I pour the brandy, and Marguerite wastes no time in taking her first sip, her eyes shuttering in pleasure. “There’s no better brandy than Calvados. I’ve tried every sort. Hennessy makes the best cognac, though.”
“My da would’ve agreed,” I say, clinking my glass to Marguerite’s. “He loved his Hennessy.”
“I always liked your father.”
“You seem to remember him so well.”
“Well, he was unforgettable. That mop of black hair. Those blue eyes. He took up all the air in the room. Florence didn’t like him. She wanted Laura to marry up. But I saw how he treated her. He was quite the charmer, but he was genuine. Determined to make something of himself.”
“And he did.”
“Yes, only to throw all of it away. What a shame.” She sighs, shakes her head. “I don’t know how Laura survived all that.”
I finish my brandy to soothe the sudden pinch at the back of my throat, and quickly pour another two fingers into my glass. “She was strong because she had to be. For me and my brothers. But it took its toll.” Since Mama’s passing, I’ve often wondered whether Da’s and Henry’s deaths left an indelible mark on her heart, her grief weakening its rhythm.
“Why do you think he did it?”
“I’ve asked myself the same question, many times. He didn’t leave a note. None of us knew why. We had a small loss of fortune after the crash, but Da recovered. There were rumors he’d had some dealings with the Irish mob in Kansas City, but we never saw any evidence of that.”
“Sometimes, it’s better not knowing the reasons why terrible things happen. It hardly changes the outcome.”
If Da had known what the outcome would be—how his death would shatter me—he wouldn’t have done it. I’m sure of it. The summer I spent at Elm Ridge, with its ice-cold baths and bitter tonics, was meant to shock my depressive nerves back into order, but it did little to allay my grief. Da’s death was still an open wound. One that would never heal over completely. “Why don’t we ride with Beckett into town sometime,” I say brightly, hoping to turn the subject. Our conversation is hardly helping Marguerite’s maudlin mood, or mine. “Melva mentioned she was going to send him for groceries later this week. I’d love to take a stroll downtown. Reacquaint myself. Maybe we could have a look at the general store. See if there’s a radio you’d like.”
“All right. I haven’t been to town in months.”
The record runs out, and I go to the Victrola cabinet and select a cheerful ragtime album to lighten the air. The brandy is just beginning to take effect, my limbs loosening as a slight buzz runs through my head. I want to keep the good feeling going, so I fill my glass again.
It isn’t long before Marguerite’s spirits lift, and we’re soon laughing and tapping our toes to the beat of the music. She stands and dances around the room, twirling with surprising grace. “Do you dance, Sadie?”
“Oh, a little,” I say. “Not well.”
“Come on, then. Let’s foxtrot.”
I stand and shake out my skirts. “Shall I be the gent, or shall you?”
“Oh, my darling, Ialwaystake the lead.”
Marguerite guides me into the dance, and we giggle as my clumsy feet tangle with hers. I’m at least a head taller than she is, so we make an off pair. “Didn’t Laura send you to cotillion?” she asks.
“Yes, but I’m a hopeless case, as you can see.”
“You really are, dear.” Marguerite sends me into a turn, then draws me back in, her eyes bright and merry. “You’re as boneless as a willow switch. Stiffen up, just a bit, and you’ll be a better partner. The gents like it when you push back on their lead, just a little.”
“I’ve a feeling my dancing days are over with anyone but you.”
“Nonsense. Surely you have suitors.”
“I did. But things didn’t work out well for me.”
“What happened?”
“I was with someone who never really belonged to me. It was good when it was good and it was very bad, all at the same time.”
“Oh. I see.” Marguerite nods sagely. “I’ve had my share of heartache, too, my dear. Regrets. Hugh and I were star-crossed from the start.”
This is the second time she’s mentioned Hugh. “Who was he?”
“My very first love.”
