American Pie (13 page)

"I my brother objects." Not looking up, Lucie exchanged the coarse iron for one with rounded ends.

"Is that a fact?" An interested gleam appeared in Mrs. Greene's eyes. "As if it ain't enough having Miss Augusta moping about, now we got you to worry about." Dipping her fist in a basin of water, she began sprinkling a pile of maid's aprons and rolling them into damp balls.

Lucie hadn't realized her Tuesday euphoria was so obvious, but it didn't surprise her. She lived for Tuesdays and her time with Jamie. Whatever happened during the week—scalded hands, an aching back, missed trainsbecame insignificant when she thought forward to Tuesday night. To seeing his eager smile when she stepped out of the Bowery Street station. That smile put the world right and sent her spirits soaring.

Tonight when she saw him she forgot the weight of the hot irons and her aching shoulder. Her face lit when she spotted him waiting on the platform and she flew out of the train, made breathless by the joy warming his eyes as she hurried toward him.

For a moment neither of them could speak. Jamie clasped her hands and examined her upturned smile. Finally he spoke in a gruff voice. "Each Tuesday, I'm afraid you've changed your mind. That you'll send me away."

"How could you think that?" Lucie whispered. But she understood. Every Tuesday as the train approached the station her heart beat faster and she wondered if he would be waiting. Then, when she saw him, her happiness was so overpowering she wondered that she could endure it.

After settling his gray summer bowler, Jamie tucked her hand around his arm and led her down the steps and across the street to the small Bowery Street pub they had claimed as their own. The moment they entered the beer-jugger brought a pail of Marva stout and two glass mugs to their table.

"You'll tell us when it's nine o'clock?" Jamie asked the beer-jugger as he always did. Then, to make doubly sure, he placed his pocket watch on the table beside Lucie's reticule. Neither of them wholly trusted the pocket watch. It seemed to run fast on Tuesday nights. "So," Jamie said softly. His wonderful dark eyes lingered on her face. "What kind of week has it been?"

"I learned about iron rust this week," she said, trying to memorize the angle of his jaw, noticing the way his lips parted when he leaned forward. Each Tuesday they rediscovered the thrill of each other. A laugh bubbled up from her breast. "You don't care about rust stains!"

"I care about everything that's important to you. Tell me if Miss Delfi received the two-wheeler she's been badgering Mr. Roper to have."

The spicy scent of bay rum reached her across the tabletop and she inhaled deeply, wondering if he could smell the lilac toilet water she splashed on her wrists before she departed the Roper mansion. "I'd rather talk about you. Tell me what you did this week."

The exchange of news helped them learn about each other and what was important in their lives and Lucie devoured each word. She also loved the Tuesday evenings when Jamie showed her parts of the city she might not have seen otherwise. They visited construction sites and Jamie explained what she was seeing; they toured the locomotive museum, the harbor, an automotive display. They shared a pint in the popular music halls and attended lectures at Cooper Institute.

Cooper Institute seated an enormous number of people, and, on the next Tuesday, Lucie found her mind wandering from the governor's speech in favor of examining the people around her. Only when she had satisfied herself that none of the men were as handsome as the man seated beside her did she happily return her attention to Theodore Roosevelt. He strutted and marched across the stage, waving his arms and expending so much energy it wearied Lucie just to watch. The only thing she remembered him saying was: "I wish to preach, not the doctrine of ignoble ease, but the doctrine of the strenuous life."

"I wonder who he was speaking to," Lucie murmured as they ducked out early. They couldn't remain for the conclusion of the speech as she had to be at the tenement before Stefan returned. "Most of the audience looked to be working people like us. But I hardly consider that we're living a life of 'ignoble ease,' as the governor phrased it."

Jamie grinned and pulled her forward to catch the horse car. Lucie tried to read the advertising posters on the side of the car before Jamie urged her inside. One showed the new Klinger stove, gleaming black and nickel-plated, featuring a hot water reservoir and a drawer for pots and pans.

"Some say Roosevelt should run for president. You don't agree?"

She took a seat next to the window and looked up at him as he clasped the overhead strap when the car lurched forward. A lot of men, most men in fact, would not have taken a woman to a political speech. Certainly they would not have inquired as to a woman's opinion regarding a political topic. Although she did not require further persuasion that Jamie Kelly was a special man, his apparent assumption that her opinion was valid impressed her and she liked him for it. She liked him a great deal.

They discussed the speech all the way to the entrance of Elizabeth Street, delighted to discover their opinions were of one accord. "Though it hardly matters as I can't vote," Lucie admitted.

"Would you like to?" Jamie teased her.

"Maybe I would," she said with a toss of her head. But the face she made stated otherwise. Actually, she hadn't made up her mind if she agreed with those who pressed for woman's suffrage. Voting was a tremendous responsibility. She loved the idea but didn't feel she was informed enough to make a responsible choice. Maybe someday women would possess the education to vote wisely, but she doubted that day would arrive anytime soon.

She said as much and Jamie agreed. They discussed the subject again the next week as they strolled along Broadway, peering into darkened shop windows, choosing which objects they would buy if money were no concern, laughing at each other's choices.

Raising her head abruptly at something Jamie said, Lucie turned to him and discovered her mouth inches from his. An explosion of butterflies fluttered in her stomach confusing her thoughts as she asked a daft question, requesting his opinion about belts replacing suspenders. But it didn't matter. She wanted to know everything about him, the silly small things, as well as more important ones.

She learned about his family the night they inspected the newly constructed New York Yacht Club building, having gone there to admire the galleonlike windows. And she told him about her own family and childhood the evening he took her to a soda fountain and insisted she try a Coca-Cola, which made her laugh with surprise when it fizzed under her nose.

Among her favorite outings were their visits to the library where Jamie helped her obtain cards for fiction and nonfiction. It astonished her to discover she was trusted to return the books she checked out. She had never heard of such a thing.

"I read part of The Gentleman from Indiana to Greta last Sunday," she told Jamie eagerly. They were seated in their favorite Bowery Street pub, watching the dial of Jamie's pocket watch speed across the clock face. "It's a first novel by Booth Tarkington. Both Greta and I think the book is lovely!"

Jamie's warm chocolate eyes met hers across the table top and sent a tiny shiver down her spine. "When you've finished Mr. Tarkington's book, you must read War of the Worlds by a chap named Wells. You'll be amazed."

The back of his hand brushed hers and an eruption of heat ignited throughout her body. She felt the resultant tingle down to her toes and whatever they had been discussing fled her mind. Just to look at Jamie was enough to raise strange pleasant sensations that she couldn't fully explain. Although the feeling was pleasurable, it was uncomfortable, too. More and more often, she found herself stealing small looks at his mouth, wondering if he would ever kiss her and what she would do if he did.

When the beer-jugger arrived to inform them it was almost nine they looked up in amazement as if it were impossible. Together they dropped their heads to stare at Jamie's pocket-watch, convinced it must be in error.

Leaving the pub with reluctance, they walked slowly through the warm August night toward the entrance to Elizabeth Street. This was the best and the worst of each Tuesday evening. The best because Jamie held her arm tightly against his side and the touch of him thrilled her and left her lightheaded. During the weeks of clandestine meetings, Lucie had felt the slow building of an interior pressure that seemed to wind another notch tighter whenever Jamie looked at her or pressed her arm to his side. This was also the worst moment of the evening because it meant it would be seven long days before she saw him again.

They stopped on the street beside the dark tunnel leading into the courtyard and faced each other. People hurried home along the broken pavement behind them. Two ragged children played in the derelict wagon abandoned at the curb. A group of twelve-year-old boot blacks sat on their boxes, pitching pennies in a circle. Overhead, the evening sky formed a canopy of deep lavender and gold.

"Each Tuesday when I leave you," Jamie said in a soft voice that recognized nothing but her, "I wonder how I find the strength to walk away from you."

"I know," she whispered, feeling the ache and tension of farewell. Her gaze was intense as she etched his features in her mind to carry her through the next seven days. She wanted to stroke his strong clean-shaven face, to feel his warm skin under her fingertips. She longed to explore the determined line of his jaw, to place her palms flat against the solid strength of his chest and feel his heartbeat beneath her hands.

His gaze caressed her brow, the curve of her cheek, then settled on her mouth and her chest constricted and she stopped breathing. "Goodbye, dear Lucie. Until next Tuesday."

"Until next Tuesday," she whispered, her throat so tight she could hardly speak.

As was their habit she reluctantly stepped into the dark opening between the buildings, feeling his eyes on her hips, her ankles, on the nape of her neck, then at the courtyard she turned and lifted her glove in a farewell wave. After he returned the gesture, she raised her skirts and ran pell-mell toward the tenement door, up the stairs and into her rooms where she went directly to the window. He waited, looking up. When she appeared he waved again. Tonight he touched his fingertips to his lips and blew her the kiss he didn't dare deliver in person. Lucie gasped, and her hands fluttered to her throat then moved to her trembling mouth.

Then he was gone, swallowed up by the deepening twilight shadows and the night became gray again. For a time Lucie remained at the window, exhilarated by his fanciful kiss, imagining the taste and pressure on her lips, wishing with all her immodest woman's heart that his kiss had been real.

By the time Stefan returned she had recovered enough to light the lamp, don her apron, and warm the supper she had prepared this morning before she left for work. And she had achieved an uneasy mastery over the ever present guilt, though it was difficult to meet Stefan's eyes.

"How is Greta feeling tonight?" she inquired as she placed his bread and stew on the table.

"Her eyes are bothering her." Stefan sat down slowly and stared at his plate. Even if Lucie had not seen him tug his mustache, she would have known he was disturbed by the scowl in his dark eyes. "The oldest Poppalov boy told me he thought he saw the Irishman here tonight."

Lucie's heart stopped. "Oh?" she said faintly, turning back to the stove. "I didn't know you had a spy, Stefan."

She sensed discomfort in his silence, as acute as her own. "The Irishman still asks to call on you," he said at length. "Every week, regular as clockwork, he persists in asking."

"You've conceded he's a good worker. You've said he carries his own weight and works as hard as any man. Sometimes I think you respect him if you would only admit it."

"Perhaps," he admitted grudgingly. "But there's more to it than that."

Lucie gripped the handle of the oven door, not looking at him. "Please, Stefan. Grant us your permission." Sometimes she did not think she could bear the anguish of deceiving him one more instant.

"I can't do that." The harshness of his voice bowed Lucie's head. "I'd look like a fool. The decision has been made." When she made no reply, he reached for the bread and broke off a chunk, turning it in his hand. "If I discovered he was coming around here I would have to fight him again. You know that."

She closed her eyes and nodded.

"There is another man at workStanislas Sarnoff. I would like to invite him to Sunday supper."

"No," Lucie said quietly, staring down at the range top.

"Damn it, Lucie!" She heard his fist strike the table. "Greta is correct. It isn't right for a beautiful young woman not to have a man of her own. You should be thinking about your own marriage, thinking about your own children. But you're both wrong about the Irishman. Can't you understand? I don't want you to make a mistake. All I want is for you to be happy!"

She turned and looked at him with glistening eyes. "Then permit me to make my own choice. Allow me to decide where my happiness lies."

He stared at her, then he swore again and angrily smeared a spoonful of melting butter across his bread.

Stefan took Greta and Lucie to the Hester Street market on Sunday afternoon to do the week's shopping. As usual the stalls and pushcarts encroached on the street and the crowds were so thick the street had been closed to horses and vehicles. People shouted and haggled for bargains in half a dozen languages. One couldn't walk three steps without being jostled by throngs of people or accosted by a vendor.

"Fifteen cents a pound for a scrawny chicken who died of starvation," Greta lamented in tones of resignation. Her shining blond hair was a rarity among the dark heads in Hester Street and she attracted much attention, though she seemed unaware of it.

"I can't decide," Lucie said, beckoning Greta toward the bins in the stall next to the meat. "Shall I spend fourteen cents for a dozen eggs or buy oranges instead?" The oranges would be an extravagance, but they smelled so tantalizing and good. Removing her glove, she reached toward an orange and touched the rough pebbled surface with her fingertips and inhaled the scent. Surely heaven smelled like oranges.