Read Waltzing In Ragtime Online
Authors: Eileen Charbonneau
Waltzing In Ragtime (37 page)
She seemed smaller, but somehow stronger in her simple dark suit, trimmed in black, with a gored skirt. The lace of her high-necked blouse was dry; she’d had more sense than he and had turned up the flaps of her coat in the rain. But her straw hat hadn’t protected her face. Drops still gathered in rivulets and fell unheeded off her nose. Her lips, parted since she’d taken in the sharp breath at the sound of her name, were as ripe and full as he’d remembered. And she wasn’t running away, as she did in all his dreams.He covered the distance between them in one long stride, took her waist between his hands. Kissed her. Her lips opened, her fingers swept up his back, into his hair. He lifted her off the floor.
The voices faded. Doors closed. Olana stood with a man as dazed as she, his blue eyes immeasurably sad. But sane, unlike his eyes in her dreams. When on her feet again, she held onto his lapel to steady herself. He took her arm.
“Listen. We’ve got to get out of here. Before this duchess woman comes. You hungry?”
“Yes. Yes, good.”
The sisters reappeared, sent them back into the rain. Matthew lifted her umbrella over them both.
“Think we shocked them?”
“Oh, definitely.” Olana giggled, a sound she didn’t think she could make anymore. “But I don’t associate with people I’d worry about shocking. I’ve learned that much.” She leaned in closer, searching through the rain for his scent.
“Still, I thought they’d be in a spitting nails fury, us standing up that blamed countess.” His walk slowed. “Here’s a place I eat at sometimes,” he offered quietly. “The food’s decent.”
They entered the dim, green-walled restaurant. Olana didn’t remember what she ate, something savory, in a wine-based sauce. Matthew spoke softly in his new, rough-edged voice. Of his mother’s marriage to Farrell, of their travels. Of his promise to help the fledgling business his new stepfather had formed with Mr. Amadeo. That was what had brought the trio of his grandmother and daughter and himself to San Francisco.
“We fought the whole notion of it at first. But, well, you know Farrell.”
She stretched her hand across the table and took his fingers between hers. “I know you,” she said. “And how much you love your mother. It was very generous of you to come here.”
“Yes, well. It’s a good business. And it runs so well I don’t think even I could ruin it.”
“What kind of … ?” she began, but was interrupted by a wiry man in white chefs clothes, who presented an etched glass tray to her with a flourish. “Tortes! For you, charming lady — raspberry mixed with apricots, new! Try, try!”
Olana tasted. “Delicious.”
The man turned to Matthew. “So, you tell my brother I need bake oven, Matt? The bank will help us? Look at the papers, see?”
Olana watched Matthew pull his spectacles on, then study the document the man had shoved into his hands.
“Where’s the price, sir?” he asked.
“Here.”
“This is your monthly payment, Mr. Detrich.”
“Yes. It will be mine, when I start payments.”
“When you finish payments,” Matthew explained. “Which, this document indicates, will go on through the lifetimes of your children’s children.”
“I don’t understand.”
“That’s what they’re counting on, Mr. Detrich. That and your passion for your tarts.”
“Tortes!”
“Tortes. Listen. You know Christiano’s Bakery, in the alley behind Howard Street?”
“Yes.”
“They have this kind of oven. My grandmother buys her bread there. They bake in the early morning. Maybe they’d rent you the use of their oven in the afternoons. Maybe even sell your tortes, along with their bread.”
The chefs eyes narrowed. “Italians like tortes?”
“We’re all Americans now, Mr. Detrich. We taste everything.”
“I will think on this.”
“Good.”
“And, Matt, you’ll take these, all wrapped up nice, for the grandmother, the little one, and your lady?”
Olana looked at her hands.
“Sure, thanks.” They shook hands and the chef backed his way into the kitchen. Matthew was putting his spectacles in their case when the thought dawned on Olana.
“Of course. The poor bank the sisters have been raving about. You run the poor bank!”
“It’s the Bank of Naples. And Mr. Amadeo runs it.”
“Mr. Amadeo finances it, from his fruit business. You are the loan officer, here in the Mission District!”
He frowned. “And I’ve just given you a poor example of how I drum up business.”
She laughed. “You take the applications, walk the streets visiting the small groceries, bakeries, hardware stores. You look at a
man’s hands to see if they’ve seen work before giving a house loan!”
man’s hands to see if they’ve seen work before giving a house loan!”
“The sisters —”
“Painted you perfectly! And kept you a complete mystery, once I shied away from Mr. Amadeo’s name, and at you sounding … sounding exactly like yourself.”
She saw the question in his eyes. No, not now. No whys. Not before she had him all to herself a little longer. “Are the Amadeos well, Matthew? Their twins?”
“Oh, they scurry about all over now. Possum calls them Deedle and Dumpling. Mrs. Amadeo has us over to supper Wednesdays. The two oldest boys? They’re caring for the sheep and apricots at the farm for Gran.”
“They were your farm’s apricots, in the tortes?”
“Yes.” He stopped suddenly, and reached across the table to touch her cheek. “This is too much, isn’t it?”
“No. Oh, no.”
“You haven’t touched your coffee, finished the tart.”
“I prefer tea.”
“Tea, of course. At breakfast and supper. Coffee in the afternoon, wasn’t that it? Except when Gran made you drink the sassafras instead, then the raspberry leaf.” He gave out a fond laugh and shook his head. “Remember how you fussed?”
“Yes. I’m sorry!” There it was, the cry in her voice. He leapt to her side, his angry, ragged voice in conflict with the powerful eroticism of his lips pressing healing kisses at her temple. “What am I saying? Forgive me. Too much, too fast.”
“No, no,” she breathed, “but I do think your friends would like to close up for the evening, don’t you?”
In the time it took Matthew to turn around, the Detrich family disappeared behind the kitchen’s swinging doors. The restaurant was empty. He frowned. “It’s late. Your mother will be worried.”
“I don’t live with my parents now, Matthew. What about Annie?”
He pulled a watch from his vest pocket. It was gold, but had neither fob nor chain. Farrell’s watch. Farrell’s gift, she was sure, to his new son, heading into a world that did not tell time by the seasons, by the sun’s rise and fall over and under the horizon. Matthew’s frown went deeper as the numbers made their meaning clear.
“Do you have a telephone?” she asked quickly.
“Our landlady does, yes.”
“Good. You can ring Annie up from my house. We’ll have our tea there, how would that be?”
“That — that would be fine.”
Olana stole only quick looks at him as he pulled crumpled bills from his wallet and placed them on the table. He was smiling, even while calculating numbers, handling money. When he put her cloak over her shoulders, she touched his cheek. “This was lovely, Matthew. Perfect.”
He leaned down, kissed her mouth. They didn’t manage to stop until they heard clapping from beyond the kitchen door.
Olana’s house was north of Market Street, just inside the part of the city he’d marked off for himself as forbidden. It was a small house, by her former standards, though still twice the size of the building where Annie and Possum and he rented a floor. Olana’s house had three stories, with second- and third-floor balconies, stained and leaded glass windows. Its fanciful trim freshly painted in rich blues and purples set off the creamy beige clapboards. It ran deep into its lot, with a separate side entrance and a generous back porch. Overlooking what? A garden? Yes, there were trellises back there, like his own.
Olana walked up the steps with the pride of ownership that her nervousness, her quivering smile could not hide. He knew that pride, he’d seen it on all the faces at the house parties of his clients. Perhaps he should go, he thought. Go now, so he wouldn’t put any more strain on the fragile thread that was once again
being woven between them. But her face was so lovely in the porch light. She put the key in the lock. Before she turned it, the door swung open. Patsy.
being woven between them. But her face was so lovely in the porch light. She put the key in the lock. Before she turned it, the door swung open. Patsy.
“Miss Olana, you’re home by the grace of God!”
“And you’ve got a full day tomorrow.”
“Aye, but with a moment to give you a proper — Oh. Oh, my.”
The blood left the maid’s lips. He smiled. “Hello, Patsy.”
“My,” she said again, reaching out into the night air, touching his arm.
“I thought he’d disappear, too,” Olana said, laughing softly. Did she? He felt lightheaded by the thought. Women. The things they say to other women. He felt lucky to be within hearing range of the words.
“Well, come up, come up, the both of you!” Patsy admonished, pulling them into the hallway.
“Matthew needs to use the telephone,” Olana said, climbing the stairs, her hand so white and beautiful on the rosewood banister. She stopped, cocked her head.
“Well?”
“Well?”
“Patsy will show you where it is.”
“What?”
“The telephone, Matthew!”
“Oh. Oh, yes.”
But he still watched, until her feet disappeared around the curve.
When he fitted the receiver back on its cradle, Patsy stood beside him, a silver tea service in her hands. The tortes were joined by a few current scones.
“Did Mrs. Cole make those?” he asked.
“She did indeed, sir! She’s still up at the big house. What with all the care Miss Olana gives her father, it’s like we’re all still of a family, see?”
“No,” he realized as he said the words. “She’s told me so little, Patsy.”
“Aye, well. It’s been a good amount of time, sir. Be patient with her, will you?”
“Sure, of course. Here, give me that —”
“Nonsense! You’re as bad about knowing your place as when you first come amongst us! Follow me, if you please.” She skirted by him and began climbing the stairs. He stayed close behind.
“Patsy. How’s Selby? And your baby —”
She turned. “A boy, sir, just turned two, he has. Born in Japan, before Mr. Lunt had us brought out, thanks be to God.”
“A good birth?”
“A fine birth, bless you for asking. And it’s a fine man that boy who married me has become, Mr. Hart.”
“You deserved no less.”
“Now, don’t you be talking that way or that one upstairs will have at me thoroughly for ruining the sugar with my tears!”
“If she takes that brush to you I’ll —”
“Ah, whist, now. Those days are long gone.” She stopped on the second landing and raised a more intent face to his. “Our baby, sir? Hugh Matthew’s his name, and Mr. Selby and I hope you do not take offence at it.”
“I hope that poor child does not! Could I see him?” he asked.
She smiled. “Ah, you can give him a good bouncing in the morning. Come have some tea, some comfort by Miss Olana’s fire.” In the morning. That’s what his grandmother had said along the crackling phone lines, “see you in the morning.”
“Soaked!” Patsy pronounced, easing off his jacket, removing his tie, and detaching his shirt’s collar with quick, deft fingers, once they’d climbed to a third-floor suite of rooms. “I’ll just bring these below stairs,” she pronounced, “and press them nice again.”
“Patsy, go to bed!” Olana roared from the room beyond.
She sniffed. “I should take orders from that one, who knows as little as yourself about coming in out of the rain?” Then she took up his cold hand and pressed it to her cheek. “Oh, stay this time, sir,” she whispered. “Don’t be leaving each other no more. Open your heart to her circumstances.”
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