Baroness (42 page)

“Maybe.”

See. She shouldn't expect anything different.

“Is it in one piece?”

She glared at him, tucking her robe around her, got up, and padded over to the basket.

Charlie was still sleeping. Lilly laid a finger to her mouth then tiptoed out into the hallway. “Of course it is. When did you get here?”

“Last night, late. I stayed in town then hired a car this morning.”

He'd said
I
. Not we. Not her father. She braced herself. “Where's my father? The paper said that Cesar was killed, but—” Oh, please—

“Oliver's fine. He'll be out in a day or two, I promise.” Truman pulled his trilby off his head, ran his hand around the brim. Looked out the window.

“What aren't you telling me?” She stepped up to him. Saw the remnants of a bruise on his jaw. “Truman?”

“He got a little banged up.”

“What—”

“He'll be fine. Cesar's men brought the heavy artillery, and although your father had called in some favors with pals in the police department…well, they fired the house, Lilly.” Truman shook his head. “It's gone. Your chateau on Fifth Avenue burned.”

The Price home, turned to ash. She had to reach out, to hold the doorframe. Her mother's portrait, her books and journals, Oliver's photographs, the family heirlooms.

“Was Oliver—”

“He's going to be okay. He was burned trying to retrieve a few items, but the fire department pulled him out.”

She sank down onto the stairs. “How did Cesar die?”

“From the beating Guthrie gave him. And the Napoli gang— all arrested.” Truman seemed to want to take a step toward her, almost gave a start. Then, “You're safe, Lilly. You and Rosie are safe.”

The nearness of him buzzed through her. He smelled good, some sort of soap, and had brilliantined back his gleaming black hair, capturing that rebellious lock, as if trying to make a good impression. He set his trilby on a side table.

“This is a beautiful place, Lilly. No wonder you wanted to return home.” He stood there talking to her like a salesman, or an old family friend, shifting from side to side as if nervous.

She'd never seen him without his cocky smile and the “over my dead body” stance, except, of course, two-plus weeks ago when he'd suggested he loved her. That he couldn't live without her. That he'd do anything to prove it.

Without his trilby, he had nothing to do with his hands and slipped them into his pockets.

She wanted to weave her fingers through his, wrap them around her. Lie to herself that he hadn't arrived for his airplane, but for her.

But she wasn't that stupid.

Lilly didn't want to imagine what she might look like, the lines in her face, her reddened eyes, the disarray of her hair.

A noise emerged from the basket, the smallest of whimpers.

“Is that Rosie's child?”

“A little girl. She hasn't officially named her yet, so we keep calling her Charlie.” She picked up the infant, cradled her in her arms, hoping she might fall back to sleep. “I remember Rosie telling me that Guthrie wanted a son named Charlie. I didn't know what else to call her.”

“Where's Rosie?”

“She's upstairs sleeping.” She patted the baby's diaper as Charlie began to squirm, as the first little squeaks came from her. “I need to change her diaper.”

“I'll help.”

She stared at him, her mouth forming a question, when little Charlie woke with a start and began to wail. Wetness soaked through the blanket and into her nightclothes.

“Excuse me.” She brushed past him, heading up the stairs, and noticed that he followed her. When they reached Rosie's room, she turned. “Rosie's sleeping. Stay here, I'll be right back.”

He nodded, and she eased open the door.

Then she simply stood there in the threshold as Charlie screamed. Rosie's bed wasn't just empty, someone had made it.

As if she'd never been here.

She stepped inside.

“Is she here?” Truman said, right behind her. “Because I don't see her.”

“Maybe she's downstairs,” Lilly mumbled and went to the dressing table.

Truman fetched a dry diaper. Lilly cleaned Charlie, powdered her, then replaced the saturated diaper.

“She's so little.”

“Nine pounds when she was born.”

She had no words when Truman reached over, sliding his large hands under her, and picked her up. He held her close, tucking her into the crook of his arm.

The sight made Lilly want to weep.

He would have made a delicious father, with little boys to teach to fly and a little girl to dance on his shoes.

No. She couldn't think this way, and the sooner he left— “I gassed up your plane. You can get Abel to help you push it out of the barn to the road.”

Emotion pulsed at the edge of Truman's eyes. “What if—”

“Lilly!” Dawn's voice cut through his question. She wore a clean brown dress, her hair now neatly pinned back in a bun. She didn't even cast a look at Truman as she strode into the room, looking shaken, holding a piece of stationery.

“She's gone.”

Lilly frowned.

“Rosie's run away.” Dawn shoved the paper at Lilly.

She took it, cold fingers pressing into her with each word.

Dear Lilly,

Once upon a time, you promised to forgive me for betraying you. I believe you may have to work harder at it now, for I know my next sin to be much greater, perhaps even unforgiveable.

I cannot care for the child I birthed.

I have lain in bed for ten days watching you bathe, diaper, and feed the child, and have discovered one thing: you are her mother. You are the one who wakes at night, you are the one whose heart is moved by her cries, who inspected her tiny fingers and toes upon birth. You may not have carried her, but you were meant to be this child's mother by the very fact that you have taken her into your heart.

I know you would give your life for this child.

I cannot even look at her. Not when she has Guthrie's lips, his eyes. Not when I must bear the day when she inquires about her father, and I must keep him alive in her heart. Your mother had a strength I do not possess. In fact, I do not want it.

If I am to survive this grief, I must erase it. Do not try and find me, for I do not wish to belong to the world I had, the woman I was.

I give you this child as your own, Lilly. I pray someday you will forgive me yet again for this betrayal, this weakness. If I know one thing, however, it is that only you can understand what grief this daughter of yours will bear. And that, I know, will be her salvation.

Gratefully,

Rose

“How could she do this?” The words shook out of Lilly, just a whis per, growing louder the second time around. “How could she do this?”

Dawn's eyes widened as Lilly shoved the letter back into her hands. She rounded on Truman. “We have to find her. Stop her. Dawn, take the baby—”

She went to retrieve Charlie from Truman's arms, but he stepped back. “Lilly, stop.” His low voice cut through the whirr in her head. “She doesn't want to be found.”

“She doesn't know what she's saying! She belongs here, with this child. Her child!”

“No, Lilly.
Your
child. You can't force her to be something she doesn't want to be. Just like Oliver couldn't force you to be a newspaper woman. She has to want it. Commit to it.” He nudged Charlie, now sucking her fist, into Lilly's arms. “Lilly, your heart is broken for those in need—Rennie, and your buffalo, and even me. I was broken until I found you. I didn't believe that I could be loved, but you changed that. You made me believe, even for a little while, that someone could love me, despite my mistakes, my sins.”

Just like Oliver had for her. “Truman, I never stopped loving you.”

He touched her cheek, his eyes soft. “You can be this child's mother if you want to.”

There's power in commitment, it turns you into the man you hope to be. The man you can live with.

The mother she hoped to be?

“I—I don't know…”

“What if you didn't have to do it alone?” He ran his thumb over Charlie's delicate fingers. They opened and wrapped around his, holding on.

She looked up at him. His eyes glistened. “I didn't come back for my plane, Lilly. I came back for my wife, if she'll have me. Please forgive me.”

“I forgave you long ago, Truman. But…” Oh, it felt good to finally say that. And she longed to step into the dream, but— “What about your air show and flying and—”

“I sold the air show back to Marvel. He wanted it anyway. I'm out, Lilly. And I came here with the hope that you'd let me prove every day that I love you. That I'm not going to leave you.”

“You're not going to get into your plane and fly out of my life?”

“It's your plane now—I bought it for you. I'm grounded.”

He caressed the baby's head. “It's taken me ten years for it all to sink in. God walked back into my life the day you asked me for a ride. I just didn't see Him until you left.” He cupped his hand under her chin. “Flying Angel.”

She blinked against the burning in her eyes. Charlie began to squirm in her arms.

“I'll heat up some milk,” Dawn said from behind her. Lilly had forgotten she'd been standing there.

“And I'll feed her,” Truman said. “Please?”

He wanted to feed her? “Who are you?”

“Her…father?”

She swallowed, nodded. “Yes.”

“Yes I can feed her?”

“Yes, you can stay. You can be her father.” She couldn't look at him, but he stepped close, putting his arms around both of them. “But only on one condition.”

“I have a feeling I'm not going to like this.”

“You're not grounded. I have uses for that airplane, sir. I'll need to track the buffalo, maybe fly into Butte and check on the family paper. The
Chronicle
needs a good editor out here.”

“Please don't suggest wing walking.” He curled his hand behind her neck. “I love you, Lilly Hoyt. From the minute you walked into my life and hitched a ride. I've never stopped loving you.” He smiled then kissed her, his lips warm and soft and perfect, so familiar, so right, and she tasted everything they'd had, everything they would have.

In his arms, yes, she could fly.

When he released her she smiled into his eyes. In his reflection she saw a woman, her dark hair tousled, a baby on her shoulder, a smile in her eyes. A woman she finally recognized.

A woman in the embrace of her God.

Epilogue

Here, in Hollywood, Rosie could glitter again. She stood in front of a shop window, staring at the dress, the shiny fringes along the bodice and hem, the feathered headband, the long gloves, and saw herself sliding into it. Saw herself sashaying onto stage, maybe singing something smoky into a microphone. But more, she saw her name on one of those playbills, perhaps even on a movie poster.

She would change it, of course. Not Rosie. Not Red. Roxy maybe. Roxy Price.

She'd reinvent herself in Hollywood and Cesar's men would never find her. Or her daughter.

Lilly's daughter.

Rosie had to train herself to think this way now. Lilly's daughter. She never had a daughter, was never married to Guthrie Storme.

She'd already taken off her ring, hanging it on a gold chain around her neck. She'd hide it after she got settled. After she found a place to secrete it where she'd never accidentally run across it to tear her asunder.

Yes, she'd erase her past. Erase her memory of New York society, a mother who had loved her despite her sins, a stepfather who filled in for the father she'd lost, a little brother who had allowed her to love again.

She'd forget her older brother, sever his memory that lingered like a noose around her neck.

Yes, here in Hollywood, she'd walk into the world reinvented.

Hollywood thrummed with an energy unfamiliar in New York City. Everything seemed alive and new, from the pavement on the Boulevard to the shaggy palm trees, to the fancy women wearing their furs on the sidewalk at the height of the morning. Men in straw boaters and suits hustled by, Ford Model Ts, motorcycles, and trolleybuses motored down the road. Everyone seemed in a hurry, as if life might leave them behind. The place even smelled fresh, a fragrance of sunshine, the ocean on the breeze.

She'd spotted the Knickerbocker Hotel from blocks away, the grand letters rising above the massive building like a map. Now, seeing it across the street, the fringed canopy waving in the wind, the bellhop by the door, she pressed her hands to her stomach, thankful that she'd lost more of her pregnancy weight on the three-day trip down to Los Angeles. Another week of tea and crackers and she might fit into that dress in the store window.

Still, her stomach roiled. She closed her eyes, reached past the last four years to the woman she'd been years ago, in Paris. The woman who knew how to put on a smile, play games. The woman who could reel in everything she wanted.

That woman entered the cool interior of the Knickerbocker, walked past the gilded walls, the gold brocade divans, the gleaming chandeliers, to the elevator. “Eighth floor,” she said, not even looking at the operator. He got in behind her, looking sharp in his red jacket and his white gloves, and pushed the button.

This would be her world. Attended by others. Royalty. Like Sarah Bernhardt.

She stepped off the elevator and onto the smooth red carpet that lined the hall. She didn't stop until she reached the far door, the suite of rooms behind 806.

Then, she knocked.

Pasted on the right smile.

Raised her chin.

Betrayed nothing but cool expectation as the door opened.

“Rosie. What a surprise! What are you doing here?” Dashielle wore a blue cardigan, a white collared shirt, an ascot at his neck, a pair of linen trousers. His onyx black-hair gelled back, he sported a tan. He already looked born and bred in California.