After a long minute, he said, “Where’s your father?”
“He’s dead. He was a salesman and traveled a lot overseas, but he drank too much and something happened with his liver.” It all sounded so clinical, but Birdie hadn’t much sadness for a father who’d barely stepped into her life. If anything, his absence had been a convenience. Hazel and Birdie had been happily situated at the Cutter house all the while he was gone. It was more convenient that he was nonexistent, even now.
“Your sister is something,” he said, quick to change the subject.
Birdie smiled. “A little headstrong, though.”
“I’d need more time to see if that’s true.” Their eyes met, and Birdie understood that he was asking a question. Before she could queue up her nonresponse, someone rapped on the door. It made them both jump.
If she ignored it, maybe the person would go away.
Please, please go away.
The person knocked again. Mother often forgot to tell her callers which door to knock on. The annoyance blossomed into a nightmare as Birdie stood there, afraid to move.
“Do you need to get that?” Andrew asked, but Birdie shook her head. A moment later her mother swept back into the living room, as if suspecting that Birdie would ignore the caller. Holly skipped at her heels. Hazel undid the three locks and opened the door.
“Geoffrey! Have a seat. Holly, be a dear and bring Mr. Geoffrey a glass of water.”
“Yes, Mama.”
The man was older, about the same age as Mr. Cutter. He wore a fine Sunday suit and held his wool hat in his hands. Silver dotted his temples, and he had a round stomach that spoke of regular steaks at Delmonico’s and a fat wallet that paid no heed to the sky-high prices of meat and sugar. At the sight of Andrew, he nodded, as if acknowledging another member of the club. Andrew looked uncomfortably at Birdie, who was biting her lip. The man smiled.
“You’re a pretty thing. Are you one of Hazel’s sisters?”
“No. I’m her daughter.” Birdie refused to introduce herself properly.
“Ah, well, she certainly fooled me,” he said, winking at Hazel, who wasn’t listening. She was looking past him through the window, blinking at the midmorning sunlight. The opium spirits worked quickly; Birdie could sense them easing the tension in Hazel’s body already, and her cheeks were regaining their color. The man extended his arm to Holly, who skipped over with a half glass of water. The other half had splattered on the floor. “What a little doll you are! Come to Mr. Geoffrey. Let me take a look at you.”
Birdie froze. She wanted to step forward and grab Holly, but something glued her shoes to the ground. Holly put the glass down on the side table and hesitated.
“It’s all right, Holly dear,” Hazel murmured. She waved her hand. “Sit down like a good girl.”
“Maybe we should go out?” Andrew suggested, but no one seemed to hear him.
Her mother’s words had worked. Holly approached Mr. Geoffrey without fear. God, to be fearless again! Birdie could hardly remember what that felt like.
Mr. Geoffrey took Holly’s hand in his, then patted his knees. “Come, have a seat on my lap. Do as you’re told.” When Holly climbed onto his knees, Birdie felt a miasma rising in her throat. Her hands were hundred-pound weights at her sides. She couldn’t move. Why couldn’t she move?
Mr. Geoffrey touched the brown curls while his other hand slid onto Holly’s knee. It was as if Birdie could feel the broad, heavy hand on her own knee, the stubby fingers tracing a path behind her ear, down the nape of her neck . . .
A voice cracked into the tomb that had momentarily swallowed her. “Holly. What do you say to finding that jigger shop now?” Andrew suggested.
“Oh yes, please!” Holly scrambled off Mr. Geoffrey’s lap and ran almost full force into Andrew, grabbing his hand. Irritation snaked through Mr. Geoffrey’s expression.
“Let’s go,” Birdie rasped, barely able to speak. She felt Andrew’s warm palm on her low back, pushing her toward the door. Push harder, she thought. Throw us both out of here. For God’s sake.
She barely remembered opening the door, Andrew grabbing her purse with the apartment keys, or the sound of her mother’s voice coaxing Mr. Geoffrey toward the opened inner door. “Darling, I’m all yours,” she said. All the way down the bowing steps, Andrew chatted gamely, keeping Holly occupied while Birdie collected herself. When the light of the Sunday afternoon hit her face as they exited the building, she found that once again she could breathe. But she felt spoiled and soured.
“Are you all right?” Andrew asked her.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she repeated.
“For what?”
She wrung her hands. “I don’t know. I wish you hadn’t come.”
Andrew didn’t answer. Regret didn’t stain his features; in fact, he appeared rather contented.
“You enjoy this, don’t you?” she murmured. “As with Florence. You like knowing things.”
“I do and I don’t. It’s not enjoyable, understanding what pains people so.”
“What about Florence?” she pressed.
Holly ran forward to investigate Dawlish’s motorcar parked by the sidewalk. The chauffeur looked bleakly at the little girl and sighed, as if the world’s problems were the fault of adorable children. Birdie took that moment to face Andrew.
He lowered his voice. “I spent a while with Florence last night, while you three were upstairs. She wouldn’t stop talking. It’s amazing how much a person will talk if you give them the time and patience to fill up a conversation. Spent a good amount gossiping about you, Allene, and Jasper. I didn’t know you all when we were younger, but Florence did. Said you three were like peas in a pod, always thick as thieves. She said once at a picnic, you all went missing and they found you swimming in a pond hours later, almost a mile away. ‘Glued to each other’ is what she said. But she said it with so much jealousy and hate.”
Birdie shook her head. She was poor now. She had nothing. Jasper was nearly as badly off. “Why on earth would she hate us?”
“I don’t know. But she disparaged Allene’s engagement to me, your dress, Jasper’s job and station. She spoke of Jasper like he was a leper, and you like you were a . . .” Andrew looked elsewhere, not wanting to finish the sentence.
“Like my mother,” Birdie finished his thought. Like a whore. Everyone in Allene’s circle must know the truth, and the saying went, like mother, like daughter. Birdie flushed. One day, those thoughts might touch Holly, and she was livid at the possibility. “But Andrew. Why would anyone hurt her over idle gossip?”