The Parting Glass (32 page)

“Not a bit. In fact I told myself to stay as far from you as possible.”

She started back down the sidewalk. “Then why didn’t you?”

“I don’t know what to tell you.”

“The truth would be nice.”

“I guess there’s just something about you, that’s all.”

“There’s something about me, all right. I’m a dangerous woman. Especially for a man like you.”

“Why, are
you
making gin in your bathtub? Cruising back from Canada once a week with a hold filled with whiskey and rum?”

“I run my father’s household, and I go to school. There’s not much time left for bootlegging.”

She had the most beautiful skin he’d ever seen, as pale, fine-grained and smooth as his mother’s wedding gown. He knew himself to be a serious man. He had grown up on stories about his grandfather Rowan Donaghue’s long career as a policeman. Glen knew his own father was only a Donaghue by adoption and that he had none of Rowan’s blood in his veins. But Rowan was Glen’s hero, and he had decided long ago to pattern his life after him. Now that he had achieved the first steps up the ladder, he knew better than to throw everything away for alabaster skin and forget-me-not eyes.

“You sound too busy to be dangerous,” Glen said.

“I imagine that you’re busy, too. Too busy to tangle with Tim McNulty.”

“I tangle with him more often than you think.”

“But never directly.”

He smiled a little to let her know she was right.

She sighed softly. “He has a dozen men to keep men like you away from him, but if we have any more of these conversations, you’ll get to know him personally.”

She looked sad at the thought, but resigned, as if she understood that her life would always be lived at her father’s mercy. She was slight, almost fragile in build, and he had the absurd urge to pull her into his arms and vow to protect her.

“He has plans for you?” Glen asked.

“He has plans for everybody he’s ever met.”

Glen had never had a conversation this personal on such short acquaintance. Part of him was shocked; part of him thought fate was at work. He wasn’t one hundred percent Irish for nothing.

“Do you come to this Mass often? Are you able to get away?” he asked.

“Every day if I can.”

He was a devout Catholic, and traditional enough to attend Mass whenever he could. In his line of work, the more religion the better. “Then I’ll be seeing you,” he said.

She smiled, small white teeth and rosy pink lips that owed nothing to a flapper’s artifice. Her navy-blue dress was stylish but conservative. He liked everything about her.

“Then that will be another reason to get up early.” She turned away and started down the sidewalk. He didn’t follow, although he was sorely tempted. He knew they would find time together in the coming weeks, and he knew they shouldn’t.

Somehow, that last part didn’t seem to matter as much as it should have.

When she wasn’t with Glen Donaghue, Clare dreamed about him. She only saw him at early Mass, and then only when she was able to get away by herself. They talked each time, and once they went across the street for coffee, a daring and probably foolish adventure that had given her that much more to dream about.

Glen was quiet but strong, blond but not too blond, tall but not too tall, handsome but not one bit a pretty boy. His family was Irish, too, “harps” like hers, but loving and happy—which wasn’t like hers at all. He had only one sister, Maryedith, but dozens of cousins.

His family ran the Whiskey Island Saloon, which Clare, of course, had never visited. His job was an odd one, considering his family’s occupation. He confessed that he’d chosen to be a Prohibition agent instead of a policeman because of them. As a policeman, he might well have been called on to raid his own family’s place of business. His job with the Prohibition Bureau required him to keep liquor from getting to places like the saloon, cutting it off at the source.

His job required him to thwart
her
father, not his own—at least not quite as directly. His family tolerated his decision and his absence from all events at the saloon, and his superiors didn’t ask him to spy on his relatives. Glen walked a fine line, but so far he had walked it with success.

Clare walked a fine line, too. Her father would be furious if he knew she had fallen in love with anyone, much less a Prohibition agent. Tim McNulty had already chosen a man for his daughter. His choice, Niall Cassidy, was part of the North Side Irish gang in Chicago, and Tim wanted nothing more in life than to affiliate himself with Bugs Moran and his pals through her marriage.

Cassidy was a junior associate of Moran’s, a senior-thug-in-training, and Cassidy had kept Clare in his sights since their first meeting at a “conference” of bootleggers Tim had hosted. Cassidy had managed to find his way back to Cleveland once or twice a month ever since. He was brash and uneducated, and his effusive Irish charm barely concealed the soul of a boa constrictor.

Clare’s father, a big fish in the relatively small pond of Cleveland, Ohio, had aspirations to become something more. Clare had observed him her entire life. The word
enough
was not in her father’s vocabulary. The words
small time
were enough to send him into a lather. Marry Clare to Niall, and he was sure his influence and earnings would automatically increase. Doors would open for him that were closed now. Her own needs or desires weren’t worth consideration.

So far, she had thwarted Cassidy. She pleaded headaches or prior engagements when he arrived unannounced, and managed to disappear when she knew ahead of time that he was coming to town. Her father was growing wise to her tactics, however, and her day of reckoning had arrived. Cassidy was coming in that afternoon to consult with her father on some minor business matter. Tim had informed her that she would be present for dinner that night, arranging something impressively festive for all to enjoy, and that afterward, if Niall Cassidy wanted a quiet moonlight stroll, she would by God accompany him through their lakeside neighborhood.

Clare had no desire to parade her household management skills for the likes of Niall Cassidy. She set the maids to dusting the countless pieces of Victorian bric-a-brac that her father equated with wealth and good taste, the Staffordshire shepherdesses, the framed coats of arms, the Majolica vases. She made sure the silver was polished—and carefully inventoried, since Cassidy was a man who would cheerfully pocket anything that pleased him. She didn’t arrange fresh flowers or choose the menu with his tastes in mind. He seemed like a man who might relish a roast and potatoes; she chose chicken a la king on toast. He probably enjoyed rich pies or cakes; she chose baked fruit. The rolls were a day old, and she used the everyday china.

Cassidy arrived with her father promptly at seven. She greeted them in a mousy brown chemise that didn’t suit her coloring.

“Mr. Cassidy,” she said, taking his Chesterfield and handing it to the downstairs maid. She was careful not to touch him or smile.

“Niall,” he corrected. “And you look lovely, as always, Clare.”

She had pulled her hair back severely from her too-high forehead and donned none of the jewelry her father had given her to parade his wealth. “Elmira has set out canapes in the parlor.” The canapes were made with hard-boiled eggs and sardines, the least engaging combination she could find. She had made certain that gin, vermouth and olives had been set out for fashionable martinis, since her father despised anything that stood between his glass and straight whiskey.

“You’ll be joining us, Clare?” There was no question in her father’s voice.

“I’m afraid I can’t,” she said sweetly, “although, of course, I’d love to. But if I don’t supervise, I’m sure the dinner will be ruined. And we can’t spoil Mr. Cassidy’s evening.”

“We’ll take that chance.” Tim took her arm.

Clare stood her ground, even though she knew her arm would be black and blue in the morning. “Then goodness, at least let me check on things in the kitchen, Daddy. Elmira is expecting me.”

His fingers tightened in punishment. She didn’t wince. Finally he released her. “We’ll expect you shortly.”

She nodded graciously and fled to the kitchen.

Elmira wasn’t good with cream sauces. A scorched smell greeted Clare as soon as she opened the kitchen door. Clare smiled for the first time that evening. “Things aren’t going well in here?”

“Oh, miss, I’m so sorry. It burned so quickly. I just turned away and—”

“Don’t you worry. Just leave the burned part in the pan and scrape out the rest.”

“Oh, I don’t know, miss. It tastes bad. There’s plenty of chicken. I could make more—”

“Oh, no. This will be fine. Don’t forget the peas and carrots, and make sure they’re very, very crisp.”

She wasted as much time as she dared, but finally she joined the men. Both were gamely sipping martinis and working on a pack of Camels. She observed Niall for a moment before she entered the room. By the standards of most young women, he was the cat’s meow, with smooth Rudolph Valentino hair and heavy-lidded green eyes. He dressed impeccably and smiled easily. She still found everything about him offensive, from the tobacco stains on his teeth and fingers to the cloying bay rum odor of his skin.

“Dinner will be ready soon.” She entered the room and took the lone seat beside the fireplace, noting with satisfaction that the canapes had not been a roaring success.

“Niall was just telling me that he’s coming up in the world.” Tim looked pleased to hear it, but when he turned his gaze on Clare, she saw the glint of steel.

“Congratulations,” she said primly. She knew better than to ask in what ways Niall was becoming a success. In her father’s world, questions were never appreciated.

“And he was telling me that he would like to settle down and raise a family.”

She considered telling the truth, that she would rather give birth to Lucifer’s children than Niall Cassidy’s. Instead she nodded. “I’m sure the young women of Chicago are pleased and excited.”

Both men stared at her. Her voice had been modulated and her tone sincere. Clearly they weren’t sure if she was being flippant. She stood before they could dig their way to the truth. “Shall I reheat the canapes?” She took the plate and held it aloft.

“Nothing short of hellfire will help them,” Tim said. “Sit down, Clare.”

She obeyed, rotating the plate in her hands for something to do.

“How is school?” Niall asked. “Are you learning anything useful?” Both men laughed, as if that were so impossible as to be humorous.

“The plays of Shakespeare, the philosophy of Kant.” She looked wistful. “I might like to teach someday. The Ursulines do such important work. I pray for a vocation every night.” She smiled—nunlike, she hoped.

“A colored girl will be Pope before I allow that,” Tim said darkly.

“They do say one of the earliest popes was a woman.”

“Blasphemy!” Tim mixed himself another martini. “Maybe you’ve had enough education, girly.”

“Do you think a woman can have too much education?” Clare asked Niall. “What do they think in the Windy City?”

“My mother couldn’t write her own name, but she raised ten kids and not a one of us passed away.”

She nodded in mock admiration. “Happy years and high standards for everyone, I’m sure. She must be proud of you.”

“Ah, she kicked the bucket a couple of years ago.”

Clare spared a second of pity for the departed Mrs. Cassidy. If the other nine were like Niall, the poor woman hadn’t died a moment too soon.

Elmira saved the day by announcing dinner. Niall escorted Clare into the dining room, and she was forced to take his arm. He seated her at the head of the table, and her father took the opposite side, gesturing for Niall to sit beside her.

Elmira served, and Clare watched the men from under her lashes. She was not a petty woman, and most of the time she prided herself on making others happy and comfortable. It was a thankless task in her father’s home, but she labored without grudge or expectation. Tonight she only wanted her father to be as unhappy as she was at this charade of civility.

“What is this stuff?” Tim demanded.

“Chicken a la king. It’s all the rage. Don’t you like it?”

“If I wanted toast, I’d ask for eggs to go with it.”

“Mr. Cassidy, you like it, don’t you?”

He managed a nod, crunching uneasily on a mouth filled with carrots.

“Good.” She smiled sweetly and set about cleaning her plate.

“There’d better be something good for dessert.” Tim pushed away his portion and nursed the whiskey he’d poured before leaving the parlor.

“Fruit. It’s so healthy, don’t you think?”

He pushed that away, as well, after it arrived, glowering at Clare for the remainder of the meal.

She excused herself when it was clear no one was going to eat another bite, standing to signal that they could leave, too. “I’m sure you gentlemen need to smoke. I’ll just help Elmira get organized for tomorrow’s breakfast.”

“Let’s go for a walk, Clare,” Niall said. “Your father’s given me permission to take you out for a little while.”

“I’m afraid I can’t. I must study for a test.”

“You’ll go,” Tim said pointedly. “Or there won’t be anything to study for in the future.”

She knew the more she argued, the worse her chances of getting away from Cassidy. “I’ll get a sweater. But only if Mr. Cassidy promises to return me early.”

She rejoined them a few minutes later to find the men’s heads together in the midst of a discussion. She stopped in the doorway. “Should I come back later?”

“No, I’m ready.” Niall took his coat and slipped it over his shoulders; then he escorted her out the front door.

“You and my father seemed to be having a chat about something important,” she said, when they’d cleared the expansive McNulty yard. The house loomed behind them, a monstrous brown-shingled mansion that was suited to the gloom of a Cleveland winter and little else.

“Nah, we was just talking about you.”

That was one conversation she was grateful she hadn’t heard.

She had half expected one of her father’s goons to discreetly follow them, but for once she was alone with a man. That did not bode well. Her father was set on her marrying Niall Cassidy. Apparently Niall had Tim’s unspoken permission to use any means possible to make it happen.