Page 47 of I Know You

I place my hand on my heart, drinking in the moment of his memory of my mother. “It’s appropriate, I suppose, that it was my own mother who encouraged you to be an unpardonable flirt.”

“And look at where it’s gotten me: in love with the most perfect girl in the world.”

His voice is as sweet as the notes from my father’s violin, so I ignore—with a pang—that he’s still insisting on being in love with me, even if he’s making light of it. “You’re far too charming for your own good.”

To which he smirks.

William and Ben return late, Ben looking too happy to see that I’ve stayed at Gracewoods the entire day. “And you’re an absolute genius!” He picks me up and twirls me around.

I raise an eyebrow and avoid glancing at Quint for his reaction to Ben’s antics. “Did the list bring you any success?” I ask.

“We only got to about half the events today, but it’s something, Clara, it’s really something.” He drops into a chair in the library, his face lit up. “We finally have a plan.”

“Glad I could be of service.” I fold the newspaper I’ve been over several times already and lean against the table Quint and I spent most of the afternoon at. We stopped for a quick dinner with Mrs. Allen since William and Ben hadn’t returned yet.

Ben stands and comes to stand next to me, close enough to embarrass me with Quint in the room. Though William has engaged his son in conversation about some business, I know Quint is all too aware of us, especially considering our conversation this afternoon.

“Clara, this was a great idea,” Ben says lowly, leaning toward me. “Don’t punish me for wanting you safe. You know how much I care about you.”

I turn to stare at him. I don’t know that. He’s treated me like a tagalong since we arrived, and our interactions during the time we were home were fun, flirtatious, and superficial. He doesn’t trust me here in 1928, but he doesn’t trust me in the present either.

“It was Quint’s idea,” I say. Then I take a deep breath to continue. I can’t mentally berate him for not sharing feelings, frustrations or otherwise, if I don’t as well. “There were parties on that list I could have gone to without sticking out, but you have me so wound up about leaving and upsetting you that I didn’t dare. It’s frustrating.”

He studies me and looks over at Quint, who quickly turns his attention back to his father. “Maybe you’re right,” Ben finally says. I try to ignore his reluctance to admit it and enjoy the (very) small victory. “Are there any more?”

I shrug. “A luncheon, I think? The wives of some important businessmen and politicians will be there tomorrow. It’s unlikely Gibbons would show up among a bunch of women, but I keep thinking about what Dr. Cooper and Burke said about him being trained to make small, almost unnoticeable shifts to change things.”

“You would certainly stick out less there than me,” Ben says thoughtfully. “And … I’ve arranged with Mr. McCann to purchase the mirror we came through. You could pick that up and make sure it gets safely back here.” His voice rises in question. I give him credit for making an effort, though errand girl isn’t at the top of my list. Still, the luncheon is a step in the right direction.

“By myself?” I say in mock surprise.

He moves to slip his hand over mine. “Take Quint?” he asks, missing the joke. “For my peace of mind.”

How ironic. “Of course.” I pull my hand away and turn back to the newspapers.

“Thank you.”

I don’t answer.

Ben and William set off the next morning more hopeful than they’ve been since their first day. I walk them out, and Ben kisses my cheek before they leave.

“We really have a chance of succeeding,” he says when he pulls away.

“Good luck,” I say, trying to sound hopeful with him. Quint might be my “Grand Waltz,” but Ben is the modern lyrics to that song, fitting every bit as well, if not a little stolen. He doubted me these past few days, but his excitement at my contribution seems proof of him admitting his mistake over that … at least enough to trust me to do some investigating on my own—with Quint at my side, of course.

Quint.

I’ve dropped myself right into a love triangle, one that was never meant to be. With a sigh, I pat my hair and the finger curls White was able to set, making sure Ben didn’t mess up my precious hairdo. I don’t want to stand out at the high-society function I’ve talked him into letting me go to today. Everything has to be perfect, including having straight pleats in the navy-and-white floral-patterned skirt and making sure the long blouse in matching fabric, gathered at the waist into a fabric flower and a bow tied at my chest, doesn’t have any wrinkles. Satisfied, I hurry back into the house and up the stairs to get my coat and hat to finally leave for my own mission as well.

The luncheon takes place in the dining room of the St. Regis hotel, and I’m able to easily slip in among a group of women entering the large room at the same time as me. The size has allowed for Mrs. Smith, the wife of the governor of New York, to invite well over fifty people, making it less likely that anyone will pick me out as not belonging. Quint keeps a lookout outside, planning to roam the halls around the dining room inconspicuously while I do the detective work from the inside.

The only men in the room are the waiters serving the lunch, so I do my best to inspect them all in case that’s how Gibbons makes an appearance, unlikely as it seems he would bother with this specific event. (Likely the reason Ben has even let me come here.) Mrs. Smith leads the luncheon and gives a speech on labor reform that I largely ignore.

“Anything?” Quint asks when I slip out before I have to socialize any more with the middle-aged ladies who dominate the meeting.

“No, and the first job for Lizette when you convince her to join your mother’s board is to have her host a luncheon that will be at least five times as entertaining, even if all she does is show up.” I take his arm as he laughs, and we both hurry from the building. Despite the failure, it feels good to try. As we exit the St. Regis, I look up Fifth Avenue toward Grand Army Plaza, where we first started our search for Gibbons. He came here for a reason—what was it?

I tamp down the discouragement that threatens to ruin the freshness of the afternoon, pushing aside thoughts that Gibbons’s business in New York City may be done already. He could be through another mirror, back to the present or somewhere else, going forward with the next step in his plan. Or simply returning after failing to retrieve me and Ben—though that seems less likely.