September Sky (American Journey Book 1) (16 page)

"Why? If it's none of my business, it's none of my business."

"The problem is that if you don't hear it from me, you will probably hear it from someone else. I would rather you hear it from someone who has all the facts and has Goldie's best interests at heart."

"Then what is it?" Chuck asked. "What do you need to tell me?"

Charlotte stopped and pulled away from Chuck. She stepped to the edge of the esplanade and stared blankly at the gentle waves that rolled in from the Gulf. When she returned her attention to her friend, she did so with troubled eyes.

"Goldie didn't develop her skills in a library or even in school. She developed them at the cotton exchange, where she worked as a record keeper, and in the state penitentiary, where she served eighteen months for embezzlement."

Chuck sighed.

"So you hired her knowing her past?"

"I hired her knowing her
potential
," Charlotte said. "I admit I had a difficult time convincing board members that Goldie would be an asset to the library, but I persisted and they finally relented."

Chuck again looked at Charlotte with awe.

"You're amazing."

Charlotte gazed at him sadly.

"No. I'm not amazing. I'm not even above average," Charlotte said. "I'm just a woman who believes that everyone deserves a second chance."

CHAPTER 23: CHUCK

Saturday, May 5, 1900

Charles Townsend downed the whiskey in his glass and took another look around Ivy's Saloon. Not much had changed in twenty minutes. A tired waitress continued to bring spirits and beer to men with money while a happy chap at an upright piano continued to hammer the keys like Jerry Lee Lewis. At a table a few feet away, four sailors played cards and compared notes on the women they had bedded in the past twenty-four hours.

Chuck could only speculate whether the scene was the same in five hundred other saloons sprinkled around the city, but one thing was certain. Galveston, Texas, didn't celebrate Cinco de Mayo the way he thought it would. The reporter chuckled.

"I guess margaritas and mariachi bands have yet to catch on."

When the young man sitting at his table did not reply, Chuck turned his head and saw a son lost in his thoughts. Justin stared blankly in the direction of a long hardwood bar.

"You're thinking about her, aren't you?" Chuck asked.

Justin sighed and glanced at his father.

"I've been thinking about her all week," Justin said. "I'm having second thoughts about going to dinner tomorrow. I mean what's the point of going if the one person I want to see doesn't want to see me?"

"Are you sure Emily doesn't want to see you?"

"She hasn't spoken to me since Thursday, Dad, and that was just to say, 'Excuse me, Mr. Townsend, I have work to do.' So, yeah, I'm pretty sure."

"Then forget about her," Chuck said.

"That's the problem. I can't. She's in my head twenty-four seven."

Chuck wanted to remind his son that their stay in 1900 was temporary and that he would have to say goodbye to Emily Beck sooner or later, but he didn't. He wasn't at all sure he would be able to say goodbye to Charlotte Emerson and didn't want to preach something he couldn't practice.

"What time is dinner?"

"It's at one," Justin said. "It's at a time of day when nothing else is going on."

"Then go. Go and make the best of it. Go enjoy a home-cooked meal. Then thank the Becks for their hospitality and leave. No one is expecting you to do more."

Justin nodded at Chuck, took a sip of his beer, and then returned his eyes to the bar. He continued to gaze lazily at that part of the room until someone or something caught his attention. He tilted his head and fixed his gaze.

"What is it?" Chuck asked. "Do you see someone you know?"

"No. It's not that."

Chuck looked over his shoulder and gave the bar a cursory inspection. When he saw nothing of interest, he turned to face his son.

"Then what is it?"

"It's that man over there, the one at the end of the bar. He keeps looking at us."

Chuck glanced again at the bar and this time focused on the far end, where a mustachioed man in a pinstriped suit stared intently at the father and son. When Chuck met his gaze, the man picked up his drink, left a coin on the counter, and walked toward the Townsends. He spoke when Chuck pivoted in his chair to get a better look at the stranger.

"Do you mind if I join you?"

"That depends on who you are," Chuck said. "Do I know you?"

"Indeed, you do, Mr. Townsend."

"How is that? We've never met."

"That is true," the man said. "Yet you know me just the same. You've been digging into my past for nearly two weeks."

Chuck felt his stomach sink. Though he knew that word of his research would eventually reach the subject of his research, he hadn't expected it to happen so soon. He wondered which of the four library staff had tipped off Wyatt. He hoped it wasn't Charlotte.

Chuck signaled to Justin with a nod. They stood up at the same time.

"Then I believe it's time we became acquainted," Chuck said. "I'm Charles Townsend, as you already know, and this is my son, Justin."

"I'm Wyatt Fitzpatrick."

The men shook hands.

"Please take a seat, Mr. Fitzpatrick. We have much to talk about."

The three sat in their chairs.

Chuck ordered another drink and took a moment to study the distant uncle who had been his obsession for days. Though he had heard that Wyatt was a tall, handsome man, he did not know that for a fact until the millionaire had walked across the room.

He had never seen a photograph of Wyatt because few apparently existed. Even the file at the library was devoid of images or descriptions of one of the most famous men in town. Wyatt Fitzpatrick was reportedly a man who did not like to pose for the cameras.

"I'm sure you have many questions – or you would not have followed us here," Chuck said. "Please speak your mind."

"Then I will," Wyatt said.

Wyatt sipped his whiskey and gazed at Chuck with eyes the time traveler could not read. He seemed neither hostile nor hospitable but rather somewhere in between. He put down his drink.

"The first thing you should know, Mr. Townsend, is that I'm a very private man, one who does not take kindly to those who stick their noses in places they do not belong."

"I understand," Chuck said."

"I was not amused to learn of your peculiar interest in my affairs. When you persisted in asking questions about my company, my family, and my past, I made plans to crush you," Wyatt said. He let the comment linger. "I decided to leave you alone on the advice of someone I trust and admire – someone who thinks highly of you, someone who shares your love of the theater."

Chuck sighed.

Rose.

"Thanks to this someone, I concluded that you were not a threat. Even so, I wanted to know why a stranger would ask these questions at a library and not to my face. I
still
want to know."

Chuck studied Wyatt again and saw he had nothing to fear from a man who seemed more curious than alarmed. So he jumped into an explanation he had rehearsed many times.

"Let me first say that you have every right to question my motives," Chuck said. "I
have
been checking you out and been doing so in an unorthodox way. I can see now that I could have handled matters differently. I could have told you, for example, that I was coming to town. I could have requested an interview in advance."

"Then why didn't you?"

Chuck paused as the waitress brought his whiskey. When she moved on to the sailors at the next table, he glanced at Justin, who seemed to follow the conversation with growing interest, and then at Wyatt, whose attention had never waned.

"I didn't because I suspected you were a busy man who wouldn't grant even five minutes to a journalist who came here to write an unbiased book on shipping and not burnish the reputation of a man or a company. I wanted to do my homework before approaching you for more."

Wyatt smiled.

"Rose was right about you."

"How is that?" Chuck asked.

"She said you were a man who thought before he acted. There are very few such men in this city, Mr. Townsend."

"I've noticed as much."

"That still doesn't explain your interest in me or my company," Wyatt said. "It doesn't explain why you came to Galveston."

Chuck took a breath.

"I came here because I wanted to do more than write about shipping," Chuck said truthfully. "I wanted to write about a city on the rise and the men who are building it. I wanted to put a face on the economic renaissance taking place in Galveston and couldn't think of a better face than yours."

Wyatt chuckled.

"I see you are a flatterer as well."

He looked at Chuck more thoughtfully.

"You're an interesting man, Mr. Townsend," Wyatt said. "You may even be an honest man, which is why I am inclined to help you with your book. I too believe this city is headed for greatness and want the world to know it."

Chuck relaxed. Not only was Wyatt not going to "crush" him, he was probably going to tell him all the things he wanted to know. Talk about luck.

"I appreciate your willingness to help," Chuck said. "Should I call your office to set up an appointment for an interview?"

Wyatt sipped his whiskey.

"That depends. If you wish only to learn about the Gulf Star Line, then yes, you should make an appointment. I would be happy to answer your questions and show you around. But if you wish to learn about the man seated in this chair, you should do something else."

"What's that?"

Wyatt smiled.

"You should order me another drink."

CHAPTER 24: CHUCK

Chuck needed only a few minutes to realize that interviewing Wyatt in Ivy's Saloon was not a great idea. He had to record his comments without a tape recorder or a pen and paper and do so in a noisy environment that was better suited for a frat boy's twenty-first birthday. The whiskies clouding his mind didn't help much either.

Even so, he managed to learn more about his distant relative in an hour than he had learned in nearly two weeks at the library. If the shipping tycoon was reluctant to say much about his present life, he was all too eager to discuss his beginnings as Wyatt Townsend and his later years as the adopted son of Hiram and Margaret Fitzpatrick.

"I appreciate you telling me about the fire that killed your parents," Chuck said. "I'm sure it's not the easiest thing to talk about."

"Death is never easy to talk about, Mr. Townsend. I tell you the story of my original mother and father because I want them to be remembered," Wyatt said. He took a long sip of sour mash. "It is quite a coincidence that we share a last name."

You can say that again.

"It is," Chuck said. "Who knows? We may even be related in some roundabout way."

"I doubt it," Wyatt said, "but I've heard of stranger things."

"Have you had any contact with your natural siblings?"

"I've had plenty. My brother Benjamin and I, in fact, are quite close. We've done our best to make up for the many lost years."

"It must have been difficult growing up without your seven brothers and sisters," Chuck said.

Wyatt lowered his glass to the table.

"It wasn't difficult at all. I didn't know they existed until I was thirty-five years old. My father, my adoptive father, told me about them as he lay dying of consumption."

Chuck looked at Wyatt more closely.

"He died five years ago, according to your biography at the library. Is that correct?"

"That is correct."

"Tell me about the woman who raised you," Chuck said.

"My mother, bless her Catholic soul, was a saintly woman," Wyatt said. He fixed his gaze on Chuck. "She was a gentle, loving, compassionate person who set me on the path to knowledge and taught me how to use that knowledge wisely. She looked at each day as an opportunity to learn – an opportunity that shouldn't be squandered."

"I read that she passed away in 1890."

"She died from the Russian flu on my thirtieth birthday."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

Chuck glanced at Justin and saw him look away. He suspected that the reference to Wyatt's mother had conjured memories of the loss of his own mother.

"I am curious about one thing," Chuck said.

"What is that?" Wyatt asked.

"Why did your parents adopt you? From what I've read, they had two daughters at the time. Did they want a son?"

"That is what my father wanted. He wanted a son and an heir to someday take over the company he had built," Wyatt said. "He did not want to leave the Gulf Star Line to my sisters or their future husbands. Like many men in his position, he viewed children not only as family but also as business partners. Like many, he did not want to leave anything to chance."

"It must have come as quite a surprise then when Silas came along."

"You understate matters, Mr. Townsend."

Chuck sipped his whiskey.

"Do the two of you get along?"

Wyatt smiled.

"You ask many questions. Perhaps it's time I ask a few of my own."

"Ask away," Chuck said.

"I understand that you worked for a newspaper in San Francisco," Wyatt said.

"That's right."

"Which one?"

Chuck had long recognized the danger of providing a clear and truthful answer to a question like that. Anyone inquiring about his professional past could expose him as a fraud with a single telegram or telephone call.

So instead of giving Wyatt a clear-and-truthful answer, Chuck gave him a clear-and-not-so-truthful lie. He told him that he had worked for a once-prominent newspaper that had closed its doors forever in November 1899.

"The
Courier
. I worked there until it went out of business last fall."

"What did you do for this paper?" Wyatt asked.

"I covered business and shipping. My interest in both brought me here."

Wyatt looked at Chuck with kind but skeptical eyes. When he was done visually assessing the man who had dug into his past, he turned to face the man's son.