Bitter Spirits

FIFTEEN

AIDA STARED AT ASTRID FOR A MOMENT, HEART POUNDING, THEN walked to the bed. “Where’s the fur? Here?”

Benita quickly unpacked the coat. It was cashmere, all right, a soft camel color. And the collar was made of the longest, thickest, softest deep brown fur she’d ever seen. Aida could barely look at it, the thing was so ridiculously lovely. She averted her eyes and looped the coat over her forearm. Her apartment keys sat on the bedside table. She grabbed them and headed toward the door. “You coming?” she asked the girls, who scrambled to follow her out, Astrid begging to know if she liked the coat. Of course she liked the coat. That wasn’t the point.

Mrs. Lin waved at them as they marched through the front door of the restaurant, Astrid complaining and fussing the whole way. Aida saw Bo on the sidewalk first, then Winter. He was lounging back against the Pierce-Arrow, ankles crossed. She thought she saw a flash of surprise in his eyes when he noticed her stalking toward him, but it quickly cooled.

“Mr. Magnusson,” she said, stopping in front of him.

“Miss Palmer.”

Damn him, he looked unfairly handsome. And he was giving her the frostiest look, slanting it down at her while his head remained still. He was intimidating, and she knew she should still be angry with him, but his clean scent wafted toward her with the breeze, and that lulled her into a softer mood.

All she could manage to feel at that moment was a tremendous amount of comfort and relief. Like when she’d tried to stop drinking coffee and went without for several days, until she walked into a diner and smelled it being brewed—then she forgot why she’d been trying so hard to avoid it, so she gave in and had a cup. That first sip was pure joy and warm pleasure.

That’s how she felt, standing there in front of him, only a few inches away.

And it was a feeling that didn’t pair well with the words she’d been repeating inside her head the entire trek down from her apartment, but she said them anyway: “I cannot accept this coat.”

“Why not?” he said in his seductive, low baritone. “Do you hate the design?”

“It’s gorgeous.”

“The color?”

“I love the color.”

“It doesn’t fit?” He turned his head to the side and called out to Astrid. “Can it be altered?”

“Sure, but she hasn’t tried it on,” Astrid called back. She was standing on the sidewalk with Benita and Bo, several yards away, as if Winter were contagious and they didn’t want to get too close. She probably should’ve kept her distance as well; one minute in his company and she already wanted to sway closer. It was pathetic, truly.

Winter glanced down at her. “How can you say it doesn’t fit if you don’t try it on?”

“I never said that. I—”

“Here, let me help.” He pulled the coat out of her arms and shook it. “Looks real enough. It’s not shedding, so hopefully it’s not made of rat hair.”

“I heard that,” Astrid shouted.

“Can we speak alone, please?” Aida said to him under her breath.

“Are you going to tell me why you can’t take this coat?”

“Maybe.”

“Then no, we can’t be alone. Hold out your arm.”

She scowled at him, or tried to, at least, and held out an arm. He slipped the coat onto one arm, over her shoulders, then the other arm. He was very close, and he was touching her again, and that was only making her Comfort and Relief feelings grow stronger. He tugged the coat closed. “There. Looks as if it fits just fine to me.”

She glanced at the length of the arms, the hem, hoping to find something to latch onto for argument fodder, but no. It fit. It fit well.

“Told you,” Astrid called out.

“She’s very irritating,” Aida complained in a low voice.

“You have no idea,” Winter answered with a merry twinkle in his eye, keeping his voice quiet to match hers. “You look lovely. That coat couldn’t possibly be any better. It suits you perfectly.” He ran his fingers along the side of her bobbed hair and smoothed down flyaway strands, causing a flurry of goose bumps to spread across her scalp. “Tell me why you can’t accept it.”

“I have a very good reason.”

“You always do. I’m listening.”

“Give me a second. You’re distracting me with your handsome looks and sensible arguments.”

She shouldn’t have said that. He puffed up like a balloon, seemingly growing several inches in height. He almost started smiling. Almost. He leaned closer. “You may not want to keep it, but I have a good reason why you should. You’ll need it tomorrow night.”

“Why?”

“I’d like you to come to dinner with me.”

She gave him a suspicious look. “Is this like the last meal you invited me to? Or have you seen another ghost? Wait, don’t answer that. I’m not working for you anymore, and that’s final.”

“No ghost, and I’m not asking for business reasons. I’m asking if you—the person, not the spirit medium—would join me, the person, for dinner tomorrow. Just the two of us. No prostitutes or armed guards.”

“Oh. Well. I, uh . . . I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

“Why? You just said I was handsome.”

“Too handsome.”

“Let’s not get carried away. A few days ago you were yelling at me like you wanted me dead.”

“A few days ago, I did.”

“And you’ve forgiven me?”

“‘Forgiven’ seems too strong a word, especially when I’ve been so unhappy since you dumped me here five days ago and seemed to forget I existed.”

“You stormed off—I didn’t dump anything. And I tried to forget your existence, believe me. I tried very hard. I made it my top priority. All I could think about was how I was trying not to think about you.”

“That sounds taxing.”

“It was. And we can argue about who stormed off and who dumped whom over dinner. I know you’re off tomorrow night, because I called Velma and she told me your schedule. So you can’t use that excuse.”

“That’s—”

“And you have a new coat. And a new gown, though you don’t have to wear it if it reminds you of that afternoon. It was a lousy afternoon.”

“Yes, it was.”

“And I’ve missed you ever since.”

She stilled; her heart was beating far too fast. “You have?”

“I’m not sure why. Last time I saw you, you made it clear that you hated my guts.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“You certain about that?”

“Fairly certain.”

He nearly smiled again. “I’ll take what I can get. Eight tomorrow night, right here. I’ll pick you up. I’ll even promise to keep my hands aboveboard if you do the same.”

A short laugh escaped her lips. She glanced to the side and spied Bo, Astrid, and Benita watching them with undisguised interest. “They are awfully nosy,” she murmured to Winter.

“Worse than the gossip rags,” he agreed. “Aida?”

“Yes?”

“Please go to dinner with me.”

She touched the locket beneath her dress; Sam would be furious with her for caving in too easily, but for once in her life, her whispering heart drowned out his persistent voice.

“Okay,” she told Winter. “But no Chinese food.”

He closed his eyes for a moment and blew out a long breath.

The following night, she stood in the same exact spot, while the Magnusson family’s driver, Jonte, greeted her as he opened the limousine door. Winter waited in the backseat, dressed in a tuxedo. Her gaze flitted over the white of his shirt and the luxurious heft of a long blue black coat; his gaze flitted over the fur-collared coat and headed down her pale silk stockings.

“You look . . .” he started. “Oh, hell. You look breathtaking, Aida.”

“I don’t believe anyone’s ever called me that.” She couldn’t hold his gaze. “Please stop looking at me. It’s making me anxious.”

“Is it? I can’t tell.”

“I’m good at hiding it. A stage trick.”

“Maybe you should sit closer. I think that might help.”

“Last time I did, I ended up attacking you.”

“Yes, well, hope springs eternal, but I’m sure that would never happen again. And I have promised to keep my hands aboveboard. Come here.” He shifted to make room for her, and she scooted into the crook of his arm, tightly clutching her handbag against her lap with both hands. The side of his body warmed hers within seconds, and she found herself relaxing, just a little. She didn’t dare look up at his face. Lord knew that was her downfall the last time she did this.

“See, it’s fine,” he said in his deep-velvet voice. “Anyone who saw us would think we’re old friends. No one would imagine that we were crazy about each other before I went and screwed everything up.”

“Who knows. Maybe we still are crazy about each other, despite your best efforts.”

“That would be something, wouldn’t it?”

She leaned her head against his fine coat and breathed him in, grateful and content.

He made a strange noise, then she felt the hesitant weight of his arm wrapping around her shoulders. “Let’s look out the window. I’ll give you a quick tour of the city along our route. Point out things that have changed since you were a child.”

Ten minutes later, she was soft as butter, lounging against him, listening to his voice as it vibrated inside his big chest, pointing out which blocks were destroyed in the Great Fire, telling her about Lotta’s Fountain, where a crowd of people were gathered to listen to someone playing a violin as the sun set behind the downtown buildings.

“And here we are.”

She perked up. “Where? Which building?”

“The big one there. The Palace Hotel,” he said as the car inched its way in the direction Winter pointed, an eight-story concrete building with curved corners that sat squat on New Montgomery Street, the top floors obscured by evening fog. Dozens of cabs and limousines lined the curb in front of the hotel, competing with three rows of streetcars and cable cars as they whipped in and out of traffic.

“John D. Rockefeller and Oscar Wilde have stayed here,” Winter said. “Hollywood actors and famous opera singers, too. And it just so happens that I supply their booze.”

Even a deaf person could hear the note of pride in his voice. She grinned up at him. “You’re their hero, I suppose.”

“It’s a tough job, being a hero to rich drunkards and party girls.”

“Yes, I can imagine. Is that why we’re here? So you can show off?”

“Only a little. We’re mainly here because they have a chef who cooks a beautiful chop,” he said, offering his arm.

Beaded gowns and tuxedos draped the haut monde that paraded through the illuminated entrance alongside them. Once inside, Aida’s gaze tried to take everything in: polished floors, staggering floral displays, beveled glass, and gleaming brass. She wondered what it would be like to stay in a room here. Like royalty, she supposed.

In the main lobby, they stopped at a concierge coat check to exchange their outer garments for a numbered ticket. She hated to give up the new coat but reluctantly opened the large square button over her hip and shimmied out of it. Winter turned to take it from her. Reaching hands stopped midair as his eyes wandered over the peacock-embroidered chiton gown, over her elbow-length white gloves, over bare shoulders . . . until his gaze finally lit on her breasts.

“Christ alive,” he mumbled. “That dress is sheer.”

Warmth rose to her cheeks. “No sheerer than half the gowns here.”

He made a garbled, low sound of doubt. “I can see everything.”

She looked down. “You cannot!” She’d checked in the mirror before coming—twice. The golden beads on the torso covered most of her breasts. It wasn’t obscene, for Pete’s sake. A little daring, maybe, and she couldn’t wear a chemise or brassiere beneath, or it would show through. But it was still sophisticated. She wore dresses onstage that were comparable in style, if not in quality.

“I can count the freckles over your nipples.”

Her face twisted as she darted a wary glance at the coat check girl. “Keep your voice down,” she complained. “And you can’t see my nipples.”

“We-e-ell, maybe my recent supernatural woes have fortified me with more than just ghost-sight, because I can make out the exact size of—”

She smacked his arm. “The girl is waiting for my ridiculously expensive fur coat.”

His eyes danced merrily as he draped the fox over his own coat and handed both to the girl, then pocketed the coat check ticket inside his tuxedo jacket. “I really do owe Ju a big thank-you.”

“I hope it wasn’t Sook-Yin who made it.”

“She can’t sew, so I think you’re safe.”

“It was made by one of the younger prostitutes, then? Hopefully one you haven’t slept with.”

“Careful, cheetah. And I haven’t slept with any of the younger ones.”

“Hallelujah.”

A slow grin spread over his face, plumping up high Scandinavian cheekbones. He held out his arm. “Shall we dine, Miss Palmer?”

They headed out of the lobby and walked into the Palm Court, a large, bustling room that was partitioned into a lounge with a piano at the front, and a restaurant at the back. The host at the podium took one look at Winter and snapped his finger at a waiter several steps before they arrived. “Mr. Magnusson, always a pleasure. We have your table ready.”

Well-dressed patrons lounged and dined around clusters of lazy palms under a domed iridescent glass ceiling. Aida watched diners’ reactions as she and Winter wended their way through the tables: first Winter’s size caught their eyes, then they recognized him, and finally they looked at her in curiosity. Table by table, this was how it went, until they were seated off to one side beneath a balcony, where potted palms and a marble column gave them some privacy from the rest of the floor.

“Is this always how it is for you?” she asked after the waiter brought menus, stripping off her long gloves and tucking them in the handle of her handbag. He watched her actions over the top of his menu, staring at her hands with great interest. What on earth was so interesting? She looked down, wondering if her fingers were covered in ink from a leaky pen. They weren’t. His mind seemed to be elsewhere. She dipped her head to catch his eye. “Does everyone recognize you, I meant.”

He blinked and shook away his daze. “Depending on where I go, yes. It will stop in a minute, once they realize I’m not doing anything interesting. Surely you must be used to some of this yourself.”

“I never stay anywhere long enough to garner a following. People recognize me now and then at the Automat across the street from Gris-Gris. I can barely read this menu, it’s so dark back here. Tell me what’s good.”

With a hand under her seat, he scooted her closer, chair and all, oblivious to the whispering at neighboring tables. Now that their arms were practically touching, he browsed the entrées with her, talking up the merits of his beloved chop, which sounded as if he liked it so much, they should probably consider adding his name next to it on the menu. She ended up ordering what the waiter recommended, including a French wine that Winter cockily assured her was some of the best in the city; the very best, he hoarded in his own cellar.

Winter was served the thickest chop she’d ever seen in her life—certainly not the size that was listed on the menu—while she had prime rib and salad with dressing the Palace had made famous, or so they claimed: something called green goddess. They talked as they ate. Conversation was so effortless and easy, it was almost as if the visit to Ju’s had never happened. She watched him in surreptitious snatches while he chatted: his animated mouth with its deep indentations at the corners, made deeper by the flickering candle at their table; the sleek wave of his brilliantined hair, so dark it was almost black; and those bewitching mismatched eyes, which now looked so merry.

He used to be happy and fun to be around, Aida thought, remembering Astrid’s words. This was what she meant. This was the real Winter. She understood Astrid mourning him, if this was something she didn’t see much anymore, because Aida could think of no recent company she’d enjoyed half as much.

The only pause in their conversation came after the waiter cleared their plates away and promised to return with something for dessert. After a few moments of silence, Winter surprised her by saying, “I didn’t love her.”

She glanced up at his face. “Sook-Yin?”

“No, my wife.”

“Oh.”

“You told me I shouldn’t feel guilty about the accident, and I try not to. But that’s what still bothers me. I didn’t love Paulina when I married her, and she definitely didn’t love me.”

Was he really talking about this? She couldn’t believe it. She was scared to say anything for fear he’d stop, but he seemed to need some encouragement, so she gave in. “Why did you marry her, then?”

“I married her to please my mother, and I suppose I thought my feelings would deepen after the wedding. But we couldn’t even manage small talk, much less love. The more we grew apart, the more I helped my father out with the bootlegging, which only made things worse. She detested the bootlegging. Her family is Pentecostal—are you familiar?”

“The religious people who speak in tongues.”

“Holy Rollers,” he confirmed. “Paulina wasn’t active in the church when we met, but I suppose that I was so inherently evil, I made her long for fellowship. She tolerated my father’s bootlegging, but knowing I was out making deals after dark became a sin too big for her to ignore. She once told me she didn’t know which was worse—staying awake at night worrying I’d be killed, or finding out that I hadn’t been.”

“What an awful thing to say.”

“It made me never want to come home. I stayed out just to avoid her. She accused me of being unfaithful, which I never was, Aida—not once.”

“You don’t have to convince me.”

He scratched his neck and remained silent for a time, staring at the flickering candlelight on the table. “It’s not just that we made each other miserable, because we did. The worst part was that we wasted each other’s time. Several months of courting and a wedding that cost my family enough to shame William Randolph Hearst, only to find that we were complete opposites. She didn’t like rich food, sex, foul language, drinking . . . or jokes. I swear to God, I never once heard her laugh. Not once. I don’t think she even knew how.”

“She sounds delightful, Winter.”

“I—” He looked down at her in wonder, then laughed. “Yes, I suppose so. Those were all my favorite things, so she pretty much ripped the joy out of my life. Especially when she made the decision to go back to her church and started attending services every weekend. I thought it would make her happier, but the congregation just encouraged her to divorce me, because I was a known criminal.”

She waved around the luxurious dining room. “All of us are criminals. There’s not a dry table here. You’re Robin Hood, taking back what the government took away—not Jack the Ripper.”

He crossed his arms and rested them on the edge of the table. “Regardless, I should’ve just let her go. I’m not sure why I didn’t. I think maybe I saw it as a failure, and that was unacceptable. So we had a bad fight, and I told her divorce was impossible, that I’d never let it happen.”

“What did she do?”

“Nothing. That was two weeks before the accident.”

“Oh.”

“If I would’ve just let her leave, she wouldn’t have been invited to her aunt’s dinner, and her family wouldn’t have tried to tell us that we were going to hell, which was the thing that spurred my father’s last fit. So that’s why I feel guilty—because even though I didn’t love her, I refused to let her go. If I had, everyone would still be alive.”

The waiter returned with some sort of sponge cake and more wine. She waited until the man left, then said, “I can understand why you’d feel that way. I probably would, too, if I were in your shoes. But you can’t continue to pummel yourself. You can’t let one moment in time define you for the rest of your life.”

“Easy to say, harder to do.”

“Paulina made the decision to marry you. You didn’t hold a gun to her head.”

Winter toyed with the stem of his wineglass. “No, but I might as well have done that when I didn’t let her leave.”

“She had two feet and a mind of her own. If she wanted to leave, she could’ve walked out the door.”

“Not every woman thinks like you.”

“Which is a damn shame, to be sure, but you can’t be held responsible for her character defects. Nor can you spend the rest of your life allowing human mistakes to mold your future.”

“Yes, well—”

“Nothing is more important than right now. This moment.” She tapped the table with her fingernail. “Not what happened yesterday. Not what will happen tomorrow. You once asked me how I could be happy moving from place to place, and that is the answer. I live for the moment. I enjoy what I have, not what I’ve lost. Not what I don’t have yet.”

Upon finishing her passionate speech, she found him staring at her intently with the strangest look on his face. Something about that look made her chest warm.

“Let’s have an affair.”

“What?”

“An affair,” he repeated. “A temporary relationship. Companionship. Sex.”

The heat in Aida’s chest climbed to her cheeks. “Ah . . .”

“We like each other,” he said in a very businesslike manner. “Might even be crazy about each other, like you said. We’re both single. I passed your kissing test.”

She snorted. “Confident about that, are you?”

One brow lifted.

“You invented the kissing test,” Aida argued. “All I said was that my previous lovers were terrible kissers.”

“Which brings me to my next point. Wouldn’t you like to be with someone who knows what he’s doing in bed? I’m very good.”

“Gee, don’t sell yourself short or anything,” she said, looking around to make sure no one nearby was listening as her cheeks flamed higher.

“Just being honest.”

“I don’t think this sort of thing is something people plan and negotiate.”

He ran his hand over the back of his neck. “Maybe they should. You’re only in town for how much longer? A month?”

“About that, yes.”

“Not much time, but you’ve made it clear you’re not interested in long-term relationships because of your traveling, and God knows I’ll never be interested in anything permanent again after my failed experiment with marriage.”

A cynical voice whispered inside her head. “You want me to be your new Sook-Yin.”

“That’s the last thing I want. That was a pretend relationship.” He sipped wine. “Though, I’m not really sure what I had with Paulina was much different. She wanted my money, too.”

“Money is nice. I’m not above its allure. I love that you brought me here,” she said, looking up at the dazzling chandeliers. “I love that damn coat.”

He chuckled, then gestured with his glass. “But pride is more important to you, and that’s the difference.”

“Perhaps.”

“I don’t want to talk about the past anymore. You just told me to live in the present.”

“You’re right. I did.”

“And what I want right now, in the present, is you in my bed. Do you want me?”

She licked dry lips. No one had ever spoken to her like this. She wasn’t sure if it was crude or refreshingly honest.

Winter looked down at the table and brushed his thumb along the curve of her wrist. “I lay awake at night thinking of you. I have since we met. Do you ever think of me?”

Her heart flamed up like a pyre. And he was looking at her with such intensity, it made lights twinkle in her brain. If he didn’t stop telling her all these things, it would get so bright up there, she’d go blind and start shouting Yes! at the top of her lungs.

As it was, she managed to say it in a normal voice, after downing the remainder of her wine in two gulps. “Yes.”

“You don’t have to answer now. You can—” His hand stilled on hers. “Did you mean ‘yes’ you think of me, or ‘yes,’ you want to have an affair?”

“Yes to all your questions.”

He smiled oh-so-slowly, like a dockyard cat eyeing a fish flailing on dry ground, and she knew right then she was a goner.