I cast a look over my horn-rims. “They mentioned the rising popularity of the nationally infamous Ku Klux Klan.”
Tom Vaughan’s handsome face sags in relief. “Well, I’m mighty sorry to hear that, then. I’ll head over to the hotel myself and have a word when Miss Fontaine is there. I know what the KKK means in the South, and it makes me sick. But around here, there are hardly any blacks to begin with, you understand. The Klan is a political rallying tool and a charitable club. It’s all America first with them—promoting jobs for hardworking Protestants over Orientals and Catholic immigrants, protesting Jew banking, defending motherhood and maidenhood. Fund-raisers, not lynch mobs.”
“So they don’t wear masks, then?” I question blandly.
He nods his tawny head. “Come to it, yes, they do, Miss James, but that’s the culture of the organization. They have their rituals, just like the Masons, the Odd Fellows, the Knights of Columbus. Not meant here in Portland to strike terror into any law-abiding folk, I assure you.”
“There have been reports of vandalism against the hotel, however.”
“Yes, and my men figure it for some rogue teens, not the conservative businessmen of this peaceful city attacking their neighbors.”
“I’ll just make that a quote from you, then? For the article?”
“Gladly. I’m sure we’ll catch the rascals in the act soon enough.”
Staring at the object in my hand, I chew.
It’s crumble crust and vanilla, a hint of salt, a kiss of sugar, crisp then pillowy, slathered with fresh butter and crowned with the blood-thick ambrosia Mr. Vaughan referred to as “blackberry jam.”
“My God,” I say in unvarnished awe.
He smirks good-naturedly. “My wife can cook! There’s no denying. You ever had blackberry jam?”
“Never.”
“Where are you from, Miss James? Sorry, I neglected to ask.”
“Connecticut, and think nothing of it.”
“Well, what do you think of the spread we make from the local weed?”
I am so gone on it that I am never putting anything behind my teeth save that which is drowning in blackberry jam ever again.
The front door crashes open.
Evelina Vaughan stands between the entryway and the morning room. She looks much more like herself than she did at the Paragon—her real self, that is, and in a photo flash, I can see what Blossom meant when she said Mrs. Vaughan was Portland.
She’s its generosity and eccentricity and isolation and passion and rebellion and melancholy and kindness.
The lady of the house is a tearing grand mess. She wears a pair of mud-crusted galoshes, riding pants, and a man’s plaid flannel shirt knotted at the waist to fit her. A leather satchel hangs from her shoulder, and the hand hooked around the strap is covered in fine scratches, as if she went ten rounds with a paper blizzard. Her halo of apricot waves is still done up nineteenth-century style but has developed a large population of woodland residents. Leaves, pine needles, flecks of dirt.
I watch Tom Vaughan’s heart cracking.
April bursts back in at a run, having heard the door. “Oh, Mrs. Vaughan. Thank heaven you’re back. Are you—”
“Please don’t take on so, April—we have a guest.” Mr. Vaughan stands hastily. “Go and draw some hot water for a bath at once, please. Sweetheart. Did you lose track of time? We’ve been expecting you since . . . well, we were worried.”
Grey irises wide and hectic, she melts into his open arms like a butter curl.
Since last night, I’d judge, from the penciled shadows under her eyes and the layers of dried forest on her galoshes.
“Tom. Dear Tom. I didn’t leave a note, did I? You look as if I didn’t, and I’m so sorry, please forgive me.” Pulling back, she laughs, a happy wind chime sound with a thread of turbulence in it. “I’ve been—what was it I was doing? Oh yes, that’s right, I baked, and then I wrote in my journal, I was very good about it, you can check, and then I had a meeting with the Married Women’s Benevolent Society, and when I got home, all the walls were too thick, and you were out late at work, so I went for a walk. But wait, we’ve company, how lovely. Who’s this, Tom?”
“I’m Miss Alice James.” Standing, I proffer a businesslike handshake, not in the least surprised she never noticed me at the hotel. “Very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Vaughan.”
Her fingers are as cold as her smile is dazzling. “Charmed. Have you business with my husband, or were you waiting for me? I didn’t think I had an appointment,