“I will.” Emil held Olive steady while Winnie used the call bell and speaking tubes to alert Mrs. Becket to their arrival.
Olive rolled her head across the crook of his shoulder and whispered, “Hi.”
“Hello,” he whispered back.
“I owe you one.”
“No, you don’t.”
A slight frown formed between her brows. “Do you owe me one?”
Chuckling lightly, he guided her up the narrow stairwell to the third floor. At the farthest apartment, Robbie stood beside a woman wringing her hands in a familiar gesture. Mrs. Becket might as well have been Olive’s twin, aged by twenty-odd years. She hovered in the doorway, her gaze glued to Olive. Emil had the feeling she wished to fly to her daughter, but it was as if there was an invisible line she could not cross. Compassion swelled in his heart.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Becket,” he said in lieu of a greeting. “Olive will be fine.”
Her gaze flew to his, and she smiled weakly. “Thank you, Mister…?”
Robbie tugged on his mother’s elbow, grinning up at them with excitement. “Mama, it’s Mr. Anderson! Olive’s friend who played baseball with us.”
“Oh,” she said faintly, her forehead scrunching into a worried frown. “Right.”
Emil tilted his head to one side. Typically, mothers were thrilled to make his acquaintance. Eager to exalt their daughters’ accomplishments and assure him he was more than welcome. Mrs. Becket did none of those things. It appeared she was like Olive in more than one way.
He liked it.
“Mr. Anderson is also one of my beau’s oldest friends,” Winnie piped up. “He was very helpful at the procession today, Mrs. Becket. We’re lucky he was there.”
“Mama, isn’t he beautiful?” Olive croaked at that moment. “Do let him in.”
Winnie laughed under her breath, and Mrs. Becket’s lined forehead eased into a timid smile. “I see, my sweet child.” Her gaze flitted back to Emil’s. “You’re welcome to come inside, Mr. Anderson. We’d be much obliged.”
Emil coaxed a loopy Olive over the threshold, his eyes adjusting to the dimly lit apartment. He supported Olive while Mrs. Becket rushed around, picking up what looked like freshly washed laundry and tossing everything into a basket. While Winnie updated her on what had happened at the procession, Emil surreptitiously examined the apartment.
It was worse than he’d expected.
Cracks ran across the ceiling, evidence of poor craftsmanship, a lack of care, or both. The walls were damp, as if permeated by the Seattle fog itself, and there was noticeable mildew on the one windowpane. He shifted Olive and peeked into the narrow kitchenette. One cabinet door hung askew, and the faucet had a slow, steady drip.
The attempts to dress up the disarray were equally evident. Faded quilts and blankets covered every surface, and a few cheap frames with artwork hung on the wall. The mantle was covered in a lace doily, and on it—he blinked. On it rested the same watch he’d caught Olive trying to pawn. The truth hit him like a punch.
She hadn’t been lying. The watch was her father’s, and she had returned it to where it belonged. He’d be annoyed if he weren’t so impressed. She’d played him like a fiddle, and he’d leapt in time. At least he now knew the money he’d given her hadn’t gone to waste. Most likely, it had gone toward renting out this dump. His brows pitted together. Maybe there was something he could do about the dump.
“Robbie,” he said in a low voice as Mrs. Becket and Winnie were busy lowering the folding bed to the floor. “Did your father have any tools?” The kid nodded. “Fetch them, would you?”
By the time he had Olive seated on the faded quilt, Robbie was heaving a tin tool chest onto the dinette table. Emil caught how the boy’s small hands hovered near the box, eager but uncertain, like he wanted to be useful but had no notion how. Emil remembered that feeling, standing on the edges of grown-folk troubles wanting desperately to do something.
Ignoring the way Winnie and Mrs. Becket watched him with astonishment, he flipped open the lid and rooted inside until he found a wrench he thought would suffice.
“Come here, kid. I’m going to show you how to fix a leaky faucet.”
And then they set to work.
Chapter 16
Olive stared at the faucet. It didn’t drip, even when she turned it on and off again. She pursed her lips, perplexed. Was she still under the effects of the laudanum? Surely, a faucet couldn’t have fixed itself overnight, especially one she had spent countless hours fighting with a wrench. And what was that smell? She sniffed again, unable to place the unusual aroma.
“Your Mr. Anderson fixed the leak,” her mother said, appearing at her side. “That and a half dozen other things.”
Olive leaned back against the counter, blinking rapidly. “How…?”
