Page 89 of Meet Me on Greenwood

Rita put her arm through mine. "Don’t worry. With our romantic tastes, we will both be at the bottom soon enough."

She was trying to be funny, trying to get a smile, but there was truth to those words. No matter the time period, Houston Whitaker and I were never meant to be together.

"Lacey is right, you know," Lettie said on the ride home. "As much as I like you being with us, Gema, it isn’t right. Your reputation…"

"I don’t care," I said. How could I care when I was from a different time? The relationship between me and Houston would be considered chaste back home. No one would blink an eye in the dating app era. I knew I’d have to go back to my time eventually, but I couldn’t stop my feelings if I tried.

Paul was in bed by the time we made it back. Houston had managed everything while we’d been at church. He even reheated the casserole Lettie had prepared.

"I’m going to take mine in my room," Lettie said, filling a plate and leaving to make the short trek to her home on the property. Houston cleared up the chess pieces on the floor, while I ate at the kitchen table.

"The game got heated?" I asked.

He looked up sheepishly. "I may have lost my temper a bit. Paul is really good at chess."

"Sore loser, huh?"

"I don’t play games to lose." Houston’s gaze met mine and his expression changed as he set the pieces on the table. "I spoke a bit with Lettie, and she told me what people are saying about you living up here."

"Did she also tell you that I told them to shove it?"

"I’m certain you did, but—"

"I’m a grown woman, Houston. I’m the only one who has a say in what I do. So, if you want me to leave just say it, but it better not be because of gossip from bored wealthy women."

He nodded putting the chess set away, washing the last of the dishes. "I’m sorry, you are right," he said finally. "I’m glad you are here."

The danger was real, that was certain. I had wasted so much of my life already denying myself the things I really wanted. I could not give up whatever this moment was, not yet, even though a part of me knew I'd be forced to do so eventually. For now, I'd let myself have this, be happy even if it meant we were on borrowed time.

34

Gema

New Steps to Save Riot Victims

The sound of wood creaking kept me awake. It was too loud to be the house settling, which meant it had to be rodents. God, I hoped it wasn't rodents. I tied my robe and tiptoed into the main room, where shadows danced across the floor and rain streaked down the glass panes in long, restless lines. I opened the front door, then the back, checking for anyone outside, and closed them again as quietly as I could manage, wincing at every small click of the latch. I peeked into the pantry but there was nothing, no scattered crumbs or telltale droppings.

The house had gone quiet again, quiet enough that I'd almost convinced myself to go back to bed, when I heard slow, deliberate scraping, like something being dragged.

It sounded again. Closer this time. Beneath me.

I stood still in the center of the main room and listened. The house had a basement. I remembered it from my first night here. Houston had warned me not to go there. I grabbed a lantern and went to the stairs. The door had a latch that looked newer than the rest of the house. I lifted it slowly. It wasn’t locked.

The smell of yeast and whiskey was so strong, I nearly gagged. How I had not smelled it before?

My heart accelerated as I descended, one hand on the earthen wall for balance. The basement was longer than the house, which meant this was a tunnel that spanned underground. It ran back further than it should have, and the walls were lined with crates, some open. Amber bottles caught the light from my lamp. I realized they were the same crates I’d seen in the barn that had been marked medical supplies. The deeper I moved, the more crates I saw until I reached a section of the far wall that didn't sit flush with the rest. There was a seam where there shouldn't be one. A slightly uneven gap that light funneled through.

I put my hand on the false wall and pushed it open until I was able to slip in. The tunnel was even cooler, and I stopped, hearing voices ahead. The voices sharpened and there were sounds of a scuffle. I peered around the corner and was shocked at what I saw.

Houston had a man by the collar, backed against the interior wall of whatever space existed beyond. Several others stood behind him. I recognized some of them as part of the construction crew, including Edmund. The man Houston had against the wall was large and red faced, saying something I couldn't make out. Houston responded in a voice I had never heard from him. It wasn’t the low careful voice I was used to. It was filled with anger.

The man went still, then Houston hit him.

I gasped before I could stop myself, and Houston’s eyes turned and locked with mine. I did not stay to read his face. I just ran, past the false door, up the basement steps, and onto the porch. I stopped as lightning clapped through the sky as the wind nearly knocked me down. The cold night air hit my face as my bare feet landed in the wet grass and I stopped, gripping the porch railing with both hands, trying to brace myself, whether from the wind or what I just saw I didn’t know.

Whiskey. A false wall. Those men, and Houston standing over him with bloodied knuckles. It was too much. I’d put my trust in this man, risked my life by staying for what—a mobster? The term didn’t quite fit, but neither did bootlegger.

The porch door opened, and I turned.