“Mr. Lambert is a nice enough fellow, but I’m not ready. I don’t know him well. I have other plans—” Alma burst into tears.
Francesca embraced her, patting her back. She wanted to tell her friend all would be well, but she couldn’t say such things. All hadn’t been well for her, and rarely was, in fact. She wasn’t one to lie or to pretend. It didn’t make things easier in the end. The only thing to do was to confront the truth and make the most of it—the very thing she wasn’t doing herself.
“There are things I’d like to do,” Alma sobbed. “I don’t want to get married yet.”
“Yes, I know,” Francesca said, wrapping her friend in her arms. She’d never seen her so emotional. “I understand. I’m so sorry.”
“I want to go to school. To college. I want to become an interpreter.” Alma sniffled. “I could never afford to go before, but now that I’m working, I could pay my way. If I could just persuade my parents to let me keep some of my wages, that is. But if I get married—” She burst into tears again.
“Did you talk to your parents?” Francesca asked, rubbing her friend’s back.
Alma shook her head. “They’ve already given my consent.”
“How do you know this Mr. Lambert? Maybe you could talk to him about it.”
“I don’t know how to tell him. I can’t seem to work up the nerve.” She wiped her eyes. “The problem is, I work with him at Ellis Island. He’s an inspector there. Actually, he’s here, arrived a few minutes ago.” Alma pointed to a group huddled over a chessboard. “He’s behind Fritz’s friend Pete. The one with a beard and a bald spot on top of his head.”
Francesca glanced at the group huddled around Fritz. When Pete stepped backward, laughing at something Fritz had said, Mr. Lambert moved directly into their line of sight.
“There he is. That’s John,” Alma said.
Francesca froze as the world tilted sideways.
She’d recognize John Lambert anywhere. He was a man she despised with every fiber of her being, a man who haunted her dreams. The man whose child grew inside her.
Her stomach lurched, and she clapped her hand over her mouth. Bile rushed up her throat. She dashed behind the maple tree, out of sight, eyes watering, head reeling, doing her best not to vomit. Did the inspector know she was friends with the Brauers? Gasping for air, she tried to steady herself. He hadn’t seen her, and she would leave—as soon as she didn’t feel like she’d be sick. She looked down at her growing abdomen, his threat echoing in her ears.
If I hear about you whoring in our fine country, I will have you arrested. Is that clear? Prison and deportation.
Would he be able to see she was pregnant? No, she looked around wildly. If her friends couldn’t see the changes yet, surely he couldn’t, and by the time she started to show more, autumn would be upon them and she’d be wearing heavier clothing. She breathed deeply, wiping her mouth and her eyes. She had to leave—now.
Her mind raced ahead, to telling Alma the truth and the mess it would create. The precarious friendship she had built with Johanna and Robert Brauer would dissolve, and they would cast her out of their cozy gatherings. Or…another thought struck her. What if they didn’t believe her? She felt as if she was going to be sick all over again. She couldn’t tell Alma now, not ever.
Her friend was to marry the father of her unborn—and unwanted—child.
She took off, walking blindly around the edge of the park toward the street to freedom. She had to get as far from here as possible.
Alma raced to her side. “Francesca, my God, are you all right? Come, sit down.”
“No,” she said, pulling away. “It’s fine. I just…I need to go home. I’m not feeling well.”
Alma frowned. “I’ll get Fritz. He’ll want to see you home.”
She stopped abruptly. Fritz would worry. He’d suspect something was happening, and she couldn’t tell him, not yet. Not right now. “Thank you, yes. I’ll wait for him in the street. I don’t…I don’t want to talk to anyone else right now.”
“I understand,” Alma said.
“Wait.” Francesca gripped her friend’s shoulders and looked her in the eye. “Alma, listen to me. You always have a choice. It may not be the easiest path, but there’s always a choice. If you don’t want to marry him, you don’t have to. It’s time to be brave.” The words she’d heard from Sister Alberta echoed in her mind as she said them. And she would pass on that encouragement, that strength. Alma needed it. She could not marry that man.
Alma searched her face as if the answer lay there. “But I’m afraid,” she whispered.
“Anything worth doing or having is a little frightening.”
“Or very frightening.”
“Sì.” Francesca managed a wan smile.
“You’re so wise,” Alma said at last, tucking away her emotions and reverting to the logical, controlled young woman Francesca recognized.
“My life hasn’t been an easy one. I’ve learned things.”
“Yes, I know.” She embraced Francesca again. “Thank you. I’ll think about what you’ve said.”
“Please, do.”
“I’ll fetch Fritz.”
Francesca watched her go, fighting the urge to flee. When her friend reached Fritz, he looked up, his eyes searching for Francesca, concern flashing across his face. He was worried about her. Her heart squeezed.
What had this man done to melt her defenses, to bring her heart back to life? He’d taught her to trust him, and somehow, with him, she wasn’t afraid or lonely or a strange woman from too far away, too different from his family to be understood. She was only herself, a young woman learning how to breathe again, how to live, wanting more than anything to fill a gaping wound with something decent and good and whole.
In an instant, Fritz covered the distance between them, gathered her hand and placed it on his forearm, and led her away from the park. Though she was desperate not to be seen, she sneaked a glance over her shoulder a final time. The inspector—Alma’s fiancé—was occupied with the other women in his circle and Alma’s stepfather.
She pictured Alma’s face when she told her friend the truth and stumbled a little.
“Are you all right?” Fritz asked, steadying her. “Alma said you’re ill.”
“Yes,” she said, fighting back tears.
When they’d walked several blocks, he broke the silence. “Would you prefer the train?”
She shook her head. “The walking is good for me.”
“You’re sure?” He peered at the ominous sky. The damp wind promised rain any moment.
“Walking is good for thinking.”
He smiled. “I suppose it is. You know… You’ve become a part of the family. When Alma said you weren’t feeling well, my mother ordered me to see you home and I was happy to oblige, of course. I would have offered anyway,” he added quickly.
She forced a smile. “Johanna likes me now.”
“She talked about the almond paste cookies you brought last time for days.” He chuckled.