Chapter Three

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Early Wednesday morning Conn awoke to the sound of someone singing Christmas carols. He groaned and rolled over, flinging his arm over his eyes to block out the shock of daylight.

To hell with King Wenceslas.

The ceiling thundered as if all the king's horses and all the king's men were having a melee right above him. He crammed a pillow over his head and tried to go back to sleep.

It worked until something thumped down the stairs. Something heavy. Something big. Something loud.

Conn rolled his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. There was another loud thud. He buried his pounding head in his hands.

He glanced up, wincing. The banging around on the fourth floor was so loud the old gaslight in the center of the room shook. It sounded as if the whole building rattled.

Conn stood up, scowling at the ceiling. Who the hell was moving in? One stubborn pain-in-the-butt woman or New York City's mounted police?

He stepped into his pants and shrugged on a wool shirt. Grumbling under his breath, he tied his shoes and crossed to the room. He threw open the door.

There in the hallway near the stairs was a cumbersome oak cabinet rocking back and forth in midair. Two men, one under it and one behind it, were trying to move the cabinet around the turn in the third-floor landing and up the next flight of stairs.

One of the men swore. " Stop telling me how to do it, Jimmy, and just back up so we can get this blasted thing up the stairs. "

" Yoo-hoo! " Nellibelle leaned over the banister and shook her finger at the movers.

One of the men groaned, " Not again. "

Conn knew just how he felt.

" Don't scratch the wood please! "

The tallest mover shifted to get a better grip on the cabinet and leaned his head over to the side. " We got it, Miss Austen. "

She started to say something else but her gaze flashed to Conn. For just an instant her face froze in a sick look; it was the same look he'd seen on people who had just swallowed a rotten oyster.

A second later she popped up quicker than his best punching bag. She stared at him the way she had when they'd first met and her face began to turn pink. Her chin shot up, and she spun around and disappeared into the doorway of the fourth-floor apartments.

Conn looked at the other men and shrugged, then pushed away from the doorway. " You want some help? "

The mover took in his size with a quick and rapt once-over. He had seen that look a million times.

" Yeah. We'd appreciate it. Jimmy, set down your end and take this other corner. " He turned to Conn. " Thanks. It's been a long morning. "

" I'll bet it has. " Conn hunkered down and picked up the bottom of the cabinet.

Ten minutes later the cabinet was against the west wall of the fourth-floor flat. Nellibelle was hovering around it, trying to decide if they needed to move it a little to the right.

Again.

He watched her purposely ignore him. But he could see her nervousness—the wringing of her hands, the way she darted back and forth like a confused bee, and her stubborn determination not to look at him.

His immediate reaction was to think of things he could do to force her to look at him. Stand in front of her. Walk toward her until he had her backed against a wall. Grab her and kiss her like he had the night he walked her home.

He paused and made a big to-do of eyeing the cabinet, moving to stand in front of her and tapping one finger against his chin. " I think it's too far to the left. You should move it to the right, Nellibelle. "

She stiffened and looked at him, her expression all pruny. He could almost hear her teeth grind.

He gave her an innocent look and casually pointed at the cabinet with his thumb. " It's too far to the left. "

She turned back around and without looking at the cabinet nodded to the movers. " Move the cabinet more to the left, please. "

He laughed to himself. Dealing with her was no different than maneuvering one of his opponents into taking a frustrated swing at him.

The movers picked up the cabinet again and began to lift it. The rope securing the doors closed slipped down, and the mirrored doors swung open.

Conn grabbed her under one arm, swung her off her feet and out of the way. She gave a shriek of protest and squirmed. A second later an iron bed frame unfolded from the cabinet and slammed to the floor.

He set her down while she was still muttering something about an oaf and walked over to the iron frame. He turned back to her. She was swiping back a hank of black hair from her red face.

He pointed to the bed. " What the hell kind of bed is this supposed to be? "

She raised her chin. " It's a folding bed. "

" Why? "

" Why what? "

" Why would anyone want a folding bed? "

" For convenience of course. "

" What's convenient about a folding bed? Looks damn inconvenient to me. "

" It saves space. "

He eyed the bed. " Who cares about space if it's too short to sleep in. "

" It's not too short for me. "

He let his eyes roam slowly from the top of her stuck-up head to her feet pressed together at the ankles in that annoying prim way she had. " Doesn't look to me as if you'd fit. Unless you sleep with your knees all drawn up. "

" How I sleep is none of your concern, Mr. Donoughue. "

" You'd never catch me in that bed. "

" There is a God. "

The movers laughed out loud. He wanted to laugh, too, but he didn't. Instead he stared at her long enough to annoy her. She gave him a smile that held no humor and spun around.

He waited until she was halfway across the room. " We could always use my bed. "

She stopped as if she had run smack dab into a wall. She turned slowly, her jaw set and her words gritty. " Mr. Donoughue—"

Ignoring her, he strolled around some of the trunks and crates that separated them, peering inside. " So what other kind of contraptions do you have around here? "

" I don't recall inviting you in here. "

" You didn't. " He scanned the room. It was a huge cavernous place. It wasn't dark like his flat. Half the roof was glass. It let sunlight in, but it also leaked whenever it rained. He knew because it had leaked on some wooden boxes, damaging a shipment of leather elbow pads and knee guards.

" I think the movers will be able to handle the rest of my things. Alone. " She walked toward him. " I don't want to keep you from whatever it is you do. "

" You're not. " He turned his back on her and strolled over to an overstuffed chair, sat down, and made himself comfortable, then crossed his hands behind his head and propped his feet on a crate of dishes packed in excelsior.

She watched him from a face that was half offended and half frustrated.

He would have stayed there all morning if Lenny hadn't come running upstairs all in a panic. Beckman's Laundry Wagon had forgotten to deliver last week's load of towels.

A few minutes later Conn was walking down the street toward Beckman's. He stood on the corner, where a uniformed copper on horseback controlled the traffic.

Conn glanced back at the gym. He could see those old glass transoms on the roof. He watched them for a few lost minutes. He heard the police whistle and turned around just in time to catch the man next to him staring up in awe. Conn was used to it.

He glanced down at the man who tried to cover his embarrassment by quickly looking away. After a minute he turned back and caught Conn's eye. " Looks like rain, " the man said.

" You think so? " Conn glanced up. The sky was turning a dull gray color that could mean rain.

" Yeah, with those clouds it'll be pouring by tonight. "

The policeman's whistle blew again, and everyone began to cross the street. Conn was in the crowd but a head above everyone else. The wind picked up and ruffled his hair. He turned around, walking backward across the street. He looked back at those leaky glass windows on the slope of the roof.

Grinning, Conn turned back and stepped up on the opposite curb. He shoved his hands in the deep pockets of his pants and strolled down the street—whistling.

The first raindrop fell on Eleanor's forehead around midnight. Her eyes shot open. The second drop plopped on her nose and dripped down her cheek. After the third drop, she sat up.

Her roof was leaking.

She threw back the covers and got up. The rain outside was coming down harder, pattering a constant beat on the glass and the roof tiles. Drops of water splattered all over the floor and on what little furniture she still owned. She rushed toward the kitchen nook and took out her cast iron pot and a frying pan, then rushed back and placed them under the worst leaks.

Her china cups caught smaller leaks, and along with her few soup bowls, they were scattered haphazardly over the plank floor like croquet wickets. She rummaged through trunks and wooden boxes searching for vases and goblets, anything that could hold water.

By the time she found one new container, the smaller dishes were overflowing and rainwater was spreading over the floor and under the boxes of things she hadn't yet unpacked. She moved back and forth, trying not to panic. She would tuck a vase under one arm, and race across the floor to catch a cup or bowl or pan before it overflowed. She'd shoved the vase under the leak, and run back to the old porcelain sink drain or the narrow water closet and dump out the bowl of water, only to rush back and find five containers overflowing.

The rain came down so hard it hit the roof like buckshot. The leaks began to pour instead of drip. Still she raced back and forth. Water pooled all over the floor, and she tried to mop it up with towels and extra blankets, linens, anything that could soak it up.

Panicking, she spun around and started running. Too fast. She slipped. Lost her balance. Her ankle gave out, she went down, sliding across the wet floor like a duck on ice.

She hit a patch of dry wood and skidded to a stop. She gripped her ankle and groaned, her body curled like a comma. For a pain-filled moment, all she could do was lie there while the rain fell all over her.

I'm okay… I'm okay… I'm okay.

But she wasn't. Her ankle throbbed, and an aching pain shot up her leg and felt as if someone had tried to twist her foot off. She just lay there, waiting for the pain to subside. Part of her wanted to cry, but she wouldn't let herself. She shifted into a sitting position, then rolled onto her knees and pushed herself up. Very carefully she put weight on her injured foot.

It wasn't too bad. She began to walk slowly across the wet floor. She was okay. It was sore, but she could walk almost normally.

Rain dribbled onto her hair and down her back from the roof. Not that it mattered since her nightgown was soaked on one side and damp on the other. She stared up at the glass. She could see the cracks. She stared at them for a few minutes, then began to gather pieces of clothing from her trunks, anything she could use to stuff the leaks.

She gathered up an armful of undergarments, since they were the thinnest fabrics, then she hobbled over and picked up the broom. Within moments she was atop the bureau, using the broom handle to stuff stockings, hankies, a thin corset cover, even bloomers, anything that would plug up the cracks between the glass panels.

Eleanor moved from piece to piece of high furniture—her grandmother's armoire, the old cherry wood buffet, and the round oak table—until she had stuffed the biggest leaks. The cracks on the arch of the roof were too high, but luckily they were over areas where there was no furniture. She put her largest pots and other containers under those.

An hour later she had all the leaks plugged.

Then a new one started right over her bed.

She limped over to the bed, crawled up, and stood on the mattress. She tossed the last two stockings and her broom on top of the oak cabinet, then pulled herself up, scrabbling until she was kneeling on it.

Slowly she stood, then stuck a stocking on the end of the broom handle and stretched up as high as she could. She was just an inch or two short. With her weight mostly on her good foot, she rose on her tiptoes, teetering just a little. She straightened her back for balance. Every time she thought she had the crack plugged, the stocking would slip and fall.

By the fifth time she had learned to catch it with the broom handle so she wouldn't have to keep crawling down to pick it up. This was one of those times when you wished you had too many stockings. It took thirteen tries before she had stuffed the stocking in the narrow leak.

One more leak.

She put her last stocking on the broom handle, stood on tiptoe again and stuffed it into the leak on the first try.

Slowly she put back the broom. Please stay… please stay…

She turned slightly and braced her back flush against the wall and waited. The stocking stopped the leak and stayed there.

She took a deep breath. She'd done it.

A second later the other soaked stocking slipped from its crack and slapped her smack across the face.

The broom slipped from her hand.

She fell. Face forward.

She screamed. Her body hit the mattress so hard the bedsprings screamed with her. The bed frame bounced upward and slammed her into the back of the cabinet.

She saw stars.

It took a moment to realize what had happened. She tried to move and couldn't. The mattress was pressed against her. She could wiggle her hips a small bit. She needed a little more room to be able to force the bed frame back down. She took a deep breath—of mattress—and butted the back of the cabinet with her backside.

The cabinet rocked back.

There was a loud bang. A small click of metal catch.

The cabinet doors! Oh my God… They closed!

She opened her eyes.

Eleanor was stuck inside the bed cabinet.

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