I skirt around her at the door, inhaling the smell of peppermint candy, which she uses to cover up her cigarette habit. I feel her cold, suspecting gaze follow me down the hallway.
The most discreet exit is in the back, by the lunchroom, which is empty. I help myself to two chicken sandwiches in the ice box and tuck them into my sack. I duck into the pantry and wriggle out of my uniform, which I wore over a pale blue day dress that matches the color of Lydia’s eyes. I had originally dressed in a dull gray, hoping to ward off unwanted male attention, and then realized if I intended to flirt answers out of anyone, I would need to look at least somewhat fetching.
I jam my discarded Presley’s uniform into the bag, along with the sandwiches, a notebook, Lydia’s senior portrait, and several other items that seemed like they might be helpful—a length of rope, a roll of tape, and Nick’s pocket knife, which I hope he has no occasion to miss today. I hesitate a second before pulling it from the bag and tucking it into my pocket. The thought of using it sends a shiver through me . . . but so does the thought of being caught unprepared.
With the shopping bag secured over my shoulder, I slip out the back door and into the crisp morning air.
The bench is unoccupied, and I take a seat. I lost track of time while putting on my show for Ms. Robinson. Will Mariano drive or take the train? He better not show up here in the touring sedan that Jeremiah so easily identified as being a detective’s vehicle . . .
My thoughts roam the afternoon ahead. Walking to the train station with Mariano, finding Johnny’s Lunchroom. This makes my stomach twist with a different brand of anxiety than I felt when I imagined doing this alone. Aside from my brothers and Walter, I’ve never spent extended time alone in a man’s company. Not that this is a date in even the loosest interpretation of the word, but that doesn’t keep my stomach from feeling like a rag that someone has grabbed either end of and twisted tight.
Ten minutes pass before I catch sight of Mariano. I never noticed how distinct his gait is—he has a sort of swagger to him, arms loose at his side, shoulders squared. I sling the shopping bag over my shoulder and rush down the sidewalk.
But when I reach him, I’m unable to speak. I want to tell him thank you for coming, thank you for letting me interrupt your day, but the words catch in my throat.
He sticks his hands in his trouser pockets and rocks back on his heels. “Am I holding up under scrutiny, Detective? I did my best to not look like a cop, but I’m afraid there’s only so much a man can do to disguise his true identity.”
“You look good.” Heat races up the back of my neck. “I mean, you don’t look like a detective.”
He touches his flat cap. “I changed my hat.”
“I see that.”
Mariano smiles. Had we met under more normal circumstances, a party or a school function, I would have hoped he’d come ask me to dance.
But we didn’t meet under normal circumstances. I shift my bag higher on my shoulder and step into the crosswalk. “If I’d been thinking clearly when we spoke on the telephone, I would have suggested meeting you at the station. That would have saved you time and energy.”
“But then I would have had to tell you no, and that would have taken time and energy as well.”
I glance at him. “I suppose you’re aware that you’re very stubborn.”
“I’m stubborn?” Mariano’s laugh rumbles. “You’re the one who phoned me to say she was venturing into known gang territory wearing a very pretty dress.”
My heart hitches in my chest. “It’s the daytime. I can’t imagine it’s so dangerous in the daytime.”
That’s what I had told myself all day yesterday during church and a slow Sunday afternoon, but Mariano snorts in reply.
The train station is alive with Chicagoans bustling about the city, their coats left unbuttoned, packages and briefcases dangling from arms. The air has the smell of a workday—a mix of coffee beans, newsprint, and shoe polish.
Mariano hands over the coins for our fare.
“I dragged you all the way out here, though,” I protest as we’re waved into the station. “I’m positive this wasn’t on your list of things to do today.”
“Oh, you’re positive, are you?” Mariano turns to me with arched eyebrows. “When you were at my desk Saturday, were you peeking at my calendar, Piper?”
I roll my eyes. “Of course not. I’m taking an educated guess.”
Mariano’s hand is light against my back as he guides me through the fray of people toward the platform. “I’m glad you called me. I wouldn’t want to find out you did this alone.”
I tense, despite my mad urge to lean against him, to let his weight support mine and slow the fissures of fear that weaken me at the core. But I don’t think a needy female would impress Mariano Cassano. Nor do I want him suspecting that I manipulated him out here with an ulterior motive.