Escapade (9781301744510) (34 page)

Next to her photograph rested an oval frame
encircling three young girls in pink gingham dresses with white
yokes, the children similar in their dark curls, but their
expressions so different. The littlest one who was so bright-eyed,
that had to be Zeke's youngest sister, Agnes, while the tallest one
with her sweet, placid features must be Caddie. And of course,
there was no mistaking the prim girl that was Tessa.

Rory moved to the last picture, obviously one
of Caddie grown, a handsome man at her side, three children tucked
about her skirts.

After Rory had studied it, she replaced the
picture. She cast an uneasy glance about the room, feeling she had
strayed into a part of Zeke Morrison's heart not even she had been
invited to enter. Reaching for the lamp, Rory prepared to retreat,
but it was already too late.

She found Zeke blocking the doorway, watching
her. She feared he might be angry at her prying.

"I am sorry," she began. "I never meant
to—"

"It's all right." His voice was a little
abrupt as he cut off her explanation. But far from demanding she
leave the room at once, he stepped across the threshold
himself.

"It's not exactly as though you stumbled upon
some kind of skeleton in my closet."

No, Rory thought, only that part of his
memories that rendered him vulnerable, that part of himself he
tried like death to hide.

He stepped over to the rocker, running his
hand along the back. "These are only a few odds and ends I didn't
know what else to do with. The rocker was Sadie's. I went by the
old flat after Tessa had moved out. She was throwing this away,
just because the arm was broken. It seemed so wasteful. So I carted
it back here and mended it."

"And the pictures?" Rory asked softly.

"I never seem to be able to get rid of
anything." He added almost defiantly, "Besides they are good
pictures, good likenesses."

He hid his face from her as he straightened
the photographs, smoothing out the tidy as well, his large callused
fingers snagging on the delicate lace. The awkward workmanship was
obviously not that of his mother.

"Did your youngest sister make that?" Rory
asked.

"No, Tessa gave it to me."

“Tessa?" Rory echoed in astonishment.

Zeke gave a grudging laugh. "Yeah, I know. It
surprised me too. I always thought Tessa more apt to give me the
business end of a knife. But the tidy was a present for my
sixteenth birthday to decorate the washstand in my room. Tessa said
that Sadie told her she had to give me something. So she wrapped
this up in tissue paper and practically bounced it off my
head."

Despite Zeke's tone of wry amusement, Rory
obtained a new insight regarding his relationship with the sister
who seemed so to despise him. Maybe Tessa had to give him a
present, but she hadn't had to labor such long hours over the
tatting, a task which had obviously been difficult for her. Nor did
Zeke have to keep it all these years.

As he stood gazing at the pictures, there was
a taut set to his mouth, but a wistfulness in his eyes.

"You don't have any contact with your family
now?" Rory asked.

"I send presents at Christmas, birthdays,
especially to Caddie's children."

A smile escaped Rory. So Zeke really did have
a niece.

He continued, "I always wanted to help all my
sisters, would've settled any amount of money on them. But they
never would take it."

"Maybe they would far rather have a visit
from you than the money."

Zeke shrugged. "Tessa's anger makes that
difficult. It would put Caddie and Agnes in an awkward position,
forcing them to choose sides. It just wouldn't be worth it."

Rory didn't agree with him, but she merely
remarked, "These are splendid pictures. It seems too bad to keep
them hidden in here. Are you that ashamed of them?"

"No, only of myself." He straightened
abruptly. "You had best get back to bed, Rory, before you get
cold."

She could tell he wanted her out of that
room, wanted to leave himself. She complied sadly, watching him
pull the door closed. Zeke was shutting away too much of his life,
but it was not something he was willing to discuss, even with
her.

She sensed his retreat from her, even before
he brushed a kiss on her brow. "You'd best get some sleep while I
go back to the guest room and do the same. I have a few details to
clear up in the morning regarding the business with Addison."

Rory regarded him anxiously. "I thought you
said that was all over."

"So it is, but before we can get on with
planning our wedding, I have a funeral to attend.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Zeke Morrison scooped up a handful of dirt in
his fist. He stood over the yawning grave that moments before had
received the earthly remains of Stanley Marcus Addison. Opening his
hand, Zeke slowly released the soil, watching the earth scatter
over the gleaming surface of the mahogany coffin below.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Zeke hated funerals. He would far rather have
looked down the barrel of a gun than into the grief-stricken eyes
of Addison's widow. She stood opposite him, on the other side of
the grave, a delicate woman, too young to be in black, clutching
the hands of her two small sons, one snuffling against his mother's
sleeve.

Zeke experienced a tightness in his throat
and cursed his own folly in coming. He could have made some excuse.
He had even avoided his own mother's burial, although his
conscience had never given him a moment's ease since for that bit
of cowardice. He had vowed never to make that mistake again.

So this morning he had endured the church
service, the minister's endless eulogy, every word of it deserved
by Addison, every word a sharp reminder to Zeke of the kind of man
who had been lost. He reflected bitterly that the world would have
been better off if that headstone had marked a reprobate like
himself instead of the idealist young politician.

As he stepped back from the grave, Zeke felt
shamed by his relief that the funeral was almost over. He watched
as Rory tossed in a handful of earth. Zeke hadn't asked her to
accompany him, but he was glad she had, drawing comfort from
looking into her face, those impish eyes for once sweetly solemn,
her mouth tremulous with grief for a man she'd never even met.

Zeke was not as pleased by the sight of Bill
Duffy. This was one place the press didn't belong, the reporter's
flaming red hair somehow an affront to these somber proceedings.
Yet Zeke was forced to admit that Duffy conducted himself with
decorum, his derby held respectfully in his gloved hands, no sign
of the ever-present notebook and pencil.

He edged close enough to Zeke and Rory to
murmur, "Damned fine service even if it was a bit long."

"I doubt that matters much to Stanley
Addison," Zeke snapped.

"Funerals are not for the dead, only the
living," Rory said. “Just a way of saying good-bye."

As far as Zeke was concerned, there would
have been only one fitting way to bid Addison's memory farewell,
and that was to have the man responsible beneath his fists. But
that satisfaction had been denied him, his only consolation now to
picture Charles Decker roasting in hell, his skinny buttocks seared
by the hottest flames.

Zeke fidgeted, trying to quell such thoughts.
They didn't seem quite fitting standing in the shadow of a church.
The funeral might be nearly over, but the worst part was yet to
come, the moment to step up and mutter some final consoling words
to the bereaved family. Zeke never could think of anything
appropriate to say.

When Rory walked up to Mrs. Addison, Zeke
hung back. He couldn't hear all of what she said, something about
Addison resting with the angels. Of course, Rory would believe in
angels, the conviction in her voice bringing a sad smile to the
lips of the widow.

Zeke wasn't sure what he believed in. He only
knew that such remarks had never afforded him much comfort. Maybe
it was fine and dandy to think of the deceased stringing harps by
the peace of the pearly gates, but that sure didn't help those left
behind, trying to mend the hole torn in their lives.

He tensed as he realized Rory had stepped
back. His turn was next. Clearing his throat, he managed to mumble
gruffly, "Very sorry." Which he was, but that didn't bring Addison
back. Rather awkwardly, he offered the widow his hand, which she
took, her fingers not much larger than a child's.

Zeke had never really taken much notice of
Clara Addison, a gentle shadow in her husband's wake. Now he felt
appalled by what a wisp of a thing she was, too frail to be left to
the task of raising two boys alone.

"If there is anything you ever need—," he
began, then broke off, embarrassed. "Though I am sure Addison's
trust fund left you well provided for."

"Oh, Mr. Morrison." She pressed his hand, and
Zeke had difficulty meeting those brimming blue eyes. "My Stanley
had many fine qualities, but being practical, planning for the
future, wasn't one of them. I know that trust fund was set up by
you two days ago."

Zeke felt his face wash dull red. "Well, yes,
but it was money that Addison had invested with me to—"

She gently shook her head. "It was very
generous of you, Mr. Morrison. But I fear I cannot accept such a
gift."

Generous? Why didn't she jab a red hot stake
through his heart and be done with it. His own conscience was
certainly doing so at this moment.

"It's not a gift, madam," he said. "I owe
your family that much. I feel a certain amount of responsibility
for your husband's death. He didn't understand the risks that he
was taking, but I did. I should have never helped him with his
campaign and then maybe he would still be alive."

But Clara Addison would have none of that
either. "With or without your backing, Stanley would have pursued
his reforms. It was what he believed in as much as any soldier who
dies for his country on the battlefield. Surely you can understand
that."

Zeke didn't. He had always thought men were
marks who died fighting for any cause other than their own.
Addison's widow was just as starry-eyed as he had been. All the
same, Zeke made one more effort to reason with her about the
money.

"You should take it," he urged. "If not for
yourself, then for your boys. It's no more than I would have spent
on your husband's campaign for mayor."

She cast a wistful glance toward her two
children, who had wandered off and gathered up a handful of
dandelions to bring back to their father's grave. Her lip quivered.
"For their sakes, then, thank you. But I can only accept a portion
of the sum you proposed. The rest I would still like you to put
into Addison's campaign."

Zeke regarded her with a tinge of impatience.
Didn't she understand that there could no longer be any campaign?
One couldn't elect a dead man mayor.

"With your husband gone, I am afraid—," he
began.

"Someone else will step forward to take his
place. There are other good men who resent corruption as much as he
did, who feel there is no reason people should be starving, living
in tumbledown tenements, not in a city as bountiful as New York."
She unnerved Zeke by staring directly into his eyes. "Yourself,
perhaps?"

"Me?" Zeke blurted out. "I'm no crusader,
madam. I'm only the one who signs his name to the checks."

But she continued to regard him hopefully. "I
pray you will reconsider, Mr. Morrison. That is one of the hardest
things about Stanley's death, my fear that all his dreams, his
ideals, are going to die with him."

Zeke tugged at his starched collar. He was
vastly relieved when the widow's attention was claimed by the
minister and his wife. He didn't want to add to the woman's grief
by telling her exactly what he thought of her crazy notion. He felt
he had said and done all that was necessary. Now he just wanted to
escape.

When he turned, he was disconcerted to find
Rory and Duffy had been hard on his heels and apparently had
overheard the entire conversation. They were both regarding him
with that same hopeful expectancy he found so unsettling.

"Say, Morrison," Duffy said, "that was a
great idea of Mrs. Addison's. I can see the headlines now. Tycoon
Throws Hat in Mayoral Race."

“Go soak your head in your inkwell," he
growled at the reporter, tucking Rory's arm through his. "I've had
enough of politics and funerals. I just want to get out of here and
go have a drink."

"Suit yourself, Morrison. But you can't think
this is over because Decker is dead. There's plenty more villains
where he came from. I may take over for Addison and do a little
more digging myself."

"Dig away, but just don't go down so deep you
end up like Addison, six feet under."

Duffy stalked away in disgust, but Zeke took
little notice of his departure, being more concerned with Rory. She
had volunteered no remarks during this exchange, merely biting down
upon her lower lip. Yet it was what she wasn't saying that Zeke
found disturbing.

He halted by the cemetery gate, gazing down
at her. "Rory, you can't also be imagining that Mrs. Addison had a
good idea. Me as a reform candidate, running for mayor!"

"I think you'd make a very good mayor."

Zeke gave a snort of contempt. "Oh, yes, I
have such excellent credentials. A dockworker, a former gang
member, a one-time gambling house operator."

"But that's exactly what makes you so well
qualified. You've seen life on both sides of New York, Fifth Avenue
and the East Side. You wouldn't be all idealistic and impractical
like Mr. Addison."

"No, what I would be is smart enough to know
better. It's hopeless to think you can ever change anything over on
the East Side. The best a man can hope for is to look after his own
interests and get himself out."