Sook-Yin, now that the shock had worn off. She wasn't even secretly mad about his dead wife, because that would be petty and selfish of her to be mad about something like that. It was none of her business, and he was obviously struggling with grief she couldn't fathom, and it would be silly to be jealous of a dead woman.

She was, however, still angry.

Because he'd given up on the two of them.

And if he could just give up without a fight, then he wasn't losing sleep like she was. And that meant she was lovesick over someone who didn't give a fig, and that made her
furious
. It was a self-loathing kind of fury, yes, but it was easier just to blame him. Much easier.

Feminine laughter seeped into her apartment from the hallway. Maybe one of the other tenants needed something. Aida opened the door to find a striking girl, not quite collegeaged, with ringlets of blond hair peeking beneath a soft pink hat. She stood next to a young black girl about the same age. Both girls were giggling, both carrying shirt boxes.

“Hiya,” the blonde said brightly, a little breathless. She looked familiar, but Aida couldn't place where she'd seen her. Nor could she figure out why she was standing outside her door. Maybe they were here to call on someone else and got the apartment numbers confused.

“I'm Astrid Magnusson,” the girl said. “Winter's sister.”

Aida's chest tightened. “Oh. Uh . . . oh.”
What in the world is she doing here?

“The woman at the restaurant counter let us come up. Your apartment is a hellish hike.”

“No elevator.”

“Someone needs to get one installed, and pronto. Can we come in? This is Benita, by the way.”

Benita smiled over the big shirt box. Her hair was bobbed a little shorter than Astrid's, and she wore a pretty blue plaid dress with a bow at the neck under her coat. Aida greeted her and ushered them both inside.

“Benita's my seamstress,” Astrid explained. “She can alter anything that doesn't fit. She's a genius. Gosh, this is a tiny apartment.” She deposited her box on Aida's bed and looked around, wandering to the window. “Oh, but you can see the entire street. I love Chinatown. It must be so exciting to live here. Bo tells me stories all the time about growing up here.”

While Astrid chatted, Benita hefted the largest box onto the bed. It was stamped with a gold I. Magnin logo, a high-end department store downtown at Geary; Aida had gazed at their window displays, but she'd never been inside.

“Astrid?” she said.

“Yes?”

“What are you doing here?”

Winter's sister smacked gum while giving her a crooked grin. “Winter sent me. He said you'd ripped your coat when he hurt his shoulder last week, something about a taxi hitting a telephone pole. He's terrible at explaining things. He always leaves out the interesting parts.”

“That's an understatement,” Aida murmured.

“Anyway,” Astrid continued, “he told me he'd promised to buy you a new coat, so he sent me out to find one. Bo helped me. He's got an eye for fashion. Whenever I go shopping, he waits outside the dressing room and gives me his opinion when I model things for him.” She hesitated, grimacing. “Umm, don't tell Winter about that. Not that there's anything wrong with it—it's not as if Bo sees me undressed or anything.”

Benita made a small noise.

“Hush,” Astrid told the girl, looking mildly embarrassed, but probably not as much as she should be. “That was an accident.”

Aida raised a brow.

“Anyway, all I'm saying is . . . well, I've forgotten now. Come on, take a look at what I picked out.”

“Astrid, this is really kind of you, but things may have changed since your brother asked you to do this.”

“He just asked me a few hours ago.”

“Oh.” Aida's heart pattered inside her chest.

“Believe me, even if you've already found a new coat, this one is better. I'm so excited I can barely stand it. Don't worry, I've got excellent taste.” The girls bent over Aida's bed together. “Oh, I almost forgot. Let's show her the gown, first.”

“Gown?” She was incapable of doing anything more than repeating Astrid's words.

“I didn't pick it out, but Winter showed me. He called it a ‘goddess dress,' and he's sort of right. It's gorgeous. Hold on.” Benita untied the string on the smaller box and wiggled the top off. After pulling back layers of crinkly tissue paper, the girl lifted out a delicate oyster-colored sleeveless gown. It gathered over the shoulders with gold-threaded cords tied into long bows, and draped around the hips like a Greek chiton. Tiny freshwater pearls and golden beads danced across the sheer bodice.

Astrid and Benita both looked up at her with happy, expectant faces.

“It's stunning,” Aida admitted.

“Look, the bodice is silk crepe-georgette. Two layers,” she said, slipping her slender fingers behind the fine, diaphanous material. “And when you look at it in the right light, you can see tiny peacock feathers embroidered on the skirt.”

Aida's heart skipped a beat. She leaned in to inspect the fabric. Yes, it was Ju's. The fabric Winter had liked. She never expected . . . well, she didn't know what she expected.

“It's beautiful, but I can't accept this.”

“Winter told me you'd say that. He also said you might be offended, angry, or stubborn.”

“Oh, did he now?”

She held up her hand. “Before you say anything else, let me show you the coat I found. If you say no to cashmere and fox, you're either a fool or an idiot.”

Good grief, the girl had a mouth on her, didn't she?

“Look, my brother thinks you hung the moon, so I hope you're not planning on breaking his heart,” Astrid added, giving her a cool look. “He's been through enough already.”

Aida had never broken anyone's heart. She never stayed in one place long enough for that to happen, and if she did, she certainly wasn't heartbreaking material.

“He's not a monster,” Astrid added. “He likes to think he is, but he wasn't like this before. I mean, he's always been arrogant, but he used to be happy and fun to be around.”

“Before the accident.”

Astrid shook her head. “Before Paulina. The accident just made it worse.”

If the girl was trying to make Aida curious, she'd done a fine job. “Why didn't Winter come here himself?”

“He did. He's waiting in the car downstairs.”

AIDA STARED AT ASTRID FOR A MOMENT, HEART POUNDING, THEN
walked to the bed. “Where's the fur? Here?”

Benita quickly unpacked the coat. It was cashmere, all right, a soft camel color. And the collar was made of the longest, thickest,
softest
deep brown fur she'd ever seen. Aida could barely look at it, the thing was so ridiculously lovely. She averted her eyes and looped the coat over her forearm. Her apartment keys sat on the bedside table. She grabbed them and headed toward the door. “You coming?” she asked the girls, who scrambled to follow her out, Astrid begging to know if she liked the coat. Of course she liked the coat. That wasn't the point.

Mrs. Lin waved at them as they marched through the front door of the restaurant, Astrid complaining and fussing the whole way. Aida saw Bo on the sidewalk first, then Winter. He was lounging back against the Pierce-Arrow, ankles crossed. She thought she saw a flash of surprise in his eyes when he noticed her stalking toward him, but it quickly cooled.

“Mr. Magnusson,” she said, stopping in front of him.

“Miss Palmer.”

Damn him, he looked unfairly handsome. And he was giving her the frostiest look, slanting it down at her while his head remained still. He was intimidating, and she knew she should still be angry with him, but his clean scent wafted toward her with the breeze, and that lulled her into a softer mood.

All she could manage to feel at that moment was a tremendous amount of comfort and relief. Like when she'd tried to stop drinking coffee and went without for several days, until she walked into a diner and smelled it being brewed—then she forgot why she'd been trying so hard to avoid it, so she gave in and had a cup. That first sip was pure joy and warm pleasure.

That's how she felt, standing there in front of him, only a few inches away.

And it was a feeling that didn't pair well with the words she'd been repeating inside her head the entire trek down from her apartment, but she said them anyway: “I cannot accept this coat.”

“Why not?” he said in his seductive, low baritone. “Do you hate the design?”

“It's gorgeous.”

“The color?”

“I love the color.”

“It doesn't fit?” He turned his head to the side and called out to Astrid. “Can it be altered?”

“Sure, but she hasn't tried it on,” Astrid called back. She was standing on the sidewalk with Benita and Bo, several yards away, as if Winter were contagious and they didn't want to get too close. She probably should've kept her distance as well; one minute in his company and she already wanted to sway closer. It was pathetic, truly.

Winter glanced down at her. “How can you say it doesn't fit if you don't try it on?”

“I never said that. I—”

“Here, let me help.” He pulled the coat out of her arms and shook it. “Looks real enough. It's not shedding, so hopefully it's not made of rat hair.”

“I heard that,” Astrid shouted.

“Can we speak alone, please?” Aida said to him under her breath.

“Are you going to tell me why you can't take this coat?”

“Maybe.”

“Then no, we can't be alone. Hold out your arm.”

She scowled at him, or tried to, at least, and held out an arm. He slipped the coat onto one arm, over her shoulders, then the other arm. He was very close, and he was touching her again, and that was only making her Comfort and Relief feelings grow stronger. He tugged the coat closed. “There. Looks as if it fits just fine to me.”

She glanced at the length of the arms, the hem, hoping to find something to latch onto for argument fodder, but no. It fit. It fit well.

“Told you,” Astrid called out.

“She's very irritating,” Aida complained in a low voice.

“You have no idea,” Winter answered with a merry twinkle in his eye, keeping his voice quiet to match hers. “You look lovely. That coat couldn't possibly be any better. It suits you perfectly.” He ran his fingers along the side of her bobbed hair and smoothed down flyaway strands, causing a flurry of goose bumps to spread across her scalp. “Tell me why you can't accept it.”

“I have a very good reason.”

“You always do. I'm listening.”

“Give me a second. You're distracting me with your handsome looks and sensible arguments.”

She shouldn't have said that. He puffed up like a balloon, seemingly growing several inches in height. He almost started smiling. Almost. He leaned closer. “You may not want to keep it, but I have a good reason why you
should
. You'll need it tomorrow night.”

“Why?”

“I'd like you to come to dinner with me.”

She gave him a suspicious look. “Is this like the last meal you invited me to? Or have you seen another ghost? Wait, don't answer that. I'm not working for you anymore, and that's final.”

“No ghost, and I'm not asking for business reasons. I'm asking if you—the person, not the spirit medium—would join me, the person, for dinner tomorrow. Just the two of us. No prostitutes or armed guards.”

“Oh. Well. I, uh . . . I don't know if that's such a good idea.”

“Why? You just said I was handsome.”

“Too handsome.”

“Let's not get carried away. A few days ago you were yelling at me like you wanted me dead.”

“A few days ago, I did.”

“And you've forgiven me?”

“‘Forgiven' seems too strong a word, especially when I've been so unhappy since you dumped me here five days ago and seemed to forget I existed.”

“You stormed off—I didn't dump anything. And I tried to forget your existence, believe me. I tried very hard. I made it my top priority. All I could think about was how I was trying not to think about you.”

“That sounds taxing.”

“It was. And we can argue about who stormed off and who dumped whom over dinner. I know you're off tomorrow night, because I called Velma and she told me your schedule. So you can't use that excuse.”

“That's—”

“And you have a new coat. And a new gown, though you don't have to wear it if it reminds you of that afternoon. It was a lousy afternoon.”

“Yes, it was.”

“And I've missed you ever since.”

She stilled; her heart was beating far too fast. “You have?”

“I'm not sure why. Last time I saw you, you made it clear that you hated my guts.”

“I don't hate you.”

“You certain about that?”

“Fairly certain.”

He nearly smiled again. “I'll take what I can get. Eight tomorrow night, right here. I'll pick you up. I'll even promise to keep my hands aboveboard if you do the same.”

A short laugh escaped her lips. She glanced to the side and spied Bo, Astrid, and Benita watching them with undisguised interest. “They are awfully nosy,” she murmured to Winter.

“Worse than the gossip rags,” he agreed. “Aida?”

“Yes?”

“Please go to dinner with me.”

She touched the locket beneath her dress; Sam would be furious with her for caving in too easily, but for once in her life, her whispering heart drowned out his persistent voice.

“Okay,” she told Winter. “But no Chinese food.”

He closed his eyes for a moment and blew out a long breath.

 • • • 

The following night, she stood in the same exact spot, while the Magnusson family's driver, Jonte, greeted her as he opened the limousine door. Winter waited in the backseat, dressed in a tuxedo. Her gaze flitted over the white of his shirt and the luxurious heft of a long blue black coat; his gaze flitted over the fur-collared coat and headed down her pale silk stockings.

“You look . . .” he started. “Oh, hell. You look breathtaking, Aida.”

“I don't believe anyone's ever called me that.” She couldn't hold his gaze. “Please stop looking at me. It's making me anxious.”

“Is it? I can't tell.”

“I'm good at hiding it. A stage trick.”

“Maybe you should sit closer. I think that might help.”

“Last time I did, I ended up attacking you.”

“Yes, well, hope springs eternal, but I'm sure that would never happen again. And I have promised to keep my hands aboveboard. Come here.” He shifted to make room for her, and she scooted into the crook of his arm, tightly clutching her handbag against her lap with both hands. The side of his body warmed hers within seconds, and she found herself relaxing, just a little. She didn't dare look up at his face. Lord knew that was her downfall the last time she did this.

“See, it's fine,” he said in his deep-velvet voice. “Anyone who saw us would think we're old friends. No one would imagine that we were crazy about each other before I went and screwed everything up.”

“Who knows. Maybe we still
are
crazy about each other, despite your best efforts.”

“That would be something, wouldn't it?”

She leaned her head against his fine coat and breathed him in, grateful and content.

He made a strange noise, then she felt the hesitant weight of his arm wrapping around her shoulders. “Let's look out the window. I'll give you a quick tour of the city along our route. Point out things that have changed since you were a child.”

Ten minutes later, she was soft as butter, lounging against him, listening to his voice as it vibrated inside his big chest, pointing out which blocks were destroyed in the Great Fire, telling her about Lotta's Fountain, where a crowd of people were gathered to listen to someone playing a violin as the sun set behind the downtown buildings.

“And here we are.”

She perked up. “Where? Which building?”

“The big one there. The Palace Hotel,” he said as the car inched its way in the direction Winter pointed, an eight-story concrete building with curved corners that sat squat on New Montgomery Street, the top floors obscured by evening fog. Dozens of cabs and limousines lined the curb in front of the hotel, competing with three rows of streetcars and cable cars as they whipped in and out of traffic.

“John D. Rockefeller and Oscar Wilde have stayed here,” Winter said. “Hollywood actors and famous opera singers, too. And it just so happens that I supply their booze.”

Even a deaf person could hear the note of pride in his voice. She grinned up at him. “You're their hero, I suppose.”

“It's a tough job, being a hero to rich drunkards and party girls.”

“Yes, I can imagine. Is that why we're here? So you can show off?”

“Only a little. We're mainly here because they have a chef who cooks a beautiful chop,” he said, offering his arm.

Beaded gowns and tuxedos draped the haut monde that paraded through the illuminated entrance alongside them. Once inside, Aida's gaze tried to take everything in: polished floors, staggering floral displays, beveled glass, and gleaming brass. She wondered what it would be like to stay in a room here. Like royalty, she supposed.

In the main lobby, they stopped at a concierge coat check to exchange their outer garments for a numbered ticket. She hated to give up the new coat but reluctantly opened the large square button over her hip and shimmied out of it. Winter turned to take it from her. Reaching hands stopped midair as his eyes wandered over the peacock-embroidered chiton gown, over her elbow-length white gloves, over bare shoulders . . . until his gaze finally lit on her breasts.

“Christ alive,” he mumbled. “That dress is sheer.”

Warmth rose to her cheeks. “No sheerer than half the gowns here.”

He made a garbled, low sound of doubt. “I can see
everything
.”

She looked down. “You cannot!” She'd checked in the mirror before coming—twice. The golden beads on the torso covered most of her breasts. It wasn't obscene, for Pete's sake. A little daring, maybe, and she couldn't wear a chemise or brassiere beneath, or it would show through. But it was still sophisticated. She wore dresses onstage that were comparable in style, if not in quality.

“I can count the freckles over your nipples.”

Her face twisted as she darted a wary glance at the coat check girl. “Keep your voice down,” she complained. “And you can't see my nipples.”

“
We-e-ell
, maybe my recent supernatural woes have fortified me with more than just ghost-sight, because I can make out the exact size of—”

She smacked his arm. “The girl is waiting for my ridiculously expensive fur coat.”

His eyes danced merrily as he draped the fox over his own coat and handed both to the girl, then pocketed the coat check ticket inside his tuxedo jacket. “I really do owe Ju a big thank-you.”

“I hope it wasn't Sook-Yin who made it.”

“She can't sew, so I think you're safe.”

“It was made by one of the younger prostitutes, then? Hopefully one you haven't slept with.”