a squeeze across the counter. Tony came back with the report, and Anneliese took it distractedly. “We’re glad you’ve joined us, Mr. Rodomovsky—” and she was gone in a waft of lilac scent.
“Phew,” Tony said. “I was shaking.”
“You were not. You think there isn’t a lady on earth you can’t charm, Mr. Rodomovsky.”
“Tony,” he said, as he usually did. “Every time you say Mr. Rodomovsky, I look around for my father and start counting up my most recent sins.”
He was leaning on the counter giving Jordan the same smile he gave all the ladies who set foot in this shop—though it came, she had noticed, with variations. The boyish grin went to ladies over sixty, who pinched his cheek (then bought something). The roguish grin went to ladies over forty, who lidded their eyes speculatively (then bought something). The full grin included both the crinkled eyes and creases in the cheeks, and it went to ladies over twenty who blushed (then bought something). Even Anneliese had gotten the modified grin with the sympathetic edge, given her widow’s weeds, and had responded to it. Tony Rodomovsky probably flirts with a hat rack if there isn’t anything else around, Jordan thought with considerable amusement. She was glad Anneliese had approved him, because he was certainly good for business.
“Princess Ruth,” Tony exclaimed as he saw the small nose press against the violin’s glass case. “Are you to favor us with a recital?”
Ruth was usually shy with strange men, but Tony upon meeting her had gone down on one knee and intoned that it was well known that Princess Ruth of Bostonia spake not to her knights errant until they had earned her favor with supreme deeds of gallantry, and that he would fain ride to the ends of the earth to win her regard—whereupon Ruth had come out of her hair with a cautious smile. She let him kiss her hand now, then poised an imaginary violin and began to play. Jordan wondered where she had ever seen a violin played; she certainly had the stance right.
Her mother, Jordan answered her own question. Her real mother. Ruth must have seen her mother play—they’d never know how or where, young as Ruth had been. She’d seemed to forget about it for years, but here it was coming up again, making her gaze at the child-size violin as if mesmerized. Was Ruth remembering it now because the only man she’d ever known as a father was suddenly gone, the way her musical, mysterious mother had disappeared?
Jordan’s gaze fell back to her dad’s eyes in the picture. He was solid, Anneliese had said of him last night, over her cocoa. Nothing could follow me out of a dream with him there. Maybe that was why Ruth had bad dreams. The solid, four-square father who had anchored her world for the past few years was now gone.
“You’re in a daze this afternoon, Miss McBride.” Tony’s gaze had turned serious. Jordan braced herself for the usual solicitous Are you all right? that she heard from neighbors and acquaintances and friends every day since her father died, and she mustered the usual bright I’m just fine!
“Would you like me to go away?” Tony asked instead. “I have a handkerchief or a listening ear if you want, but I can also leave you alone for some peace, quiet, and a good cry, in whatever order you need them. Alone being the important part.”
Jordan couldn’t help but laugh, startled. “I have . . . wanted that quite a lot, the last few weeks.” That was why she kept drifting down into the darkroom. People didn’t usually follow her down there.
“Right, then.” Tony straightened. “Shall I bugger off?”
“‘Bugger off’? Did you suddenly turn English?”
“I spent too many years working with a Limey.” A quirk of a smile. “Here’s an idea—why don’t you bugger off, Miss McBride? Take Princess Ruth home early, have some time to yourself.”
Jordan opened her mouth to refuse, but the bell jingled and Garrett’s voice sounded. “Jor, there you are.” He dropped his arm around her shoulders, giving a searching look as if to make sure she hadn’t been crying. “Are you—”
“I’m just fine.”
“I’m trying to persuade Miss McBride here to go home early,” Tony broke in. “Maybe you’ll have better luck, Mr.—”
“Byrne. Garrett Byrne.” Offering a hand. “You’re the new clerk?”
“Guilty. Tony Rodomovsky. You’re the fiancé?”
“Guilty.”
An exchange of handshakes. Jordan wondered if there were two young men anywhere on earth who could shake hands without the size-up that