“Hold on,” Corinne said. She reached into the breast pocket of his coat, where she knew he kept his matchbook. “I do need these.”
For the space of a breath, while they were inches apart and her hand was so close to his heart she could feel it beating, she thought about forgetting everything that was between them and telling him the truth. That she couldn’t remember what her life was like before he had come into it, and she was having a hard time imagining what it would be like if he were gone.
She curled her fingers around the matchbook and stepped back.
“You’re not armed,” she said, trying to clear her head.
“I am, actually. Switched to an iron-free piece.”
“Damn, you’re getting more inconspicuous.”
“Thanks.”
Corinne closed her fist over the matches and opened the back door. The familiar scent of old wood and alcohol reached her nose. She breathed it in with relish.
“Cor, wait,” said Gabriel.
She turned to face him. His hands were shoved into his pockets, and the frown line had reappeared between his eyebrows.
“I know I might not ever make things right.” His eyes dropped briefly, and he sucked in a short breath before looking up again. “But I hope you’ll let me try.”
Corinne tried to think of something to say, something witty or honest or anything. But words wouldn’t come, and Gabriel left the alley. She watched him go. When he stepped out from between the two buildings, the sunlight turned him briefly golden. Then he turned the corner and was gone.
Ada was waiting for Corinne in the storage room. She’d finally managed to send Charlie home, after one last kiss in the dazzling sunlight, just outside the front door. His years playing French horn translated to a host of other skills involving his mouth—French and otherwise. It still barely distracted her from the letter that was folded in her pocket. She’d found it shoved under the Cast Iron’s front door the morning before. The script was her mother’s handwriting, and at first she thought Nyah had left it on her way to the train station, but it wasn’t a farewell letter.
In Portuguese, her mother told her again how much she loved her, and how much she wanted her to be safe. Then she wrote that she was staying in a hotel for now, but she was not buying a train ticket to the Midwest. She wasn’t leaving at all.
I will not leave my family behind, she wrote. I said nothing when you were here before, because I knew you would be too stubborn to listen. It is my own fault. You are your mother’s daughter.
Ada had cried through the rest of the letter, her tears spotting the ink. She couldn’t stop thinking about the story of the beautiful queen and her prince from a faraway land. Maybe her mother was right. A turn in the tale wasn’t the end.
Ada had wanted to see her mother right away, but she needed to wait until they’d closed everything up. Corinne looked small and worn when she came in from the alley—a far cry from the force of nature she had been all night, sailing through Dante and Rossetti and Tennyson without dropping a single syllable. Her hair had lost its curl, and some of the jet beads on her champagne-colored dress were missing.
“Is everyone gone?” she asked, locking the door behind her.
Ada nodded. “Saint’s still at the bar. James is sleeping in the basement.”
“Good.” Corinne gave her a once-over and smiled. “Your lipstick’s smudged.”
“Can’t imagine how that happened,” Ada said airily.
Corinne laughed, but the sound was forced. She opened her hand to reveal a book of matches. Ada watched as she lit the candle on Gordon’s chair. They stood in silence for almost a minute, watching the bright flame sway. Finally Corinne pocketed the matchbook, and they went upstairs together.
Ada had told Danny not to bother cleaning up that morning, and the tables were covered with glasses and plates and cigarette butts. The hardwood floor was spotted with spilled drinks and dropped appetizers. Saint was behind the bar, wetting a rag. He glanced up at them when they entered but said nothing.