Fortune Is a Woman - Elizabeth Adler [52]
She flung open the door and for a long moment they just looked at each other. He thought he had never seen anyone so lovely—her blond helmet of hair shone, her sapphire eyes sparkled, and she was smiling at him, half-hesitant, half-shy. And she thought she had never seen love in anyone’s eyes like that, so warm and gentle and beautiful.
“Surprise,” he said, thrusting the bouquet into her arms.
“Daffodils!” She buried her nose delightedly in them, inhaling their delicate fragrance. “The flowers of spring.” She threw her arms around him. “Thank you, thank you so much for loving me!”
Their lips met in a long kiss and as he drew his mouth away she glanced shyly up at him. “I’ll never forget last night.”
Tilting her chin with his finger he kissed her again. “Aye. And nor will I. But I can’t stay, I’m on my way to work and I’m already late.”
She leaned over the banister, watching as he ran lightly down the stairs. He paused on the landing to wave and the sunlight filtering through the dirt-encrusted sash window turned his blond hair into a halo, and she thought how beautiful he was, and how good, and she knew Sammy Morris was the evil one. She smiled as she turned back into her room and saw the daffodils and thought how rich her life was even though they were so poor.
Through the open window she could hear the clatter of horses’ hooves and the rattle of the trolley cars and the cries of newspaper boys with the early evening editions. The street vendors were loudly hawking their roasted peanuts and pretzels, and music wafted gaily from the Venus Dance Hall next door.
She sewed buttons onto Josh’s shirt, waiting for the hours to pass until she saw him again, thinking about her long-imprisoned childhood and her brutal father. She had wished him dead and she did not regret her words one bit. He had locked her away from life, he’d stolen her childhood and her youth and she hated him just as passionately as she loved Josh Aysgarth.
Josh was late. The round tin alarm clock with its twin bells showed four o’clock, then five, and still he didn’t come. Francie watched the minutes ticking away until six and then she could bear it no longer. Wrapping her shawl over her head, she hurried down the stairs to the saloon.
The bar was crowded with groups of men in dark suits and derby hats drinking whisky with beer chasers and reading the evening newspapers by the light of the hissing gas lamps. Cigarette smoke wreathed around the raftered ceiling and there was an earthy smell of male sweat and sawdust and ale. A group of women from the bordello next door were seated at one of the little marble-topped tables, flamboyant in big feathered hats and bright dresses. As she walked past they called for more gin, laughing raucously, and a buxom woman with impossibly red hair looked her up and down and called mockingly, “What have we got here, then? The orphan of the storm?”
The men at the bar turned to look at her, laughing, and Francie clasped her shawl tighter, looking desperately for Josh. A burly man in shirtsleeves and apron called to her from behind the counter. “Yeah?” he said. “What d’ya want?”
“Pardon me,” she said in a small voice, “but I was looking for Josh.”
“Speak up,” he cried, “I can’t hear ya’ in this racket.”
She repeated it loudly. “I’m looking for Josh Aysgarth.”
The customers stared interestedly at her and the bartender smiled knowingly. “Josh Aysgarth, is it? Well, you’ve missed him. He finished a couple of hours ago.”
“Finished?” she asked, bewildered.
“That’s right. His friend Sammy came for him and they went off together.” He went back to serving his customers and Francie turned away uncertainly.
“Stood you up, has he?” the raucous red-haired woman yelled. “Can’t say I blame him, looking like that. Get yourself a new dress, honey, and some new …” she put her hand over her mouth and said something to the other women and they burst into shrill shrieks of laughter.
The red-faced man leaning against the counter tossed back his drink, watching thoughtfully, as,