is like the promise of a granny smith apple, it makes my mouth water. “I’m the same age as Dot,” I tell him.
“ Then I’m no more than a year older.” He smiles.
Actually, he’s almost two years older. I know this from my genealogical research, but see no need to tell him or prolong our conversation. “Thank-you again, Errol.”
“ You’re welcome, Bette.”
And it isn’t until I’m in my house, curled into Gregg’s chair beside the fire, a quilt tucked around my knees that I realize that he knew my first name.
CHAPTER 8
Cold Tea compresses and cucumbers ease the pain and reduce the swelling of a black eye.
From The Recipes of Mercy Faye
Cold damp seeped through Mercy’s slipper shoes. She stared at the man at her feet. In his bloody position, he reminded her so much of Steele that she shook. The umbrella slipped through her fingers and landed beside him. A trickle of blood oozed from behind Orson’s left ear. She took a deep breath and blinked back tears. Wringing her hands, she told herself she had done the right thing, but the horror of past and present experiences kept her rooted in numb shock.
Trent touched his bloody eye with his fingers. “Well done,” he said. He bowed his head and smiled. “I owe you.”
Mercy raised her eyes to Trent. “Perhaps we’re even.” She tried to return his smile. She wanted to focus on him because he was tall, blond, blue eyed, with skin the color of health, but all she could see was Steele lying bleeding on the floor of her tiny New York sitting room.
Would she ever be free? How far would she have to run? Would she have to leave Seattle? She didn’t have another aunt. Selling her jewels, finding somewhere to live on her own, she didn’t think she could do it. She’d already come so far. The thought of starting over, again, made her head pound. Pressing her fingers to her temples, she tried to think.
Trent scooped up the umbrella, took Mercy’s arm and steered her away from Orson. She stumbled after him.
“You’re a murderous little thing,” Trent said.
“I know,” Mercy muttered as she let him pull her through the gardens of The Grand. Roses bloomed along the path and climbed arbors. Moonlight trickled through the boughs of dogwood trees and lilacs and cast speckled shadows on the brick path. How different the night could be if it not for Orson lying in a pool of blood.
“Shouldn’t we stay and make sure he’s alright? Call a doctor?” Her voice quivered and she cleared her throat to hold it steady.
“He’ll be alright, well the same as he was before. Whether you thought him right or not is debatable.” Trent twirled the umbrella. “Is it made of lead?”
“It’s forged iron.”
Trent stopped on the sidewalk, inspecting the umbrella she’d bought for protection from more than the weather. He opened and closed it several times. “It looks so harmless--”
“I bought it in Brazil,” Mercy said, her voice holding steady.
“Is that where you boarded the ship?” When she didn’t answer he said, “You’re a funny person, Mercy Faye.” His curiosity was almost tangible. She could see it in his eyes.
The theater crowd spilled onto the sidewalk carrying the scents of alcohol, tobacco and sweat. The tide of men and a few well-dressed women swarmed around them, looking for their coaches. Mercy watched them with envy. Most of their faces were lit with smiles. They looked happy, relaxed, a few inebriated. She wondered if she’d ever feel at peace again. Had that ease of conscience died when she’d left Steele for dead in New York? Had he taken more from her than her home and livelihood? “I don’t find thwacking people humorous,” Mercy whispered, clutching Trent’s arm.
“Well, I found it useful,” he said into her ear. He walked her the short distance to his coach and placed one hand on her elbow and the other on the small of her back. She felt his warmth through the layers of linen and silk.
She
“ Then I’m no more than a year older.” He smiles.
Actually, he’s almost two years older. I know this from my genealogical research, but see no need to tell him or prolong our conversation. “Thank-you again, Errol.”
“ You’re welcome, Bette.”
And it isn’t until I’m in my house, curled into Gregg’s chair beside the fire, a quilt tucked around my knees that I realize that he knew my first name.
CHAPTER 8
Cold Tea compresses and cucumbers ease the pain and reduce the swelling of a black eye.
From The Recipes of Mercy Faye
Cold damp seeped through Mercy’s slipper shoes. She stared at the man at her feet. In his bloody position, he reminded her so much of Steele that she shook. The umbrella slipped through her fingers and landed beside him. A trickle of blood oozed from behind Orson’s left ear. She took a deep breath and blinked back tears. Wringing her hands, she told herself she had done the right thing, but the horror of past and present experiences kept her rooted in numb shock.
Trent touched his bloody eye with his fingers. “Well done,” he said. He bowed his head and smiled. “I owe you.”
Mercy raised her eyes to Trent. “Perhaps we’re even.” She tried to return his smile. She wanted to focus on him because he was tall, blond, blue eyed, with skin the color of health, but all she could see was Steele lying bleeding on the floor of her tiny New York sitting room.
Would she ever be free? How far would she have to run? Would she have to leave Seattle? She didn’t have another aunt. Selling her jewels, finding somewhere to live on her own, she didn’t think she could do it. She’d already come so far. The thought of starting over, again, made her head pound. Pressing her fingers to her temples, she tried to think.
Trent scooped up the umbrella, took Mercy’s arm and steered her away from Orson. She stumbled after him.
“You’re a murderous little thing,” Trent said.
“I know,” Mercy muttered as she let him pull her through the gardens of The Grand. Roses bloomed along the path and climbed arbors. Moonlight trickled through the boughs of dogwood trees and lilacs and cast speckled shadows on the brick path. How different the night could be if it not for Orson lying in a pool of blood.
“Shouldn’t we stay and make sure he’s alright? Call a doctor?” Her voice quivered and she cleared her throat to hold it steady.
“He’ll be alright, well the same as he was before. Whether you thought him right or not is debatable.” Trent twirled the umbrella. “Is it made of lead?”
“It’s forged iron.”
Trent stopped on the sidewalk, inspecting the umbrella she’d bought for protection from more than the weather. He opened and closed it several times. “It looks so harmless--”
“I bought it in Brazil,” Mercy said, her voice holding steady.
“Is that where you boarded the ship?” When she didn’t answer he said, “You’re a funny person, Mercy Faye.” His curiosity was almost tangible. She could see it in his eyes.
The theater crowd spilled onto the sidewalk carrying the scents of alcohol, tobacco and sweat. The tide of men and a few well-dressed women swarmed around them, looking for their coaches. Mercy watched them with envy. Most of their faces were lit with smiles. They looked happy, relaxed, a few inebriated. She wondered if she’d ever feel at peace again. Had that ease of conscience died when she’d left Steele for dead in New York? Had he taken more from her than her home and livelihood? “I don’t find thwacking people humorous,” Mercy whispered, clutching Trent’s arm.
“Well, I found it useful,” he said into her ear. He walked her the short distance to his coach and placed one hand on her elbow and the other on the small of her back. She felt his warmth through the layers of linen and silk.
She
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