Expecting an agreement that was at most reluctant, Vivian was caught off guard by the sly lift to Bea’s brows. “You don’t get to tell me what to do, Vivian Kelly.”
Before Vivian could say anything else, Bea had shut the door behind her.
Vivian’s heart was thumping against her ribs as she walked slowly down the stairs. She needed to hear back from Leo’s guy at Bellevue, and it needed to happen soon, before anyone else ended up in danger because of her.
God willing, he’d tell her something useful about how Buchanan died. Otherwise, she didn’t know what she was going to do next.
Vivian stepped into the cutting afternoon wind. The sky was growing dimmer, but it wouldn’t be dark for at least another hour. She glanced at the coins in her purse. Buying the book for Bea had taken most of what she had brought with her for the day, but one of her deliveries had ended with a ten-cent tip. That was enough to get her downtown and back home, if not guilt-free, then at least with less worry than she would have otherwise felt.
Vivian snapped her purse closed and headed toward the subway before she could talk herself out of it.
ELEVEN
The wind caught Vivian again as she climbed up the steps from the subway, twining around her legs like an angry cat. It caught up trash and dirt and the shouts of an angry motorist before it spun up toward the purple clouds that bruised the sky.
A man in a blue suit pushed past her, then stopped at the edge of the street to light a cigarette. Around her, shops were starting to wind down for the day, young men fetching in the bolts of fabric or carts of books that had been displayed outside. In the window of a butcher’s shop, someone was just pasting a sign that declared what she assumed washalf off until closingin multiple languages, though she could only read the line in English. Restaurants were starting to turn on their lights, windows glowing as the early diners inside received their bowls of soup or mugs of tea. Two cats darted out of an alley in front of her, spitting and hissing as they chased each other into the street. And all around her, voices called and shouted and laughed and complained in a comforting, undecipherable babble.
She couldn’t understand most of it. There was some English mixed in, and two men arguing in what she thought might be Hebrew or Yiddish, not surprising with the Jewish neighborhood just on the other side of Bowery. But mostly the voices around her spoke Chinese.
No, not Chinese. What folks like her lazily called Chinese, Danny had told her sternly, was dozens of different languages and dialects. Vivian felt her cheeks grow hot with remembered embarrassment as she thought of how he had rolled his eyes at her ignorance. But that didn’t stop her feet from moving.
The first time that she had ever come downtown, she had been overwhelmed trying to make sense of everything unfamiliar in the Chinese neighborhood. But now, after Florence and Danny’s whirlwind romance and the first few months of their marriage had brought her there more and more, she mostly saw what was the same.
The buildings, old and shoddy and packed with tenants. A spindly tree, defiant and alone, waiting hopefully for a spring that was taking its sweet time arriving this year. The smell of food from chimneys and doorways, reminding her how long it had been since she’d eaten.
Plenty was different. But winter in New York was bitter no matter what part of the city you lived in. And people were people, no matter where you went.
Well, maybe not everyone. Vivian paused to watch a crowd of young men make their way down the street. There was nothing threadbare abouttheircoats, and their shoes shone as if the mud of the city had never touched them.
Their sort wasn’t an uncommon sight these days, wealthy young men coming downtown for what they called an adventure, away from manicured streets and stately stone walls.
Vivian hugged the shadow of a doorway as they went past. People weren’t all the same. Not everywhere. And she needed to remember that if she wanted to have any chance of escaping this mess.
TWELVE
Vivian ducked into the kitchen door, propped open despite the chill outside, smoke and the scent of good food trickling out into the evening air. Inside, Danny’s mother was busy at the stove; one of his cousins helped her, another washed dishes. All three of them turned as Vivian came. The two young men gave her unreadable looks—she hadn’t yet discovered exactly what they thought of Florence’s entry into the family, or the way Vivian herself came tagging along from time to time—before turning back to their work. But Danny’s mother set down the wooden spoon she was using and brushed her hands briskly against her apron.
“Vivian. Good, make yourself useful. That tray needs to go up to your sister. She has not eaten enough today.”
“Yes, Auntie,” Vivian said, nodding as she went to pour a pot of tea and fetch a little ceramic cup, adding both to the tray on the counter.
The word still felt awkward on her tongue. She still thought of Danny’s mother as Mrs. Chin, though she knew now that wasn’t quiteright either, because Chin wasn’t actually her last name. Vivian had spent her whole life wanting a family, someone shecouldcall auntie. But she was included in this one only because of Florence. She felt tacked on, an afterthought, part of the deal but not wanted in her own right. And she suspected they felt the same way about her.
But not using the honorific would be rude—or worse, ungrateful. “Has Florence been sick again?”
Mrs. Chin pursed her lips as she turned back to the stove, scooping up a second plate of rice and vegetables and eggs from the large pan there. “Not sick, just not enough appetite. You make sure she eats. For the baby, yes, but also for herself.” Her smile, as she handed Vivian the plate, was unexpected. “And this is for you. I know you don’t eat enough either.”
Vivian wanted to cry from the kindness of the gesture. For a moment, she felt like something other than an afterthought, and the sensation burrowed comfortingly into her chest. “Thank you,” she said quietly as she accepted the plate.
“Of course.” Mrs. Chin nodded. “You’ll never find a man to marry you if you are too skinny.”
Vivian felt her cheeks growing hot. “Yes, Auntie,” she said again, glancing at Danny’s cousins in time to see them both smirking, though they tried to hide it. No doubt they’d been the recipients of Mrs. Chin’s blunt instructions more than once, too. Vivian dropped her voice. “Is Danny upstairs?”
Mrs. Chin’s expression closed off, and she turned back to the stove. “No, he has gone out for the evening,” she said over her shoulder, her tone making it clear that she didn’t want to discuss it any further.
Vivian understood. The Nightingale made Danny’s parents nervous, and they didn’t want word of his illegal second job spreading to their neighbors. Vivian knew that his cousin Lucky, at least, was aware of Danny’s work. But she had no idea about the two that were currently in the kitchen. And given Mrs. Chin’s clear reluctance to say more, she could guess which it might be.
“I’ll make sure Florence eats,” Vivian said again, adding her plate to the tray. “Thank you again, Auntie.”
