Chapter Twelve
Fitz was a man who rarely confronted defeat. He set a goal and strategized the best plan of attack. He then destroyed every obstacle until success was his. It was a good way to go through life, safe and effective.
Just shy of a week after his arrival in New York, Fitz was in a state of complete frustration. He hadn’t accomplished a single goal he’d set for himself. He’d yet to find a cure for his father’s condition, though he’d spoken to three more specialists. And three of the five investments he’d been considering had proven unworthy of his time.
Most disturbing of all, he had no idea what to do about Gigi. He should have known better than to come for her himself. But now that he was here, he would not—could not—leave without her. Gigi deserved a chance to make amends with her family, and Fitz would see that she got it. It didn’t matter that she was proving difficult. He’d endured tougher barriers than her stubborn resistance.
Fitz was a man who dealt in facts. Thus, as he exited the Waldorf-Astoria and turned toward the Harvard Club, he faced them.
He’d nearly kissed Gigi.
She’d nearly kissed him back.
A freezing rain, razor-thin and sharp as needles, sliced through the air. Frigid water dripped off the bill of his hat and occasionally slipped under his collar. It was a miserable day, matched only by Fitz’s dismal mood. He was feeling helpless.
He hated feeling helpless.
He moved quickly through the driving rain and focused on what he could control: his upcoming meeting with Lucian Griffin, an old school chum from his days at Harvard.
Luke’s automobile company was a young business, barely operational, but Fitz had done his research. The potential for expansion and large profits was there. Within the hour, Fitz would know if he wanted to make an offer for part of the company.
Ice crunched beneath his feet as he rounded the street corner. The Harvard Club loomed one block ahead on his right. A sense of homesickness filled him, as if he’d been dropped into a slice of Cambridge, Massachusetts, in the middle of New York City.
People hurried past him, rushing about their business, their breaths pluming in frozen puffs around their heads. Horses whinnied, dogs barked, a motorcar coughed and spit to life.
Drawing in a long pull of air, Fitz breathed in the scent of rain mixed with ice and snow. The cold, wet, dreary weather sparked a renewed sense of urgency. He wanted to make this deal, not only for the company but also for his father. The more solvent the firm became, the less likely word of the bad investments would get out.
Fitz would like to think he and his cousin could keep his father’s medical condition a secret indefinitely. But the truth always had a way of coming out.
The truth shall set you free.
Not in Fitz’s experience.
He stopped in front of the club. Some of the most powerful businessmen in the country had attended Harvard, men who were building America and turning her great. Back in his prime, Fitz’s father had been one of them. He’d been a sharp investor, financing large corporations that had significantly influenced the nation’s economy.
Fitz would restore his father’s legacy.
His plan was simple. Broker a deal with Luke that would bring them into the future. Like Fitz, his former classmate was a man who understood the benefit of a calculated risk.
As Fitz stepped beneath the awning of the most exclusive club in the city, resolve spread through him.
The doorman greeted him with a smile. The short, barrel-chested man wore livery in the Harvard colors of crimson and gold.
Fitz stated his business. “I’m Christopher Fitzpatrick. I have an appointment with Lucian Griffin.”
Proving he knew his job well, the doorman nodded. “Mr. Griffin is waiting for you in the billiards room on the third floor. You’ll find a stairwell at the back of the building that will take you there without delay.”
Instructions given, he pulled open the gold-plated door and stepped aside for Fitz to pass.
One hand on the rich oak bannister, Fitz climbed the long flight of stairs that led to the main gathering area. The smell of expensive tobacco and freshly polished wood mingled with the scent of leather, books, and old money.
Fitz checked his coat, hat, and gloves with the smiling, elderly attendant dressed in livery the same colors as the doorman’s uniform.
Making his way through the cavernous hall, Fitz took in the high ceilings and dark wood-paneled walls, then glanced at the men scattered throughout the room. A few looked familiar. Not surprising since election for membership to any of the Harvard Clubs across the country was limited to graduates of the prestigious university and tenured faculty.
Fitz took the back stairwell to the third floor and made his way to the billiards room, using his ear as his guide. Determination took hold. He wanted to make this deal, but only if the company proved as profitable as his research led him to believe.
He paused at the threshold. The billiards room was awash in light and conversation.
Fitz stepped forward, wavered. Luke wasn’t alone. Another man was at the far end of the table, lining up a shot. Fitz knew him. Knew him well and considered him a friend.
Fitz stepped fully into the room.
Luke immediately set out toward him. “Fitz, my good man.” Luke’s hand clasped his shoulder, strength and assurance in his grip. “You’re looking well.”
Returning the greeting, Fitz shook his friend’s hand. Luke hadn’t changed much since their days at Harvard. He was Fitz’s height, with much the same lean-muscled build. He had sandy-blond hair and amber-colored eyes that were more gold than brown, and was still as fit as he’d been in college. Luke had been the strongest rower on their eight-man boat.
“You remember Jackson Montgomery.” Luke indicated the other man in the room with a nod.
Fitz shook Jackson’s hand. Back at school, he and the other man had shared a similar intensity and drive for excellence. Jackson appeared more at peace than he’d been at Harvard. Dressed impeccably in a dark navy-blue suit and crisp linen shirt, the man was clean-shaven, his black-as-midnight hair perfectly cropped. The easy smile on his face was new and matched the one on Luke’s.
Both men had recently married. Fitz remembered reading about their weddings in the Harvard newsletter. There was a bit of scandal surrounding both, though he couldn’t remember what.
“We’re nearly through with our game,” Luke told him.
Fitz waved the men back to the table. “By all means, finish.”
Jackson took his turn. Luke jeered as he lined up his shot. He called Jackson a few names—sap one of the kinder ones. Jackson gave as good as he got.
There was respect in the banter between the two men, transporting Fitz back to their days at Harvard College. Back when his father was still his father. Calvin Fitzgerald had taught his son a love of competition, which had led, in part, to meeting these men.
Overly serious, not especially social, Fitz had tried out for the Harvard crew as much out of a love for sport as to make friends. A year ahead of Luke and Jackson, he’d earned the role of captain for their eight-man boat. Luke and Jackson had been strong rowers, and so Fitz had put them in the engine room, oar positions four and five.
Jackson sank two balls in a row, earning a groan from Luke. “You’re cheating, I just can’t figure out how.”
“Watch and learn, my friend.” Jackson gave him a goading grin. “Watch and learn.”
Shaking his head in mock disgust, Luke moved to stand by Fitz. They spoke of nothing important, mostly their college days, which turned to their time on the boat. “I’m still bitter over losing the Regatta,” Luke admitted.
Fitz snorted his agreement. The annual Harvard-Yale Regatta was always the culmination of the rowing season. Yale had won every year during Fitz’s tenure, much to his scowling displeasure.
He eyed the man he once called friend, taking in the changes, wondering at them. “I heard you married this year.”
“I did. Once I exchanged vows with my beautiful bride, we immediately embarked on a far too short honeymoon.”
It was Jackson’s turn to snort. “You were gone a month.”
Luke cut him a glare. “Scoff all you want. But one month alone with my wife wasn’t nearly enough. It should have been two. No, make that three.”
As he said this, everything about Luke, his eyes, his demeanor, his voice, spoke of pleasure.
“You’re happy.”
“Elizabeth makes me a better man.”
The dull clack of yet another ball dropping in a pocket rang out. Still leaning over the table, Jackson looked up, his pool cue between his curved fingers. “And that, old boys, is how it’s done.”
“You planning to gloat all morning or line up your next shot?”
Standing tall, Jackson pointed the tip of his pool cue at Luke. “You’re a poor loser.”
This, as Fitz could attest to, was true.
“Just get on with it.” Luke ground out the words.
Jackson chuckled.
The men had always been good friends, easy with one another, but clearly both were even more relaxed and content than when they’d been young. Was that what marriage did to a man? Did it make him satisfied with his lot in life, comfortable in his own skin? It wasn’t just about getting a woman to the altar, after all, but securing a life after the ceremony. A life, Fitz reminded himself, that could never be his. Not unless he found a cure for his father’s condition.
“I highly recommend taking the marital plunge.”
Fitz jerked, realizing Luke had continued talking while his mind had wandered. He reached for a calm that didn’t exist. “The marital plunge?”
“I seem to remember something about you getting engaged to Harcourt Wentworth’s daughter?” Luke eyed him closely. “Have you set a date?”
“No, we have not.”
“Ah. I’ve conducted a few transactions with Wentworth. He’s a ruthless negotiator.”
Time seemed to bend and shift, taking Fitz to another room much like this one, when he’d been in discussions with Gigi’s father for her hand in marriage. Harcourt Wentworth was a man who knew what he wanted, laid it out in precise language, and rarely relented on the terms of an agreement.
That trait had made him one of the most successful businessmen in the country, but probably not the best of parents. Fitz remembered now how Gigi had begged him not to go to her father with his suspicions about Nathanial.
Guilt swept through him.
Had he made matters worse? Had he all but delivered her into Dixon’s waiting arms?
“Right corner pocket,” Jackson called out, then, as promised, shot the last ball in the right corner pocket. The table was empty but for the white cue ball, game over.
While Jackson returned the cue stick to the mahogany stand, Luke slapped Fitz on the back. “Unless you have an objection, I’d like Jackson to sit in on our meeting as he’s representing Richard St. James’s interest.”
The request made sense. Jackson would be standing in for the man who owned the share in Luke’s company that Fitz wanted to purchase. Jackson was also an attorney. If Fitz and Luke came to an agreement, Jackson would probably be the one to draw up the contract transferring the shares from St. James to Fitz.
“I have no objection.”
“Excellent.”
They agreed to conduct their business in the club’s library. The room was spacious. But the furniture had been arranged in such a way as to partition off smaller sections, creating just enough of a lived-in feel to issue a silent invitation to relax. Fitz suspected the staff had worked long and hard to perfect this level of elegant comfort in such a large area.
Once they were settled in chairs facing the fire, Luke broke his silence. “I understand you are in talks to purchase the Summer Garden Theater.”
Fitz nodded, pleased to discover Luke had been gathering information about a potential investor. If their roles were reversed, Fitz would do the same. “I have my eye on several New York–based companies.”
“Why New York?”
“I find most businessmen in this city think beyond America. International expansion is the gateway to the future.”
Luke leaned back in his chair. “Good answer.”
They shared a smile.
For nearly thirty minutes, they discussed Luke’s current and future plans for his automobile company. When his friend wound down, Fitz said, “The idea of hosting a series of races across the country is sheer genius.”
Jackson took over from there. “We’re thinking of bringing in Brian Chesterfield to organize the inaugural Griffin Tour on Long Island.”
Fitz knew the man well. Brian had been another rower in the engine room. Oar six. “I was under the impression he’d moved to Europe.”
“He’s back from two years of racing motorcars in France.”
Which explained why Luke wanted Brian involved. The next few minutes were spent going over the various ideas for the Griffin Tours, many from Fitz.
“You’re very knowledgeable,” Luke said.
“Motorcars have become a recent hobby of mine.” Fitz had needed something to take his mind off his father’s health. Racing had provided that outlet and was what had brought Luke’s company to his attention.
“You should come out to the factory on Long Island. I’ll give you a tour and then you can test-drive one of our prototypes.”
Satisfied with what he’d heard so far, Fitz thought this a splendid idea. “Set the date and I’ll be there. I’ll also want to take a look at the financial projections, speak to your chief engineer, and discuss your plans for expansion.”
They negotiated a time to meet the next week. The conversation came full circle, and they were back on the Summer Garden.
“Have you met the incomparable Esmeralda Cappelletti?” Luke asked with a guarded look in his eyes.
No wonder. The opera singer’s relationship with the man’s father had to be a sore spot. “She is everything the papers claim her to be.”
This earned him a small—very small—smile from Luke. “Have you met her daughter Sophie?”
“I have made her acquaintance.”
Clearly waiting for more, Luke held Fitz’s stare.
“She is a charming girl.” Actually, Sophie was a woman, but Fitz wanted to make it clear to her brother that he had no intention of pursuing her romantically.
In the role of protective big brother, Luke continued staring at Fitz, hard. Fitz didn’t waver under the close inspection.
“I take it you know of my personal connection with the . . . girl?”
“I did my homework,” Fitz said. “You and Sophie Cappelletti are half siblings. You share the same father, different mother.”
“Well,” Jackson said on a low whistle. “That was certainly succinct.”
It never occurred to Fitz to be anything but straightforward. If Luke was expecting some sort of judgment from him, he had a long wait ahead.
“What are your thoughts on a six-cylinder engine?” Fitz asked.
The question had the intended effect. The tension in Luke’s shoulders visibly reduced. The discussion soon segued into a lengthy dissertation on automobile manufacturing, including costs.
When the topic was exhausted at last, Fitz stood. “Until Monday?”
Luke shook his hand. “Until Monday.”
Fitz exited the Harvard Club with a lighter heart. If half of what Luke had claimed turned out to be accurate, Fitz would be in the automobile business by the end of the year.
Back at the Summer Garden Theater, Gigi was feeling rather satisfied with herself. What had begun as a temporary solution for Jessica’s childcare problem had become a godsend for two other dancers with small children. Gigi was now in charge of watching three little girls: Fern, Lilly, and Amelia, ages three, four, and five, respectively.
Not only did Gigi enjoy her time with the children, but she would earn a significant amount of money toward the fifty dollars she owed for the necklace.
Best of all, tucked away with the children in a small, forgotten room on the northeast corner of the building, Gigi had managed to avoid running into Fitz for two full days, going on three.
This was in large part due to Esmeralda. Although Gigi suspected the diva wanted to keep her from interfering with her attempts to throw Sophie and Fitz together, she’d been surprisingly sympathetic to the plight of the young mothers.
Pleased that Esmeralda hadn’t produced a fuss, Gigi had created a makeshift nursery far away from the stage. The room was some sort of holding cell for forgotten set pieces. Large trunks overflowed with torn costumes and small trinkets. An ancient piano that was surprisingly in tune sat in the farthest corner from the door.
“Miss Sally.” Fern tugged on her skirt, her big blue eyes full of childlike hope and an eager smile on her pretty little face. “Will you read a story to us?”
“Please?” Amelia begged. “Will you, will you, please?”
Not to be left out, Lilly added, “Oh, please, please, pleeeease?”
Lips twitching, Gigi glanced from one little girl to the next. Fern held a well-worn copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales in her hand, the same one Gigi had read from every day so far.
She reached for the book. “I can’t think of anything I’d like more.”
Squeals of delight ensued.
Later, she told herself, she would take the children up to the roof garden to enjoy a bit of fresh air. For now, she would read from Fern’s treasured storybook.
She laid out a threadbare blanket, sat, and then gathered the children around her. Opening the book, she found her personal favorite, “Briar Rose.” She read slowly, in the soft, lyrical voice her own mother had adopted exclusively for fairy tales.
“‘A king and queen once upon a time reigned in a country a great way off, where there were in those days fairies.’”
“Oh.” Fern clapped her hands in glee. “I love fairies.”
The other little girls agreed with fast head-bobbing.
Gigi smiled at each child before glancing back at the book. “‘Now this king and queen had plenty of money, and plenty of fine clothes to wear, and plenty of good things to eat’ . . .”
The children listened intently, eyes wide, riveted to the story much as Gigi had been at their age.
“‘They had no children, and this grieved them very much indeed.’”
Amelia sighed dramatically, proving she’d been raised around theater folk. “Mommy says children are a blessing and should be adored.”
Gigi’s own mother had said something similar to Gigi and her younger sisters. She felt a powerful wish for something . . . more, something enduring and lasting. An unrealized dream that could never come from watching other women’s children.
I want a baby of my own.
She would be happy with a boy or a girl. She, or he, would have dark hair and green eyes and sit on Gigi’s lap while she read. A ripple of intense longing surfaced before she resolutely shut it down.
“Your mommy is correct,” she said, her voice quivering. “Children are a blessing.”
Amelia beamed at her.
Fern tapped her arm. “What happened to the king and queen? Did they ever have a child?”
“You’ll have to wait and see.”
Glad to get back to the story, Gigi lowered her gaze and continued reading about how the king and queen held a feast to celebrate the birth of their daughter, inviting all the people in the land. “‘But the queen said, I will have the fairies also, that they might be kind and good to our little daughter.’”
“I want to invite fairies to my next birthday party.”
Gigi suspected Lilly might change her mind once she heard the rest of the story.
“‘Now there were thirteen fairies in the kingdom; but as the king and queen had only twelve golden dishes for them to eat out of, they were forced to leave one of the fairies without asking her.’”
“Why gold dishes?” Fern asked.
Gigi had no idea. “I suppose it’s because they’re fairies.”
“Oh.”
Gigi read on, telling the girls how the twelve fairies arrived, each with their gifts for the princess. “And then,” she said, pausing for dramatic effect. “The thirteenth fairy arrived.”
All three little girls gasped. “Was she very angry?”
“She scolded the king and queen.” Gigi explained about the curse and that on Briar Rose’s fifteenth birthday, she would prick her finger on a spindle and fall down dead.
Tears filled Amelia’s eyes. “Did she die?”
“No. One of the twelve friendly fairies hadn’t given her gift yet. She couldn’t reverse the curse, but she was able to soften it.” Gigi found her place in the story and read from the book. “‘When the spindle wounded her, she should not really die, but should only fall asleep for a hundred years.’”
“I guess that’s not sooooo bad.”
“So, she fell asleep for a hundred years. And the entire kingdom slept as well. But then a handsome prince came to the old tower—”
“What did he look like?”
Gigi answered without thinking. “He was tall, with nearly unbearably good looks. His hair was the blackest of black, the color of a raven’s wing. He had a strong jaw, often showing a bit of dark stubble by mid-afternoon. His eyes were the green of summer leaves, and he had very broad shoulders.” Too late, Gigi realized she’d just described Fitz.
“I like him.”
Gigi did, too, more and more each day that he stayed in New York. Hopeless. It was all so utterly hopeless. She shook away the thought and read how the prince opened the door to Briar Rose’s little room.
As if transported to the story world, Gigi could practically hear the door creaking open as she read.
She cleared her throat.
“‘And there she lay, fast asleep on a couch by the window. She looked so beautiful that he could not take his eyes off her, so he stooped down and gave her a kiss . . . she opened her eyes and awoke . . . and soon the king and queen also awoke, and all the court.’” She shut the book with a snap. “And everyone lived—”
“—happily ever after.”
The breath in Gigi’s lungs iced over. The ending words hadn’t come from one of the children but a familiar baritone. A shiver crossed the base of Gigi’s skull.
Slowly, she swiveled her head, glanced toward the now open doorway and straight into Fitz’s handsome face.
Gigi felt it again, that powerful wish for something more. Once again, she pushed the sensation away. Ignored it. Denied it. To no avail. No more than she could go on avoiding Fitz.
She remained frozen in his stare, curling her fingers around the book so hard her knuckles turned white. She hated this anxious, almost panicky sensation spreading through her.
Unfortunately, it couldn’t be helped. Simply staring into Fitz’s moss-green eyes caused her anxiety.
He should not be here.
She wanted him nowhere else.
The moment grew thick with tension, the silence between them so heavy that Gigi could hear her own breathing.
“Look,” shouted Lilly, her finger pointing to the door. “It’s the handsome prince. He’s come to rescue Briar Rose.”
The three little girls rushed to Fitz. They spoke over one another in their attempt to gain his attention.
“I’m Fern, and I’m three years old,” the smallest announced before she went on to introduce the other two girls. “This is Lilly. She’s four, just like I’ll be at my next birthday.”
“I’m Amelia, and I’m five.”
A rich tumble of laughter spilled out of Fitz, mingling harmoniously with little-girl giggles. He skillfully divided his attention equally between the children, which produced wide, happy smiles on each of their faces.
Gigi had never seen him this relaxed and easy. This is the kind of father he’ll be. Patient, attentive, and kind.
“Miss Sally was reading us a story.”
With Fitz’s gaze locked on hers, Gigi’s lungs forgot how to breathe. “Which one?” he asked.
The ability to communicate failed her, though she couldn’t think why. She knew Fitz came to the theater daily, yet, somehow, his presence in this room, her very own sanctuary, felt different. Not at all intrusive but as if they shared a secret. A good one this time, something special and only between the two of them.
“She was reading about Briar Rose and her handsome prince,” Lilly said. “He came to save her.”
“It’s what all good princes do.” There was so much emotion in Fitz’s eyes, which were still locked with Gigi’s. She recognized that shattered look, the hint of vulnerability in his stance. As though he, too, wanted something that could never be his.
She wanted to go to him, to comfort and soothe whatever might ail him, as one kindred soul to another.
She didn’t dare.
Regardless of their history, they were barely more than acquaintances. He was too good and she was spoiled goods.
The room suddenly felt too small, too hot. Gigi pushed a strand of hair off her face with the back of her hand.
Fitz shifted to his left, splintering the tense moment and their disturbing connection.
Clearing her throat, Gigi rolled her shoulders, set the book aside, and jumped to her feet. She swayed, unable to find her balance. But Fitz was by her side at once, holding her steady as his strong hands clutched her waist.