The cold November wind pushed hard at Allene, and she stepped backward to catch herself.
“Whoa now.” A warm, strong hand steadied her shoulder. Maybe Jasper had decided to come after all. But when she turned with a sad smile to greet him, she saw that Ernie was standing behind her.
“Oh. Hello, Ernie. I thought you were Jasper.”
“I went to his apartment to convince him to come, but he . . . had another engagement.”
Allene nodded. Jasper was faring far worse at dealing with Birdie’s actions than she was. He hadn’t attended her father’s funeral but had sent a note of support to her and to Holly. She was glad of Ernie’s company now. Since leaving the hospital after recovering from the wound to his stomach, Ernie had lost much of his youthful plumpness. He’d left other things behind too—his puppylike eagerness and his ability to see only good in everyone around him. The change wasn’t the kind brought about by illness. It was the transformation seen when someone relentlessly attends to the business of sad things. His cheeks had become carved, bequeathing him a masculine serenity she’d never noticed before. He smelled of aftershave and pine.
He smiled mildly back at her. What a handsome smile. He could have been a film star. Funny how she’d never noticed.
“Have you forgiven me for singeing your eyebrows?”
“Of course! Truly, it was a stroke of chemical brilliance, that zinc-dust explosion. I would have applauded you if I wasn’t so damn scared for my life.”
They laughed together. Holly was growing restless, though. It was time to go. Two motorcars waited at the curve atop the hill, engines ticking idly at the road.
“Thank you for coming,” Allene said as they walked to meet their respective chauffeurs.
“If you have the energy,” Ernie said, “I’d like to show you something.” When she hesitated, he added, “Holly can come, of course. In fact, I’d rather she did. It will only be an hour or so.”
Allene assented, telling Dawlish to go home without her. They entered Ernie’s motorcar, and Holly was placated with a wax-paper-wrapped Danish and a cloth bag full of tiny circus finger puppets. Allene gave Ernie a look of thanks. He had planned this outing in advance, it seemed. He stayed quiet as the motor turned onto Atlantic Avenue and then toward the Brooklyn Bridge.
They passed the usual turns she’d grown accustomed too—Vanderbilt Avenue, the way to the Ansonia Clock factory by Prospect Park, and, once they were in Manhattan, the Twenty-Sixth Street turn toward Bellevue. She gave Ernie a sideways glance when they passed Sixty-Eighth Street, where the Cutter house was.
Onward north they drove. It wasn’t until they were far uptown, within a few streets of the church where Lucy had been memorialized, that the car slowed to a stop in front of a neatly swept brick row house on One-Hundredth Street, near First Avenue. The door was freshly painted in a glossy nut brown. The polished brass numbers were new. She could see plaid curtains hanging inside the window.
“Are we stopping here?” Allene asked as Holly scooted over to peer out the window.
“We are.” Ernie waved away his chauffeur and opened the door for them. He led them up the stairs and knocked the small brass knocker on the front door.
“Do you know who lives here?” Allene whispered.
“Yes. And so do you.” He turned toward the door just as it opened. A middle-aged man wearing a shirt with rolled-up sleeves and dusty trousers opened it, and Allene immediately recognized him.
Alessandro, Lucia’s brother. He smiled gently at them. Behind him, several opened boxes were spread around the floor, and a chair covered in a bedsheet and twine sat before a fireplace. A whoop sounded from upstairs, and two children raced down the stairs and bumped abruptly into him from behind.
“Bambini! Calmatevi, eh? Miss Cutter, you remember Catarina, and this is Rafaele.”
Allene let their names turn about in her heart. There was a beauty and steadiness to Catarina that seemed to match the little girl’s wide eyes. Rafaele was calm and intelligent, but a ripple of nervousness hid there. Fittingly, the boy stood just behind his sister, hands clasped behind his back. Otherwise, they were just as Allene remembered them but no longer in stiff formal wear. The little girl wore a soft woolen dress of blue, with her brown hair braided into two long plaits. The boy pulled at the neck of his shirt collar. It must have been itchy. Both looked at the visitors with curiosity.
“Bambini, this is Miss Allene and Mr. Fielding.”
The children murmured hello.
Ernie shook Alessandro’s hand warmly. “Hello, Mr. Rossi. So sorry for dropping in unannounced, but—”
“Not at all. We hope you would come by.” He stepped back to let them into the parlor. A fire crackled in the fireplace, a perfect antidote to the chilly fall day. Boxes, both open and unopened, were piled here and there. But there was a comfortable, uncovered sofa facing the fire and an open box spilling with toys. When Mr. Rossi spied Holly, he flashed a warm smile. “Now, who is this little one?”
“This is Holly,” Allene explained. She had yet to decide what her last name would be. It would be at least another week or so before the adoption paperwork would be complete.
“Ciao! That is how we say hello in Italian. Catarina, Rafaele—come, come.” He gestured and chattered rapidly in Italian, and the boy, Rafaele, fetched a brightly painted wooden train car from a pile at the back of the room.
“Trains!” Holly blurted. Her fistful of finger puppets dropped to the ground.
Wordlessly, Catarina took Holly’s plump hand in hers and, with a calm authority, led her to the back of the room. The two older children murmured while Holly made exclamations of ecstasy over the brightly colored vehicles.
Mr. Rossi ushered Allene and Ernie to the sofa by the fire. They declined his offer of tea or coffee. Allene was too nervous to drink or eat a thing. She was too busy watching the three children playing together in the corner. It made her think of Lucia, and she dabbed at the corners of her eyes with her gloved fingertips. Now that Allene’s life had stopped churning with violent sadness, she missed her more than ever. And then she silently berated herself. Here she was again thinking of her own needs, when these children were motherless. Motherless! She blinked away her tears.
“I am glad you come, Miss Allene,” Mr. Rossi began. “You are so kind to the children of my poor Lucia.”
Allene stared at Mr. Rossi blankly. “I’m sorry, to what do you refer?”
“He’s speaking of the trust you set up for Catarina and Rafaele, and the new deed,” Ernie reminded her with a slight crinkle to his left eye that Mr. Rossi could not have seen. “You know, to compensate for her lost wages, since she died.”
“The trust,” Allene said slowly. What a wonderful idea.