Page 101 of The Widow and the Wanted

Then, to my utter irritation, the corner of her mouth lifts.

“Are they?” she says mildly. “How fortunate for you.”

I blink at her.

She goes on, as if we are discussing a new dress. “They’re handsome men, I’ll grant you that. You’ve done well for yourself.”

The heat that had flared in my chest falters. “That is all you have to say?”

“What would you like me to say?” she asks. “That I’m scandalized? You expected to hurt me?”

I say nothing.

“It doesn’t,” she finishes, much more satisfied with herself than I would like. The words land flat and heavy.

I go hollow.

“You misunderstand me, Lula Mae. If you had stayed,” she says, gesturing faintly to the house around us, “this would have been your life. Not for a season. Not for a whim. Forever. Men would have paid for you. Used you. And you would have had no say in it.”

Her eyes settle back on mine.

“I gave you a life where you could choose differently.” Her mouth tightens, just slightly. “If you wish to be a strumpet now,” she says, “that is your choice. And a choice is more than most women ever get.”

I tighten my jaw. This is what she does. She blurs lines, muddies waters. “What does that have to do with you leaving?”

She closes the distance between us and takes my hands in hers. “What matters now is that you’re here. If this is where you choose to be, dear, nothing would make me happier than being in your company.”

A numbness settles over me. Has she outwitted me again, or is this real? I had nearly forgotten what it was to grow in my mother’s shadow.

Hold fast to your convictions, woman, I remind myself. We have not been in the heart of this brothel for half an hour, and already I am drifting under the old enchantment of Goldie Eld. I draw my hands from hers.

“We are in a great deal of trouble, and I need your help.”

Chapter 27

Boone

The Aces Suite has a proper bed, a private wood stove for heat, a washstand, and more red velvet than the Boston Theatre.

“Anything else I can fetch you boys?” Pearl asks, one hand resting on the brass knob. There is a girlish sweetness to her voice, soured a little by hearing it in a place like this.

“Baths,” Okee says.

She nods. “I’ll see them drawn. There ought to be a tub or two standing empty belowstairs. You want anything with it?”

Okee cuts in before I can. “I hesitate to ask.”

Pearl straightens a touch, as though setting herself to recite a lesson learned by heart.

“Plain bath is ten cents. Copper tub, clean hot water, fresh linen, and a room to yourself. Another dime gets you lavender oil.” Her eyes lift as if she is reading from a slate no one else can see. “Shoulders worked over is twenty cents. Hair washed is twenty-five.” She hums, counting on her fingers, a small wrinkle worrying her forehead. “And for two dollars, you can have the Gemini’s Bath of the Gods.”

Okee raises an eyebrow. “...of the Gods?”

She shakes her head in earnest, red curls slipping loose from her neat little arrangement and bouncing against her cheek. “Oh, it ain’t wicked. It’s just all the things I said before, plus a bottle of whiskey.”

I grin. “Now that is a Christian arrangement.”

“Very well,” she says, solemn as a judge. “Two Baths of the Gods.”