Chances (31 page)

“So she made men fall in love with her?” Sarcasm crept into the words and he waited for Mattie to take offense. When she said nothing, he regretted his harshness. He opened the jar of rouge and dabbed his forefinger into it.

Mattie’s hand closed around his. “Just a little,” she advised, “to take the paleness away. Dora didn’t make herself up.”

He blended a small spot of rouge high on Dora’s cheek and Mattie nodded. The girl looked more like a Sunday school teacher than a soiled dove.

“She didn’t make them fall in love, she made them
feel
loved. She could make a widower forget, for just a few minutes, that his life was empty. She could make a gawky boy feel like he was something special. She made the rejection disappear for the man whose wife turned a cold shoulder. Dora made it more than just the act itself, if that’s what a man needed. And if all he wanted was a good time, she was pretty accomplished at that, as well.”

Daniel frowned. “And none of you think it’s immoral?”

“Morality is a word we each gotta define ourselves.” She set the brush down and caught his gaze. “Passion is a good thing, Daniel. I won’t offer apologies for what my girls do. It’s not for every man and I respect that. It’s not the kind of life for every woman, either. Most of my girls know themselves well. They aren’t needy themselves, or running from their pasts, like a lot of the women in this line of work. They approach this as a business. Meeting the needs of customers is part of successful business.”

He shoved his supplies into his bag, Ebenezer’s strong lectures filling his mind. “Seems to me as though most of us grow up learning that passion is best kept under control,” he mumbled.

Mattie chuckled. “Most folks do just that.” She stood and crossed to the bureau, returning the brush, then turned back to Daniel. “But how much better to give rein to it, express it. Goodness, if a person feels strongly about someone, why not share it? Not just some bland announcement but by making wild, sensuous love.”

Daniel’s thoughts tumbled to Sarah and the images he’d so often had of her, thrashing and naked in his arms, images he’d never had of Mary, not in all the years they were married. She’d been good and kind and loving, but had never stirred his passion the way Sarah could without even trying. Would it be so wrong to give in to it?

Mattie smiled and crossed back to the bed. “The act becomes what you make of it. Callous sex, sensual pleasure, an expression of comfort, an offering of love. If you know what you want of it and are willing to take a chance on what you’re feeling, you don’t have to be afraid of it.”

He busied himself with the satchel, uncomfortable that Mattie seemed to be able to read his thoughts. “There’s not much more I can do, here. Where do you want her placed?”

“I think the back parlor would be best. I’ll fix up her hair a little more when Amelie gets back with the dress.”

Daniel nodded, relieved the conversation was back to business. “If you cut it in back, it’s easier to get on. Or you can wait until I deliver the coffin and I can do it.”

“I’ll dress her.”

He moved toward the door. “Plain wood casket?”

“Something simple but nice, maybe with a lining.” They left the room and Mattie closed the door.

“What about the burial?” Daniel asked.

“No service, just bring the hearse to take her up to the cemetery. Get her a plot in the City Cemetery, not Potter’s Field.”

He nodded. Most of the prostitutes ended up in small, unmarked graves among the unknowns in Potter’s Field. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be back around to move her downstairs as soon as I load up the casket and get someone to give me a hand.”

Mattie reached for his arm and he jumped. “Thank you, Daniel. Your coming here means more than any of us can put into words. There wouldn’t be a proper burial otherwise.”

He glanced at her, feeling her gaze, struck by her wisdom and unexpected dignity. How many times had he sat in church, listening to Ebenezer point his finger at the fallen?

Well, old man, the proof’s in the pudding, isn’t it? Mattie Silks has far more character than you ever did.

He glanced away, realizing it wasn’t Mattie’s character but his own that was in question.

Chapter Eighteen

A soft knock sounded on Sarah’s office door and she turned to find Amelie there for the second time in one afternoon. Sarah knitted her brow, her surprise shifting into concern.

“I hate to bother you again,” Amelie said. Her voice carried a note of desperation.

Sarah’s heart caught at the sound. “Oh, no bother. I was just finishing up.” She glanced at the lanky man on the other stool. “Ernie’s already elbow deep into the rest of my shift and he’s kicked me out.” She grinned at her coworker as a blush creep across his boney face. “What do you need?”

Amelie stepped further into the office, glanced nervously at Ernie, and sighed.

Sarah set the papers in a wooden box and approached Amelie. The young women’s elegant composure, so evident the night of the play, was gone. Sarah touched Amelie’s arm, uncertain of what she could do. She suspected Amelie had lost her only good friend.

Amelie bit her bottom lip, then said, “I need to buy a dress for Dora. I can’t … will you come?”

“Well, I’m not much good at that sort of thing—”

“Please. The minute I walk into Miss Abernathy’s shop, she’s going to ask questions, and I just can’t …”

“I’ll come.” Sarah offered a cheerful smile and patted Amelie’s arm. “If seeing Dora’s seamstress is too stressful, we’ll just go somewhere else.”

“But Dora’s so tiny, she needs things specially tailored.”

Sarah ushered her out of the office, nodding to Ernie on the way, and out into the gray January day. “Miss Abernathy’s won’t have time to sew something special, anyway, and it won’t matter if the hem’s too long or even if the dress is loose. Daniel will fix it so it looks like it was made just for her.”

“He will?” Amelie’s eyes widened.

Her reaction caught Sarah off guard, and she wondered if undertakers skimped on the services they provided the girls of the Row. She nodded and caught Amelie’s elbow, guiding her toward Sixteenth Street. “Of course he will. Let’s try one of the mercantiles. We can be anonymous.”

Amelie brightened slightly as they made their way through the busy business section. The crowd thinned and Amelie stopped on the boardwalk. “She killed herself.” The statement came out flat, as if just uttering it might make it go away.

Sarah’s eyes pooled. “Oh, Amelie, I’m so sorry.”

Amelie sniffled and resumed walking. “She’s been miserable since the holidays but I never thought she’d take her own life. Lots of us girls get a little depressed this time of year.”

“Was she missing her family?” It sounded weak, and Sarah wished she had said something more substantial.

“She never told me.”

Sarah nodded and searched for a response. “Well, I guess the holidays might have been pretty lonely.”

“They’re rough. Those of us with families get hit hard. Some of us have regrets, some of us get afraid.”

Sarah nodded, weighing the fears she’d only just discovered in herself. She squeezed Amelie’s arm and smiled at her. “I didn’t much realize it before, but I think we’re all afraid.”

“You’re afraid?”

“I am. But don’t you dare tell anyone.”

Amelie offered a weak smile in return.

They approached the front entrance of the new two-story Daniels and Fisher dry goods store and Sarah turned the conversation back to Dora. “Why’d she come here?”

“To Denver?”

“To the business.”

Amelie shrugged. “She never talked about that, either. She was awful closed up about things. Most of us are.” She opened the door and slipped into the building.

Sarah followed. “So why do you stay?” She hoped the question wasn’t too forward and breathed a sigh of relief when Amelie didn’t take offense.

“I’m good at what I do and I have enough business sense to have my own house one day.” She paused. “Dora could have done that. She had a good head on her shoulders and the men loved her. She lit up the room.” She stopped and turned to Sarah. “I’m going to miss her terribly.”

Sarah offered an understanding nod. Once again unsure, she led the way through the store until they found the ready-made dresses. Like Joslin’s, the store had a fair number on display. “Then let’s find something to really set her off. Tell me about her coloring.”

“Fair. The lightest colored hair and porcelain skin.”

Sarah nodded and pointed to a brocade day dress. “Then something regal, a dark blue, perhaps.”

Amelie wrinkled her nose. “Too presumptuous. Dora wasn’t a brocade kind of girl.

Sarah glanced around and spied a pair of frilly organdy concoctions. “Maybe a pastel to accent her delicacy?”

Amelie fingered the breezy material. “What would you choose?”

“Me?” Sarah shook her head. “Oh, I’m mostly a brown-work-skirt kind of girl.”

“Why? You have gorgeous hair, and those eyes.”

She shrugged. “Telegraphers don’t need fancy frocks.”

“Every woman needs pretty dresses.” Amelie turned back to the racks and stared at the variety, perplexed.

“Did she have a favorite color?”

Amelie’s eyes misted. “She liked strawberry red.”

“Strawberry?” Sarah wandered to a group of frivolous looking walking costumes. “Like that shade?” She eyed the striped concoction of red satin and black velvet. It was at once both elegant and gaudy.

“That’s perfect.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely. If there was one thing Dora was not afraid of, it was fashion.” Amelie stepped forward and caught the attention of a sales clerk, then arranged for the purchase.

Sarah hung back as the clerk placed the stylish dress into a box and realized she would have been afraid of the dress, of being fashionable, just as she was afraid of being herself. Daniel knew, knew so much more about her than she wanted to admit.

She was only hiding from herself, and they both knew it.

* * * * *

After the funeral, Daniel returned to work. He gave the horses a final pat, checked their oats, and turned to leave the musty barn. An unexpected satisfaction filled him. Though Dora’s burial had been quiet and sparsely attended, most of her gentlemen friends having paid their respects at the visitation, it had been dignified. He passed the shining hearse, glad he’d polished it up proper, and exited into the cold mid-winter air.

Sarah had been right about the girls from the Row. She understood so much that he didn’t. He crunched across the snow toward his shop and shifted through the tangle of Sarah-thoughts that somehow never left his head anymore. He’d let things stew long enough. The apology he’d offered yesterday had been a start, but he knew it wasn’t enough. He’d assumed the worst and hadn’t so much as acknowledged her success with the play until yesterday. She hadn’t even told him about passing her primary operator test—he’d read it in this morning’s newspaper.

His gut clenched. He should have shared it with her.

He opened the shop door and entered, the warmth of the small Franklin stove surrounding him. Shedding his coat, he glanced around at the tidy counters and frowned. He pulled a few bottles from their assigned places on the cupboard shelf and set them at random on the counter, then sighed. It only made him miss her more.

She belonged in his life, a cool breeze after years of stagnant, proper inactivity. All he had to do was open the window and let her in, before she blew right on past.

“Damn,” he muttered, and sank into his desk chair.

Anyway he looked at it, it added up the same. He was smitten with Sarah and it was past time for him to get off the fence he’d been sitting on and declare his intentions.

He just wished he knew where to start.

He’d never really courted Mary. A faithful member of his father’s congregation and daughter of a theology professor, she’d always just been there. In fact, he couldn’t remember ever socializing with anyone else.

Heck, he didn’t even know how to court a woman.

He knitted his brow and scanned the bookshelf over his desk for Thomas Hill’s guidebook.
Hill’s Manual of Social and Business Forms
would have an example or two of a well-written letter. He’d just copy one and use that.

And Sarah will shake her finger at me the minute she reads it.

He shook his head and leaned back in the chair, chagrined. He might as well forget about sending any letters. His mind scrambled, exploring other obvious options. Flowers were out; it was January for God’s sake, and poetry would turn out as bad as any letter he might try to craft. Besides, he didn’t even know if Sarah liked poems.

His Sarah liked beer and sausage, letters to the editor, and telegrams. She liked Joslin’s candy and suffrage meetings and dinner parties. His chest pounded with the memory of the dinner they’d shared at Libby Byers’s house, Sarah’s soft lips closing around ripe strawberries, her tongue catching a stray bit of powdered sugar.

The image etched itself into his mind and he smiled, then stood and reached for his coat.

He had arrangements to make.

* * * * *

Sarah watched the last remaining passengers, a young mother and two mischievous toddlers, board the train. They’d left behind breadcrumbs, bits of candy cane, and a soiled hanky. Sarah smiled and began to sweep the litter into a dustpan.

Goodness, whenever had she begun to think of soiled hankies and crumbs as worthy of a smile?

Dumping the garbage into a waste-tin, she set the broom aside and made her way to the office. With Jim gone, there had been a mad rush, taking telegrams and selling tickets at the same time. Now that it was over and the passengers were loaded up and on their way, the depot had turned silent. She dreaded the quiet times the most.

She sat down on her stool, her thoughts drifting to Dora’s burial and Daniel’s solid presence. He’d offered only polite conversation to her since their brief discussion yesterday, but he’d smiled from the other side of the grave this morning, his gaze capturing her own and holding it.

And if she hadn’t been a fool, it might have been his arms enfolding her instead. She wished she knew what thoughts had lain hidden in the intensity of those hazel eyes.