The Treasure Box (16 page)

But did she?

Would she have been content to live in Gordon's shadow as her sister did, socializing with his friends, listening without participation in his academic discussions, heeling alongside like an obedient puppy in his footsteps?

The idea shocked her. Vita had never once looked closely at what Mary Kate had received when all her wishes had come true.

She had been too closed in upon herself to see beyond the walls.

Now suddenly, in a moment of startling clarity, she realized that marriage to the handsome, athletic, intellectual Gordon Locke would have been—for Vita, at least—an unmitigated disaster.

Even assuming she could have mastered the role, which she thoroughly doubted, she would have hated playing the meek, obedient little wife. She would have come to despise and resent the overbearing self-confidence that had once so attracted her to Gordon.

And with that awareness came another question Vita had never asked herself: was her sister happy? Vita knew, without a doubt, what qualities in Mary Kate had captured Gordon's attention. She was pert, pretty, blonde, and malleable—or at least she had been when Gordon first married her. A trophy wife. The ideal hostess for the parties that could catapult him into the upper echelons of the academic pyramid. Not a wife who would argue with him or challenge his assertions, but one who would smooth his ruffled feathers, fetch his drink and slippers, and create a peaceful sanctuary on the home front when he returned from the scholastic wars.

Was that the life Mary Kate had anticipated? And now, years later, as her thirties crept by and middle age loomed on the horizon, did Mary Kate ever question her choices? Did she ever speculate about what kind of woman she might have become if she had married someone who treated her as an equal—or not married at all? Did she ever sit alone in that big ivy-covered house while the twins were away at school and wonder what on earth she was going to do with herself when they were grown and gone? What secret longings lay in the deep recesses of her heart and mind and soul, below the surface image of perfection she always projected?

Vita sat there in the swing, hugging herself against the chill of midnight, and a strange sensation crept over her. For the first time in years, she could think about Gordon Locke without anger. Without recalling the pain and humiliation she had felt when he left her for Mary Kate. Without despising herself for wanting something she couldn't have.

It felt like . . . like liberty.

No. She didn't want Mary Kate's life. She didn't want Gordon. She didn't even want vengeance.

What, then, did she want?

Rachel's face rose up in Vita's mind, the way she had looked when she thought about Cathleen. Angry and hurt and determined to track her sister down and make her pay for what she had done. Rachel didn't know—not yet, anyway—that Cathleen had already paid, had already sacrificed everything she possessed. A price far greater than anything Rachel, even in the hottest of rages, would wish on her.

It was too late for Rachel and Cathleen to make amends.

And suddenly the answer pierced through Vita's defenses like moonlight through the clouds. She knew what she wanted.

She wanted her sister back.

16
ANY PORT IN A STORM

I
might have been springtime in the mountains of North Carolina, but in Chicago, it was the dead of winter. Mesmerized by the driving storm that raged across the screen, Vita suppressed a shiver. Hypnotic, the way the wind buffeted the snow and sent it flying in mad swirls around the corners of the tall buildings. A danse macabre, a ballet both menacing and magnificent, choreographed by nature to reflect the terrifying beauty of her disposition.

Vita exhaled a deep breath. Somewhere out there—in a pauper's grave, no doubt—lay Cathleen and her unborn child, covered but not warmed by a new blanket of snow.

The downtown streets, nearly obscured by the blizzard, lay empty. Not a single automobile braved the icy pavement. A solitary streetcar, caught in a drift, sat abandoned in the center of the intersection.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, Vita caught a flash of color, like a cardinal in the snow. A lone pedestrian, bent forward against the force of the gale, plowing along the sidewalk. A pedestrian in a red woolen coat.

Too late, Rachel Woodlea had found her way to the Windy City.

For the hundredth time in the five months since she had arrived in Chicago, Rachel blessed Elisabeth Tyner for the warmth of this coat. She shoved her hands into the pockets, ducked her head, and pressed on into the storm.

It was insane to be out on such a beastly afternoon, but Rachel seldom got an entire day to herself, and she wanted to make the most of it. Six days a week, she labored in the alterations department at Marshall Field's—a position she obtained on the strength of Mrs. Tyner's letter of recommendation. She enjoyed the work and had even begun to develop a friendship or two, but the job left her precious few daylight hours to conduct her search for Cathleen and Derrick and dear Sophie's Treasure Box.

Five months of scrabbling for bits and pieces of information, and Rachel had come up with next to nothing. There had once been a restaurant called Benedetti's, the alterations supervisor had told her—but she had heard it had shut down after the proprietor's death. She had no idea where Benedetti's had been located. No one knew anything at all of an Englishman named Derrick Knight.

And then, just last evening, the supervisor's husband had come in near quitting time, intending to escort his wife home.

The snowstorm was already setting in, and word had gone out that the alterations department—perhaps even the entire store— would likely be closed the following day. To pass the time as he waited for his wife to complete her paperwork, the man struck up a casual conversation with Rachel.

“You're from England, right?” he asked in his flat Midwestern accent.

“Yes sir, from a small village in the Cotswolds.”

Rachel hadn't intended to reveal any personal information to the gentleman, but like many Americans, he turned out to be the garrulous type, and before long she had told him—without discussing any of the less savory details—about the search for her sister, who had crossed several months before she herself had made the passage.

“And her husband had a job lined up?”

Rachel flinched inwardly at the word
husband
, but she kept her face expressionless. “Indeed, sir, at a restaurant, I believe—an establishment called Benedetti's.”

“Angelo Benedetti?” A disapproving pall fell over the man's countenance.

“I couldn't rightly say, sir. Perhaps.” With rising apprehension she watched the shifting shadows in his eyes.

“That restaurant closed down months ago.”

“As your wife told me, sir. She said she believed Mr. Benedetti had died. But she didn't know where the place was. Still, perhaps if I could find it, someone in the neighborhood might be able to give me some information as to the whereabouts of my sister.”

“Benedetti's dead, yes,” he said curtly. He peered into her eyes. “You seem like a nice young lady, Miss—ah, Woodlea, right?” Rachel nodded. “Since you're looking for your sister, I'll tell you where the restaurant was. But don't go snooping around in that area after dark. And be careful.”

Now Rachel stood on the sidewalk and looked from the scrap of paper in her hand to a number engraved into the keystone of the doorway. Above her head, shredded remnants of a weathered yellow awning partially shielded her from the ravages of the February storm.

It was the correct address, but the gentleman had to be wrong about the place. The building looked as if it had been lifted out of a war zone and set down in the middle of the city. All the windows and doorways were boarded up, and the brick facade of the building was riddled with bullet holes all the way up to the second story. Several paper signs, faded by the weather, warned off anyone who might come near:
KEEP OUT. NO TRESPASSING. PRIVATE PROPERTY.

Rachel looked down. In the broken-up mosaic entryway that led to the door, she could make out a large elaborate
B
crafted from gold-colored tiles within an ornate circle. And below that, in smaller letters,
Ben__ det_ i's Rist_rante.

The blustering wind had subsided, and the flakes now fell steadily, drifting down to cover the streets and sidewalks with an ever-deepening layer of white. She took a shaky step backward and watched, trembling, as the snow filled in the broken spaces in the tile. There was something wrong about this place. Something terrible had happened here. In the marrow of her bones, she could feel the chill of death. Violent death.

One could hardly be in Chicago for a fortnight without hearing the stories: the bootleggers and rumrunners, the wealthy mob bosses with their powerful cars and fast women and ill-gotten gains. Feuds between rival families and shoot-outs in the streets.

But now those blood-splattered images had a face. Her sister's face. Had Cathleen been here, in this building, when— “Spare a bit of change for an old woman down on her luck?”

The cracked, raspy voice came so unexpectedly, and so close behind her, that Rachel jumped and whirled around, poised for a confrontation.

“Easy there, deary. A frail old bird like me ain't likely to do much harm.”

Rachel let out the breath she had been holding and surveyed the woman. She wore layer upon layer of oddly-assorted clothing: a man's tattered overcoat, so long it nearly reached her ankles; a pair of mismatched shoes; black woolen mittens with the fingertips cut out. Wisps of frizzy white hair escaped from the moth-eaten gray shawl that covered her head.

A beggar. An impoverished old woman who kept body and soul together by panhandling on the city streets. A derelict. Rachel had been warned to keep her distance from the city's indigent. They could be unpredictable. Crazy. Even dangerous.

But this old woman hardly looked like a threat. Aside from her rather unorthodox approach to fashion, she might be someone's granny. Her ancient face, cobwebbed with lines and flushed from the wind and cold, bore an expression of benign amusement. Her watery gray-green eyes held just a hint of merriment, as if she were on the verge of laughing.

Still, one could never tell.

Rachel thrust her gloved hands into the pockets of her coat.

Deep in the left pocket, her fingers closed around a small change purse which contained twelve American dollars and four streetcar tokens. Her rent on the flat was paid up for the month, and there was plenty to eat in the pantry. She could easily give the woman a dollar or two—even a fiver—and still make it to Friday, when she would receive another week's wages.

Give her the money,
an inner voice entreated.
Even without it, you've far more than she will ever own.

But then she wouldn't be able to afford those nice kid gloves from the accessories department at Marshall Field's.

You have a pair of gloves. Open your hand,
the voice urged.

Rachel resisted the thought. Besides, what would the old woman do with the money? Waste it, probably, on a pint of bathtub gin from some back-alley bootlegger.

Pass a bit of the blessing along. Open your heart.

The final phrase struck a nerve, and Rachel bristled inwardly.

She had opened her heart before—to her best friend, to her fiancé—even, it might be argued, to her sister. Sophie had died.

Derrick had betrayed her. Cathleen had stolen everything she held dear. Opening your heart left you weak and vulnerable. She had learned that lesson through hard experience and wasn't inclined to repeat it.

Snow sifted down, covering the gray shawl over the beggar's head with a layer of white, like the small arced halo on a Byzantine Madonna. “Sorry, I—” Rachel shrugged and dragged her eyes away, back to the brick building with its boarded-up windows and bullet holes. Cathleen's face swam across her mind in a wash of red, and a shot of panic darted through her veins.

“Quite all right, deary.” The woman smiled, showing a mouthful of crooked teeth. “Think nothing of it. We've all of us had bad times. You can't give what you don't got.”

She reached out to pat Rachel on the arm, but Rachel recoiled from the touch. She jerked her hands out of her pockets, pushed the woman aside, and turned to flee. She had to get away—away from this horrible place, away from the woman's piercing eyes, away from the boarded up windows and bullet holes.

Blindly she bolted, sliding on the icy pavement. Through drifts of snow, past a wooden barricade, toward the streetcar stalled in the intersection.

“Stop! Deary, wait! Come back!”

Rachel threw a glance over her shoulder. It was the old crone, waving, shouting at her, following her. If she could just get to the corner—

Then her foot came down on a broken cobblestone, hidden under the snow. Her right ankle twisted under her, and she tumbled headlong into the street. She could hear the beggar woman wheezing, running, trying to catch up. She struggled to her feet, but the ankle wouldn't hold her weight. The pain of the effort brought tears to her eyes. She took one step and pitched forward again.

Something caught her before she fell. Rachel could smell the odor of wet wool and grease and unwashed body. She looked up to see two pale greenish eyes peering down at her, like a baby bird peeking out from a nest of grizzled hair and gray wool shawl.

“Let's get you up, now,” the old beggar said, clasping Rachel under the armpits. She was surprisingly strong for one so old and seemed to have no trouble helping Rachel to her feet and supporting her as they limped over to the broken-down streetcar.

“Set yourself right there on the step, and rest for a minute. Catch your breath.”

Rachel obeyed, wincing at the throbbing pain. It had stopped snowing, but the sky was growing dark. What was the old hag intending to do? Rob her, perhaps, or worse?