The restaurant was beginning to fill up with diners, bustling and noisy. Vivian slid between the dozens of small tables set out in neat rows as she headed for the stairs, which were roped off with a sign telling customers that the upper floors were off-limits. It would have taken some juggling to balance the tray and unhook the rope both, but Danny’s father spotted her and left the table he was chatting with to come help.
“Thank you, Uncle,” Vivian said after a quick exchange of greetings. That felt even stranger than calling Mrs. Chinauntie—Mr. Chin was more reserved than his wife. But he always had a smile for her, and tonight was no exception as he shooed her upstairs to see her sister.
The Chins, including the various cousins who stayed with them while they worked in the restaurant, lived upstairs in a series of rooms that felt more precarious the higher you climbed. They were small and cluttered but immaculately clean, their walls painted in cheerful shades of red and green and yellow, with hand-sewn curtains at the windows and photographs of relatives back in China proudly framed and displayed.
Danny and Florence shared a bedroom by the fire escape, where Vivian and her sister had once stayed. It was barely big enough for a bed and chest of drawers, but Florence had brought her own quilt and curtains. And the Chins, as a wedding present, had surprised Florence with a trip to a photographer, who had taken pictures not only of the newlyweds but of Florence and Vivian together.
Florence had told Vivian just before the wedding that she wasn’t sure she knew how to be part of a family, she’d been without one for so long. But now those photos sat on the chest of drawers, Florence’s new life and her old side by side.
She was in the sitting room today, not in her bedroom, humming quietly to herself as she flicked a duster over the furniture. She had to move slowly, one hand frequently on the small of her back or pressing against her hip, the growing curve of her belly pulling at her tiny frame in a way that was starting to look unbalanced. She and Vivian hadalways looked alike, though Florence’s curly hair was a lighter shade of brown, and she, always proper, kept it far longer than Vivian’s sleek black bob. But looking at her was so much like looking in a mirror that Vivian was startled by her pregnancy every time.
She wanted to be there when the baby came, to hold her sister’s hand and remind her how strong she was. She wouldn’t let anything get in the way of that.
“Vivi.” Florence smiled. “Did I know you were coming?”
Vivian shook her head, putting her tray down on the table in the center of the room. “Surprise,” she said. “Auntie has instructed me to make sure you eat something.”
Florence rolled her eyes, but she was smiling as she set aside her duster. “I hope I’m not responsible for both those plates.” She lowered herself gently into a seated position, wincing slightly. “Sit down?”
“Is your hip still bad?” Vivian asked, frowning as she tried to settle her chopsticks into the correct position, glad that none of Danny’s cousins were there to witness her still-clumsy attempts. “Should someone look at it?”
“Someone did. But the cure is giving birth, so it’ll be a while yet. Are you working tonight?” Florence asked as she handled her own chopsticks with practiced dexterity. Once, the question would have been an accusation. Florence hadn’t approved of drinking, or dancing with strangers, or anything else that happened at the Nightingale. Now, it was simple curiosity.
“Not tonight. I just wanted…” Vivian bit her lip, not sure where to start or what to say.
“Vivian, what is it?” Florence asked. “And don’t say nothing. You know I can always tell when you have something on your mind.”
“It’s…” Vivian hesitated. Florence watched her without saying anything, refusing to look away while she waited for an answer.
Florence always knew when Vivian had something on her mind, but that didn’t mean Vivian had always told her what it was. For most of their lives, she’d refused to. They had been so different—Vivianconvinced that they could have something, anything, more than the narrow life they had been given, Florence afraid that Vivian was waltzing headlong into danger.
They had both been right.
Even when the walls between them came down, Vivian had kept her secrets, determined to protect her sister.
She had failed at that, too.
Now, even knowing that, Vivian’s instinct was to look away, to pretend that all was well. There was nothing Florence could do to help. Vivian was going to handle it on her own. All she could do if she said anything was make Florence worry. And her sister didn’t need any more worries in her life.
Florence set down her chopsticks. “You and your secrets. Even now, when…” She shook her head, but there was no bitterness in the gesture, no anger.
Once, there might have been. But in spite of her uncomfortable pregnancy, she practically glowed with happiness. While Vivian had never known exactly what she wanted out of life, Florence always had: a husband, a family, a home. Her dream had been simple, but she had never let herself imagine she could have it. And now she did. It was hard to be bitter and angry when you were living a life you wanted.
“I hope one day that you don’t have to keep them anymore,” Florence said gently.
Vivian didn’t want any more secrets, either. She pushed her plate away. “Flo,” she said, taking a deep breath. “There’s something you need to know.”
Florence hadn’t wanted her to leave, after that. Vivian had lingered, until finally the light had faded and it was time to head home.
Vivian nearly slipped on the folded paper as she stepped through her own door at last, one heel catching on its smooth surfaceas she turned to close the door behind her. She caught the doorknob to steady herself, remembering at the last moment to keep the sharp profanity that slipped out to a whisper that wouldn’t wake up any sleeping neighbors—or more importantly, neighbors’ kids. She locked the door—she never forgot to do that first—before she turned around to see what she had stepped on.
There was only one window in her room, a dismal, rickety thing with a cracked pane. It looked out toward a streetlight, which could be a pain when she was sleeping but was helpful on nights when she got home late and didn’t want to risk staggering around with a lit lamp while she yawned her head off. Tonight, the streetlight was flickering, golden light shaking as it flooded through the window, but it was enough for her to read the note when she unfolded it.
She recognized Bea’s handwriting right away.
Viv, I know you said don’t do anything, but you don’t get to tell a pal to sit on her hands when you’re in trouble. I got the job today. I start tomorrow morning, but guess what everyone was already whispering about? Some fancy pants lawyer will be coming by with Buchanan’s will at three in the afternoon, and from what I overheard the wife and stepson aren’t too happy about it. Might be worth you finding out what gets said and where the money’s going—see you behind the garage at two thirty?
Vivian clenched her jaw and her fist both, crumpling the note in her hand. Bea could get fired if they found her sneaking someone into the house like that. Forget fired, she could end up arrested. Vivian couldn’t ask her to do that.
