While the prospect of meeting Blanche terrifies me, I imagine how much worse it must be for her—how desperate she must be if she’s reached out to the woman who would have stolen everything that was rightfully hers. It was easy enough to dismiss Blanche when she existed only in my imagination, when I could paint her as the villain, as the uncaring, cold wife who had pushed Ted into my waiting arms. I thought myself special. A heroine of love. How foolish I was. How proud and vain and cruel.
I take out the ring Ted gave me and study its gleaming facets in the setting sun. Light reflects off it and bounces around the attic ceiling. The ring is at least three carats and worth more than all the other jewelry I own, combined. I need to pawn it. But something keeps holding me back. I place the ring in its pouch and hide it in the toe of my oxfords. I think of the young floozy Ted is now gallivanting around town with. I wonder what kind of false promises he’s made to her, and how long she’ll last. She probably thinks herself special, too.
Tomorrow, I decide, I’ll write to Blanche.
When I go downstairs, Beckett is bringing a roasted chicken garnished with rosemary and thyme to the dining room table. I inhale the delicious aroma and take my place between Marguerite and Harriet, who’s been joining us on occasion at the main table for dinner. Even though it’s not the done thing, I’m glad for her company. Harriet is steady and thoughtful and a soothing presence for Marguerite.
After dinner, Harriet helps me dress Marguerite for bed and then prepares to leave for the evening. I walk her to the door. “My husband will be home for winter soon,” she says. “I’ll be able to stay some nights, now and then, to relieve you.”
Relief floods through me. “Would you?”
“I can’t stay every night, of course, but perhaps twice a week. I could use the extra money. And ...” Harriet smiles at me, a knowing glint in her eye. “Perhaps if I’m here, you and Beckett might be able to steal some time away. Go out dancing, or to dinner. I see the way y’all look at each other.”
I dip my chin. “Is it that obvious to everyone?”
Harriet laughs. “Yes. Very. He’s just a little shy, but so was my Bill. Sometimes, you have to be bold with that kind of man. Otherwise, you’ll be waiting around forever. Now, I don’t mean to give advice when it’s not asked for, but it would be good to have someone special in your life. It’s going to get harder with Marguerite, not easier. A little sweetness could lighten the burden. Just think about it.”
She tells me good night, donning her capelet to protect her uniform from the dusty roads. I watch her leave from the porch, amid the drone of cicadas. She secures her bag in her bicycle basket, then waves to me as she rides off down the drive.
I can hear Beckett finishing up the dishes in the kitchen. Instead of helping him like I usually do, I go to the library and slide the doors into their pockets. A rush of air comes through, greeting me with the scent of old books—slightly stale, but welcoming and warm all the same. I switch on the Tiffany lamps on either side of the chesterfield, then take the key from the snuffbox on the mantel and unlock the liquor cabinet. Inside, I find a half bottle of Booth’s gin, Angostura bitters, and a decanter filled with amber liquid. I lift the stopper and sniff. Whiskey, of some sort. Ted would have been able to name the distillery, the year, even the kind of barrel it was aged in with the very first sip. He often teased me about my lack of knowledge when it came to spirits. Looking back now, there were so many things heteasedandeven shamed me about, all in the name of good humor. But tonight isn’t about Ted. It’s about being bold and giving something new the chance it needs to grow.
We’d moved the Victrola to the library after acquiring the radio, so Marguerite could listen to music here, too. I choose a King Oliver album and put it on the turntable. Beckett strolls in, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. His eyebrows lift. “Setting a mood, are you?”
I feel myself blush. I tinker with the Victrola’s settings to avoid his gaze. “It’s been a long day for both of us. I could do with a drink and some good music, couldn’t you?”
He walks over to the liquor cabinet and lifts a bottle from its mirrored top.
“Not much of a selection, is there?” I say.
“No, but we can make do,” he says. “Better than bathtub gin. I’ll fetch some limes from the kitchen. That’ll improve things.”
I cross to the chesterfield and wait for him to return, arranging myself on the sofa in what I hope is a casually unassuming way. When he comes back, I watch as he mixes the bitters into the gin, stirring the mixture with a long spoon before cutting a lime in half and squeezing a bit of the juice into the glass. He carves a thin slice of lime and perches it on the rim, then hands me the glass.
I take a sip. Tart and crisp, with the warmth of the bitters rounding out the bouquet. It’s a bit like summer and autumn, all at once. “It’s good. Thank you.”
He grins at me over his shoulder as he mixes his own. “I had a short stint as a bartender in town, before my father died. I learned how to blend spirits. Sometimes simple is better.”
“It seems you know how to do everything. Truly.”
“Hardly.” He joins me on the sofa, leaving a respectable amount of space between us.
He’s so different from the other men I’ve known. Uncomplicated. Hardworking and loyal. A salt-of-the-earth man with scars that echo my own. Now, without Weston’s seductions complicating my mind,I’m ready to declare my intentions in a way Beckett can’t ignore. I take a deep breath, wetting my tongue with more of my cocktail before I speak. “Beckett, I was being honest with you, the other night, on the porch. I do ... have feelings for you.”
He doesn’t say anything, just looks straight ahead, where our ghostly reflections mirror us in the glass.
“I wasn’t expecting to feel like this. But I do, all the same.”
“Sadie, I . . .”
I place a hand on his knee, the faint buzz from the liquor building in my blood. Before I can overthink things, before I can talk myself out of it, I lean toward him and press my lips to his. He stiffens at first, then surrenders as I deepen our kiss, my arms tangling around his neck. As his warmth and realness surround me, I think of how right it feels, being in his arms. How it feels like coming home. When we finally break apart, breathless, he shakes his head, wiping his face with his hands. “Sadie, I don’t know if I can do this. I want to—God knows I want to. But I don’t know if I can.”
“What do you mean?”
“Give you what you want.” He closes his eyes for a moment. “I’ve never ...”
“Never?” I ask in awe.
“No.” His ears redden. “You’ve just blown my world apart. When you were sleepwalking, and you threw yourself at me, I just thought ... well, Iknewit wasn’t me you wanted, so I did my best to be a gentleman. I never imagined you would want me ... like this. I never imagined anyone would.”
