“Yes, let’s,” Allene agreed.
Good. She didn’t want Allene to forget her or Holly. She wished Jasper could meet Holly too. Holly needed a godfather, or any father, for that matter.
They rode in silence for half an hour until the rolling green hills rose before them and the arched metal gates of the Evergreens Cemetery passed above. The skies began to darken, and a pattering of rain fell gently. Black umbrellas bloomed like bruises over the green hillock where Florence was laid. Allene stood close to the Waxworth family, while Birdie and Jasper hung back quietly.
When it finally came time to leave, Allene began to hug and shake hands with the family. They would soon go to the gathering at the Waxworths’ to chat consolingly with one another over cups of tea and plates of cold jellied chicken. And Allene would search out the details of Florence’s inheritance.
Jasper and Birdie walked soundlessly to a small berm a distance away and watched the mourners enter their motorcars. The priest left as well, and soon, there was no one there but a single man. Birdie assumed that he was there to pitch the mound of soft soil onto Florence’s casket, but he was too well dressed, and he never touched the shovel that was only a few feet away.
“Look, Jasper.” Birdie pointed. Even from a distance, she could see the dusty blond hair, the hands clutching his hat, and the shoulders wet from the rain. The shoulders shook. The man was alone, weeping over the casket.
“Good God,” Jasper whispered. “I do believe that’s Ernie.”
CHAPTER 13
By Monday morning, the August heat had cooked the refuse in the gutters, and the stench turned the Brooklyn air fetid. Birdie reached the front doors of the Ansonia Clock factory just before eight o’clock. When she saw a shining motorcar parked just outside the building, she was not surprised. She’d wondered if Allene would show up, dressed inappropriately and begging for a day’s worth of sleuthing. Truth be told, Birdie was eager to share what she and Jasper had seen after the funeral. What would Allene have to say about whether Ernie and Florence had more than just a nodding acquaintance? Would she know anything about Florence’s inheritance?
Then Andrew exited the vehicle.
Birdie paused while other workers funneled into the entrance. In her plain work dress and brown shoes, she was a smudge of dust like the rest of them, but Andrew’s eyes searched her out immediately. At times like this, she wished her hair were more pigeon brown than flaxen. It was hard to hide even beneath her baggy knit hat. When Andrew walked up to her, with his crisp suit and well-bred air, she heard some of the other factory girls whisper to each other.
“What are you doing here?” Birdie asked.
“I’ve something for Holly.” He led her to the car. In the backseat was a large wicker basket covered with a clean, flowered cloth. “It’s a smoked ham, half a dozen jellies, some apples, peppermints—”
“Thank you.” Birdie cut him off. “It looks heavy. If you could drop it off, I’d be obliged.”
“And I’ve this too.” He reached into the open window and pulled out a large, brown-paper-wrapped parcel. Birdie peeked under the coarse wrapper. It was an enormous bottle of opium tincture.
“You do know how to woo a girl,” Birdie said dryly.
“Am I doing a good job?” Andrew asked. He attempted a roguish sort of air, but it ended up making him look somewhat frightened, if not dyspeptic. Birdie realized, Oh—he’s nervous.
“Thank you. I need to go in or I’ll be late for work. Mother is home and can accept the packages, I’m sure.” She added, “Thank you,” because she couldn’t remember if she’d thanked him already.
“Oh, I already stopped by just after you left. The steam heat and rent are paid for this month. They’re both having fresh eggs, applesauce, and toast for breakfast as we speak.”
“Are they.” Birdie watched him.
“Yes.”
“I still have to go to work.”
“Not today you don’t.” Andrew stepped aside as his driver opened the door. There was a glance exchanged between the driver and Andrew, and between Andrew and the guard who stood just inside the factory doors. A nodding of male chins. Complicity.
Birdie opened her mouth to refuse, then closed it. “Where are we going?”
“Wherever you wish. I’ll take you to the park for a walk. Perhaps the museum. I could take you shopping for a new wardrobe. Or we could go to the Red Cross and knit wristlets all day, if you want to be heroic.”
“I’m no hero,” Birdie said. She walked past Andrew, and the driver opened the back door. She slid onto the seat beside the basket of groceries. When Andrew sat next to her, he picked up her hand the way one might a newly laid egg still warm from the nest.
“Where shall we go, Birdie?”
She tried to smile but failed. “Take me wherever you want, Andrew.”
Andrew leaned forward to murmur to the driver, and the car hummed louder and pulled away from the factory.
“I’ve arranged it so that your hours are shorter than before,” Andrew said, when the silence became too starched and stiff. “That way, you can always have a leisurely breakfast with Holly and be home before rush hour. And you need to work only three days instead of six.”
“But—”
“And your salary won’t change. In fact, it’s gone up. For being such a hard worker all these years.” He put his other hand on hers. “You deserve it. I reviewed your work logs. You’ve painted more dials per week than any other girl for the last four years. Your most unproductive month was the first one you ever worked in that dial-painting room.”
Birdie turned to face him. Andrew had gone into her work records? It was an invasive gesture wrapped in the guise of consideration. She didn’t know whether to be frightened, appalled, or both. His kindness was wearing her down like sandpaper. And lately Birdie had been feeling paper thin.
They crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, though she barely noticed. Streamers and banners in support of the soldiers abroad decorated several corners near Canal Street. And then she thought, why, it might be only a few weeks before Andrew was drafted and she might never see him again. Her pity expanded to allow her to squeeze his hand back. The motorcar stopped in front of the Hotel Martinique.