The critically acclaimed authors of I’ll Be Seeing You return with a riveting tale of two sisters, set in the intoxicating world of New York City during the Roaring Twenties.

Ivy and Rose Adams may be sisters, but they’re nothing alike. Rose, the eldest, is the responsible one, while Ivy is spirited and brazen. After the unexpected death of their father, the women are left to reconcile the estate, when they make a shocking discovery: not only has their father left them in financial ruin, but he has also bequeathed their beloved family house to a brother they never knew existed. With only a photograph to guide the way, Ivy and Rose embark to New York City, determined to find this mysterious man and reclaim what is rightfully theirs.

Once in New York, temptations abound at every turn, and soon the sisters are drawn into the glitzy underbelly of Manhattan, where they must overcome their differences and learn to trust each other if they’re going to survive in the big city and find their brother. Filled with unforgettable characters and charm, Empire Girls is a love letter to 1920s New York, and a captivating story of the unspoken bond between sisters.

Praise for Suzanne Hayes & Loretta Nyhan and I’ll Be Seeing You

“I devoured this story in one greedy, glorious gulp. Oh, the women! I love them. I love their families and their voices and their stories. I bet you’ll love them, too.”

—Marisa de los Santos, bestselling author of Love Walked In

“Timeless and universal…a deeply satisfying tale.”

—Booklist

“A delight! I’ll Be Seeing You made me want to get out a pen and paper and write a friend a good old-fashioned letter.”

—Sarah Jio, bestselling author of The Violets of March

“As beautifully written as it is captivating. An absolutely terrific debut.”

—Sarah Pekkanen, author of The Opposite of Me

“A moving portrayal of women waiting and enduring and re-inventing their lives in wartime, and a wonderful affirmation of the life-enhancing potential of female friendship.”

—Margaret Leroy, author of The Soldier’s Wife

“Vivid and well-crafted…. Readers will laugh, cry and be inspired.”

—Pam Jenoff, bestselling author of The Kommandant’s Girl

“I read this sweet, compassionate novel with my heart in my throat.”

—Kelly O’Connor McNees, author of The Lost Summer of Louisa May Alcott

“An all-around beautiful tale of the power of love and friendship.”

—RT Book Reviews

Empire Girls

Suzanne Hayes & Loretta Nyhan

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To my daughters, Rosy, Tess and Grace. Sisters who save secret smiles for one another. I adore you.

—Suzanne

To New York, city of my dreams.

—Loretta

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

EXTRACT

READER'S GUIDE FOR EMPIRE GIRLS

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

A CONVERSATION WITH THE AUTHORS

CHAPTER 1

Rose

THE EVENING MY father died, I was stirring the stew in our big comfortable kitchen as I read another chapter of Bleak House. The pages, already wrinkled from breakfast and lunch, now had a big smear where I’d laid the spoon down. Most of my books wore the same battle wounds. But I didn’t really mind because I thought that the smudges and stains added character to their pages. A story within a story. It was careless, and I meant it to be so. Most nights, when all the work was done for the day, I could sit and look at those messy pages, remembering the young girl I was before becoming the only responsible person in our little family of three.

As the grandfather clock in the foyer struck six, I’d already placed our dinner on the table. Six had always been our dinner hour. Our mother was the one who’d chosen that time, and I worked hard to maintain the tradition. We lost her in 1918, when the flu swept through the world, cleaning out the dusty corners and finding everyone...even those of us who lived quiet lives in small towns like Forest Grove, New York.

I turned fifteen that year, and Ivy, fourteen. Our parents always babied and favored her, so she seemed younger then. Even though our mother was far too ill to pull me aside and give me a dramatic talk about passing the torch, I still believed she’d want me to be the one to look after our household. I was her best helper, and I took that role seriously. It was my job to watch over Ivy, my father and our home, Adams House, as well.

None of that seemed to matter to Ivy and Father when I had to coax them in from their garden every night. It was our evening ritual of cat and mouse. I cooked and then had to chase them, and by the time we were seated around the dining room table, the meal I’d prepared would be cold.

Mother and Father had traveled the world before they found out I was “on the way.” That’s when they gave up their vagabond ways and returned to Father’s ancestral home. I always believed that Adams House belonged to me. It became a living breathing part of my soul. Every clapboard of it, each column, all the curved arches. Mine. From its spires to the precarious-looking turrets, to the wide, wraparound porch. All mine. None of them loved it as much as I did. I considered Adams House to be a full member of the family, and as the years went by after Mother died, I took solace in the fact that I’d traded in the last bit of my childhood for full ownership. Adams House would be my legacy, payment in full for the years I spent in charge.

“Are you coming in or aren’t you?” I shouted out the top of the cottage door in the kitchen. “I prepared your favorite, Papa. Beef stew and biscuits. If you don’t come inside now, it will be a pasty mess.”

That evening was damp and raw. There’d been a lot of rain, and I watched the two of them come up from the ground, each with mud on their knees and flushed with the raw spring winds. Ivy began to yell something back at me, but father hushed her, placed his arm around her shoulders and guided her toward the house. It was good to see some pink in his cheeks. He’d gotten a pale, gray look over the winter months. I’d started to worry over him.

“Make sure you clean up before you take your seats,” I said.

“Make up your mind, Rose. Do you want us eating cold food or not?” said Ivy.

Father interjected before the two of us could begin a real argument. We always seemed to begin to argue if there was less than ten feet between us.

“Don’t fret, Rosemary. We’ll wash our hands at least.”

“There’s soapy water in a basin in the sink already. I know how long it takes to wash hands, so make sure you don’t dally. The both of you,” I said and returned to the dining room to arrange the silver.

Though we were twenty-two and twenty-one respectively, Ivy’d held on to her childish ways, and our Father never discouraged her. Ivy, at dinner, absolutely had to sit next to the French doors closest to the foyer so she could bolt from the room as soon as the meal was over. She despised being still and any sort of hard work, and was always running off here or there, dropping everything at the first opportunity to go on trips with Father, or swim and frolic in the small lake next to our house.

My wild little sister, Ivy, made the promise I’d given my mother—to watch over her—difficult to keep. She was different from the rest of us in both demeanor and appearance.

I’d always wondered if the physical contrasts between Ivy and myself were a manifestation of our distinctive personalities and constant disagreement. I had light hair, where hers was dark. I carried more of our father’s looks, though my hair was not quite blond enough, and my face had more angles. When I was a little girl, still free to daydream about things, I liked to imagine that our parents picked up bits and pieces of the distant lands they’d explored, and Ivy and I were born with those traits, as well.

As I got older, I began to believe Ivy was born of their more exciting adventures, while I was born of more bland destinations. I did have one feature that could be construed as mysterious, though. My eyes. They were a bright, icy blue. Ivy’s eyes were light green, calm like a tropical sea. I swear, I often thought that some terrible mistake was made. Ivy had an aloof streak that would go along with my eyes, not hers. And for whatever reason, Father and Mother—when she had been with us—could never see it.

“She has the soul of an Egyptian Goddess!” Father would say when she’d do something absurd. When we were little scraps, those statements would make me cringe, slam doors and run to my room. After Mother died, I had no time for tantrums, so I grew used to Father’s adoration of Ivy. Just as I grew used to Ivy’s way of curling around Father’s feet like a cat, or waking him up early in the morning when he’d shout, “Aces high in the ever-lovin’ sky!” to greet the new day, and the two would erupt in rollicking laughter. I’d listen from my own tidy room and pray they wouldn’t bring any neighbors over. Or stray cats.

But I envied her beauty and simply adored her thick, exotic hair. I almost went mad when she came home from town with her hair bobbed the previous autumn. I was weeding in the garden, planting tulip bulbs at the precise time of the season our mother would have been doing the same.

“Ivy! Your hair!” I said, getting up and pulling off my gloves so I could touch the ends that angled in toward her face.

Father, who’d taken her and approved of the drastic cut, smiled. “I think it’s marvelous. All the modern women are doing it, Rosemary. You should, too. I’ll take you next week, if you’d like.”

“I’d rather die,” I said, and went back to my chore. Ivy and I didn’t speak for days. She glared at me with those eyes of hers, and I glared right back.

Father and Ivy finally sat down at the dinner table. I looked through the doorway to the grandfather clock and noted the time.

“It is almost seven, you two. I simply cannot keep chasing you around. Soon you’ll have to make your own dinners,” I said, giving them both a good stare as I ladled the stew out into their bowls.

“Your eyes are a peculiar color for a practical girl, Rosemary,” Father said, reaching for a biscuit. “People might get the wrong impression of you.”

“Her posture will erase any sort of misunderstanding about our Rose’s disposition, Papa. She stands straight like a board. No flexibility whatsoever,” said Ivy.

“I’m going to agree with you, sister. I am vain about my perfect posture. You should try it, you know. Mother always told us...”

Ivy shot me a look across the table. She was right to stop me. Father didn’t like it when we talked about Mother. It made him sad, and that was one place where we agreed. We both loved our papa very much...even if it was for different reasons.

“Ivy,” said Father. “Be a love and pour your old papa a drink. And Rosemary is right, you know. You should stand up straighter. It’s a skill that comes with practice, not birth. You do slouch, my darling.”

“Papa, you shouldn’t! It’s not good for you. And you’ve barely touched your food. I made your favorite on purpose.”

He’d been picking at his meals for weeks, and I couldn’t tell if it was worry, or if it was his health or if it was a simple matter of our father beginning a new project in his mind. He was a botanist and illustrator, and he frequently lost himself in new ideas for drawings, books and experiments.

“Oh, Rose. Don’t be such a stick. I wonder, do you ever get tired of worry? It must be exhausting.” Ivy went to the cupboard under the china cabinet and brought out a bottle of Scotch. Father had bought cases of it before prohibition became law.

She poured father his drink.

“Thank you, Ivy,” he said, pushing himself back from the table a bit and taking a long sip.

“And you can have another if you’d like. I’ll keep the bottle right here,” said Ivy, looking straight at me as she said it, holding the neck of the bottle protectively.

“If that bottle makes a ring on my lace tablecloth, I’ll have to soak it for a week. You could be careful with my handiwork, even if you don’t want to be careful with our father’s health,” I said. It was a mean thing to say.

One would think my sister and I would be closer. We even shared a bedroom when we were small. It was a sweet, lovely space with whitewashed walls. Mother and Father knew that I liked things clean and crisp. Not Ivy, though.... As soon as Ivy turned seven, she demanded her own room, stating, “I hate all that white. May I have a bedroom that is painted blue?”

Our distance doesn’t come solely from our separate rooms; it comes from differing priorities and versions of the world. Ivy always saw things in a way that I could not. The world, it seemed, was made for her. Every tree, every idea, every bit of love was created for her, and she was determined to take it all. I didn’t understand her “the world is my oyster” view of life. Hard work has always been the thing that makes me proud. In the time since our mother’s death, I’d become the provider for our household, as well, making lace and sewing clothing for the dress shops in Downtown Forest Grove.

As Father picked at his meal and drank his Scotch, I looked at the three of us closely. Memory seems to understand important moments before our consciousness has a chance to catch up. I suppose a part of me knew that everything would be different in the morning.

I looked at my sister, who was trying to hide her boredom, looking over her shoulder at the clock. She was eager to leave the table and didn’t like to wait until everyone was finished.

And then I looked at Papa, ready with a smile or an approving nod for each of us, sitting at the head of the table, holding court. With Ivy and I on either side. His companions.

I was about to clear the table when a visitor came calling. Father rose quickly and had to steady himself before he walked slowly into our foyer to answer the door.

“Who do you think that is?” Ivy asked.

“I don’t know,” I said.

There were murmurs, and Ivy started to get up, as well, but I motioned for her to stay put.

“Yes, I am aware,” I heard Father say, and then the hushed dialogue continued.

“Join me as I smoke a pipe, won’t you, Lawrence? This is a lot for me to take standing up,” said Father as both men walked into our line of vision. Father looked into the dining room as our visitor took off his fedora. We’d known Lawrence—we all called him that, because Father did—for two years. He’d become our solicitor. He was a tall, thin man who reminded me a bit of a willow tree.

I stood up with as much grace as I could muster and walked to the two of them.

“Lawrence, how nice of you to stop by. Are you hungry? I have plenty of dinner left over. You remember Ivy, of course.”

“Of course,” said Lawrence. “Talented Ivy, who we are sure will be famous one day.”

Ivy got up and gave a large, exaggerated bow.

“And Rose, it’s been only a few months since I saw you, but you seem so grown-up now.”

“She is grown,” said Ivy. “She’s twenty-two, and that makes her a spinster.”

She was at my side, and she nudged me with her shoulder. I had to look deep into her eyes to make sure she was teasing me. Ivy likes to tease when she’s unsure of herself.

Mr. Lawrence cleared his throat. “As ever, it’s lovely to see all of you.” He looked a bit nervous.

“And you, Lawrence, though I wish it could have waited until tomorrow. My daughters and I do cherish our evenings together,” said Father, and then turned to me. “Rose,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm. I could hear the tension, though. I knew it because I shared that trait with him. A tightening of the voice when you want to remain calm. “Mr. Lawrence and I need to discuss business. Might you stay away from the drawing room this evening?”

“But Father, my monologue. I’ve been working on it for days,” whined Ivy.

“Hush, Ivy,” I said.

She rolled her eyes at me.

Lawrence was the one to save the moment. “There’s no reason for us to rush our talk, Everett. Why don’t we all go into the drawing room, I’d love to see Ivy’s monologue. It’s been an age since I’ve been to the theater. I do enjoy a good play.”

“Why, Lawrence, I never took you for a man of the arts!” said Ivy.

“There is much you don’t know about me, Ms. Adams,” he said, taking her arm and escorting her to the drawing room.

“I have always found it odd that you are a young man with an old man’s profession. Solicitors are sneaky characters in novels and films. Are you a criminal, Lawrence?”

“I don’t think so, Ivy,” he replied, and they laughed.

Ivy was always a flirt. She couldn’t help it, really. Her whole body flirted. Her swinging short hair was as good as a wink. Her painted lips were practically a kiss. Her short dress, an invitation. I was both jealous and fascinated by her. And that night, she fascinated Lawrence, as well.

As our father took Lawrence away toward his cigar box and phonograph, Ivy stuck her tongue out at our guest’s back. One thing I do love about my sister is that she can always make me laugh, and at that moment I had trouble suppressing my giggles.

Gathering there together, as was our usual evening ritual, was strange with a guest. My parents used to have parties when Ivy and I were little girls. But as the money grew tighter, there were fewer and fewer gatherings. I’ll admit, that night was exciting because of his presence, even though we all sensed the gathering storm.

Our rituals were sacred to me. Every night, after dinner, we’d gather as a family in the drawing room and end the day with entertainment and comfort. This was the best time of the evening for all of us, even restless Ivy. Though old and well used, the furniture in the drawing room was beautiful, and I always made sure to place fresh flowers in the most curious and delightful places, as our mother used to do. In the fall I replaced the flowers with colorful leaves, and in the winter, pussy willows from the marshland by the lake.

Usually, I’d commence walking up and down the room with books piled on my head, while father smoked his cigar.

Then I’d take out my sewing, and we’d watch Ivy perform.

Ivy, whose lifelong dream was to become a famous actress, would write terribly melodramatic stage plays, and then act them out for us on a platform Father had built especially for her. She was quite good, even if her heroines were overwrought and usually died at the end of her plays, at which time Father and I were obliged to act quite sad.

With Lawrence as our guest, I did not practice my posture. I sat down and took out my sewing so Ivy could begin her dramaturgy. I knew Father and Lawrence had things to discuss, and I was curious about them. But I didn’t want to take any time away from Ivy, because I knew how she looked forward to her own practice. Though I made fun of her acting sometimes, I wanted to support her.

Ivy preformed her monologue that night—this time, from Romeo and Juliet:

“...and, when I shall die,

Take him and cut him out in little stars,

And he will make the face of heaven so fine

That all the world will be in love with night

And pay no worship to the garish sun....”

I noticed the way Mr. Lawrence could not take his eyes off my sister.

I took a better look at him myself. His hair was light, and his features were soft yet strong. It was his laughter at the end of the evening that made me begin to feel I knew him. That perhaps he could be a friend.

As the evening drew to a close, Mr. Lawrence made pleasant conversation. The Scotch Father had served brought a blush to his complexion.

“Are you working on anything new, Everett?” he asked.

“He’s working on a glorious botany book, you know. Drawings and such of plant life. You should see it,” said Ivy, interrupting.

“I’ll make sure to take a look,” he said, looking at Ivy. It was then that he turned his attention back toward my father. “Everett, thank you for this delightful evening, but as the time grows late, I fear we must get down to business.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said my father, who guided Mr. Lawrence into his study.

I went about cleaning the kitchen and making sure Ivy was settled and not staying up all night reading Photoplay magazine until her eyes popped out of her head. I was looking forward to getting back to my novel, Bleak House, which was waiting patiently on my nightstand with other books. Books are my only passion. Father and Ivy used to go off on their excursions, never knowing that I was relieved when they were gone. That I’d wear my nightgowns all day and read from dawn till dusk.

It was very late when Father ascended the stairs and went to his rooms. I hurried out of bed, flew down the stairs and then brought his bedtime tea back up.

“Here you are, Papa. See, I will always bring your tea. No matter how late I must stay awake,” I said, placing the cup by his lamp and pulling the quilt up tight around him as I fluffed his pillows. He didn’t complain or tell me not to fuss over him like usual.

“Is something wrong, Papa?” I asked.

He settled back against the pillows and took his tea. The cup clattered in the saucer. I held his hands steady as he took a sip, and then guided them back to place it safely on the nightstand once again.

“I suppose I could tell you that everything is fine. But you are Rosemary Lillian Adams. Not Ivy. And you deserve the truth.”

“You are scaring me, Papa. What did Lawrence say?”

“Just a bit of trouble with money. But don’t worry too much, Rose. I’ll sell the new book any day now.”

“I can sew more dresses, Papa. And I should be charging more for the lace collars anyway,” I said, sitting on the bed next to him.

“Well, to be honest, Rosemary, we may need far more than my book of plants and your sewing skills. But I must tell you that now may not be the best time to speak about it, because I am very tired. Perhaps the sun will shine on us tomorrow and our financial future will be less bleak. Let’s look at it from a new perspective in the morning...what do you say?”

“I believe it will all work out. And I don’t want you to worry about anything,” I said.

He reached up and placed his hand on my cheek.

“You’ve taken such good care of us. Promise me you’ll keep looking out for Ivy. No matter what. She needs you. Things may get... Well... If I’m busy. Promise me?”

“Of course I will,” I said and kissed his cheek.

“Rose?” he said, stopping me as I went to leave...and stopping my heart because he’d called me Rose and not Rosemary.

“Yes, Papa?”

“I love you.”

Hot, unbidden tears came to my eyes. Father was always lavish with his love for Ivy. It was not the same with me.

“I love you, too, Papa,” I said.

I read my book late into the night and thought about ways to make money. I’d convinced myself that I’d go work at a mill or even become a housemaid. Something that would keep us afloat until our father sold his books.

I woke feeling unworried, and stretched in the silvery morning light.

I heard Ivy’s laughter as she entered our father’s room, and smiled. Though I was sometimes jealous of their closeness, I was happy that morning because I knew Ivy could cheer our father like no other.

But then her voice broke off, and a deep wail began. It grew into a hollow sound that broke my heart before I knew it could be broken. I ran to her, my sister. I ran to her and tried to make sense of what she said to me through her choking sobs.

“He’s dead. Rose. He’s dead!”

She hid her head against my chest. My knees must have gone weak, because I stumbled backward, and we both fell against the wall. We slid down it, together, grasping at one another, staying entangled there until the sun rose too high for us to ignore our reality.

CHAPTER 2

Ivy

I DIDN'T KNOW how to grieve.

While the undertaker began discussing finalities with Rose, I sneaked out the back door. The weather was pleasant, and I imagined my father throwing up his arms as he always did on the warm days of late spring, shouting, “aces-high in the ever-loving sky!” to the blinding sun. The garden he’d recently turned ran wide and deep, leading to a freshly planted field of barley. Beyond that, the road beckoned, the one leading to Albany, and beyond even that, New York City. After squelching the urge to hitchhike, I stretched out across the damp grass and tried not to think about the sound of the casket being transferred to the waiting hearse. The ground held the trace of a chill, and I shivered, closing my eyes as the cold seeped into my dress. What would it feel like to sink into the endless earth? To never feel it under my feet again?

“It’s time to leave, Ivy.”

I blinked up at my sister. She wore a dress she’d sewn the night before, a prim, black buttoned-up number that covered everything but her face and hands. Rose’s eyes were puffy and raw, and her soft blond hair was twisted into a tight, unforgiving knot behind her head. I wished she’d let it loose, unfurled like Rapunzel’s rope. I could climb it up to the bright blue sky, leaving this awful day behind.

“Do we have to go now?”

She frowned. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

The sun’s rays kissed the top of Rose’s head. I didn’t want to do anything but watch it shimmer. “You should let your hair down,” I said. “You’d feel the breeze if you did.”

Rose grasped my shoulders and pulled me to my feet. “I’m not sure where your mind is at, but the undertaker is ready for the procession to the cemetery.”

Procession? The few mourners from town—some clients of father’s and the odd academic or two—had departed once they’d satisfied their morbid curiosity. Our neighbors, respectful of our privacy, left sandwiches and canned asparagus at the back door, along with a prayer card. I preferred their method.

Rose brushed the dirt from my dress and guided me toward the hearse parked on our cobblestone portico. Dressed in black suits, the undertaker and his men rushed about like a flock of Poe’s ravens, flittering in and out of the house, opening and closing doors, ushering us into the hot cocoon of the hearse’s inner cabin. I immediately opened a window and stuck my head into the spring air. Rose kept her window closed and turned her back to the glass.

The car moved slowly through downtown Forest Grove. We passed the grocery, where Mr. Madden was sweeping the entryway. He stopped and saluted as our sedan passed.

“Does he know father wasn’t in the armed forces?” Rose asked. I nearly jumped a foot when she said it. I hadn’t noticed she’d moved so close to me.

“I don’t think he knows what else to do.” I saluted him back.

We passed the butcher, the watchmaker, the cobbler—the three men standing in front of their establishments, heads bowed as we lumbered by.

Rose leaned forward to get a better look. “Are they praying?”

“I think so.” A lump formed quickly in my throat. Father had been an eccentric presence in town, but never failed to offer a smile and a tip of the hat to every soul he encountered. They remembered him, and their tribute touched my heart. I twitched with the unexpected desire to embrace the entire town.

We turned down Plum Street, just blocks from the graveyard. Mrs. O’Neill herself stepped out of O’Neill’s Coiffures. Father brought me to her salon the previous fall, where I sat perched at the edge of a lavender stool while the old lady bobbed my hair with a ruler. I’d asked her to make me look like Clara Bow and she didn’t bat an eyelash, humming “Ain’t We Got Fun” the whole time she had the scissors at my neck. I waved and called to her.

“This isn’t a parade,” Rose muttered. She retreated to her dark corner of the cabin.

“But it is,” I said. “Open your window and have a look behind us.”

Mrs. O’Neill joined a group following the hearse on foot. I spotted Mr. Madden, white starched apron still tied tightly around his waist, and Mr. Lawrence, father’s solicitor. He seemed to have come out of nowhere. Mrs. O’Neill offered him a quick smile, and he took her arm.

“Do you think they’ll come back to the house afterward?” Rose asked, worrying at her lower lip. “I don’t have enough to feed everyone. If I’d known we were hosting a reception, I would have made a casserole.”

“Why can’t you just take it for what it is?” I gently chided her. “Don’t you understand? They’re part of father’s legacy.”

The driver rounded the entrance to the small cemetery and parked in full view of the dogwood tree we’d planted next to mother’s grave. It had just begun to bloom, the flowers bursting pink and white as newly hatched chicks. The air smelled fresh, and the bright green grass seemed painted onto the rolling hills by an impressionist’s hand.

The beauty was an insult, an affront.

Rose took a deep breath. “It’s so pretty today.”

“Then why does it hurt my eyes so much?”

Before she could respond, the townspeople caught up with us, and we all walked over to where the men were finishing up their digging. I could hardly look at the upended earth.

We had no minister, but no one seemed to mind. The undertaker said a few words, and townspeople formed a line to pay their respects. They patted our arms and shared quick remembrances. And then they were gone.

It was time to lower our father into the ground. Rose stepped forward, but then she whipped her head around, her expression panicked. “I forgot the flowers to toss. We have nothing to send him off, Ivy.” She began to cry. “How could I have done that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Please, let’s just go.”

Rose wiped under her eyes with trembling hands. “It’s tradition. We did it for Mother, and we’ll do it for him. Don’t you want to say goodbye properly?”

No, I wanted to scream. I don’t. Instead, I snapped a few branches from the dogwood tree, careful to keep the blossoms intact. “Here,” I said, handing them to her. “Now you won’t break with tradition.” I turned, unable to watch, and walked back to the hearse.

A tall, lanky man leaned against the hood, deep in conversation with the undertaker. When I approached, I realized it was Mr. Lawrence. He noticed me and straightened up, removing his fedora. In the sunshine his hair was the color of burned oatmeal, and the smattering of freckles on his nose made me want to hand him a tin can and send him down the road to kick it.

“My condolences, Miss Adams,” he said, dipping his head.

“You said that already.” I liked that both men looked away, my sharp words making them uncomfortable. An anger had flared inside me, hot and destructive, burning away the last of my courtesy. I glared at them.

The undertaker excused himself and escaped into the car. Mr. Lawrence and I leaned back against the sedan, watching Rose as she bent to place the flowers on my father’s casket.

“So what it is?” I asked. “Is it money? Gambling?” I paused, my heart lifting ever so slightly. “Did he sell a book?”

“It concerns your father’s estate,” Mr. Lawrence said, staring at the damp ground. “I’d like to speak with you and Rose privately. We could go to my office, or I could accompany you home.”

“From the look on your face, it ain’t good news. Why not spit it out right here?”

“Your sister should be with you. Your father expressed concern that you two aren’t very...close.” He stepped in front of me, blocking my view of Rose as she began to tidy up mother’s grave. “Today, it’s necessary to bridge that chasm. I don’t mean to frighten you—”

“You’re doing a pretty good job.”

“But these things are never easy, and your father was an unusual man.”

“He was a good man.”

“I know,” he said. “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”

“Just so we’re copacetic.” I felt something on my cheek and swatted at it. It was a tear.

Mr. Lawrence reached into his pocket, pulled out a clean handkerchief and handed it over. “I have a poor memory for quotations, but there are a few that stick with me. I’ve got one I think you might know. Do you want to hear it?”

“I’m going to anyway, right?”

He reddened and cleared his throat. “‘For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come.’”

“Hamlet,” I said quickly. I knew Shakespeare’s plays inside out and upside down.

“It always appealed to me because of its optimism,” Mr. Lawrence explained. “It doesn’t have to be the end, Ivy,” he added gently. “Not entirely. I believe those who’ve passed on still have a stake in our affairs from the other side.”

I nodded, unsure of how to respond to his kindness. The thought did provide some comfort, but it wasn’t until we were riding home, the three of us silent in the shadowy cave of the hearse’s cabin, that I realized he’d misinterpreted Hamlet’s words. The dreams of the dead were not of the living, they were of regret for the sins of life, the unfinished deeds, the mistakes that could never be fixed.

* * *

We convened in father’s study. The afternoon had grown chilly, and Rose started a fire and fixed some tea. I should have helped her, but once I’d settled into father’s comfortable leather chair, I didn’t want to move. I could still smell the last cigar he smoked.

Mr. Lawrence drained his teacup and placed it on the mantel. He refused our offers to sit and began to pace, file folder in hand. “Your father lived a colorful life before marrying your mother. I suppose I should start there.”

Though I didn’t like the idea of father telling Mr. Lawrence his secrets, the care with which he chose his words bothered me more—he knew what was to come next would be distressing. I glanced over at Rose. Her pale face and wide, fearful eyes meant she’d come to the same conclusion.

“Go on,” I urged.

Mr. Lawrence stopped moving, took a breath and looked at me directly. “Your mother was your father’s second wife. His first marriage produced a son, and your father has left the management of his estate to this man.”

“That can’t be true,” Rose said after his words sank in. Her voice sounded weak and faraway.

“I don’t understand,” I added. “Why would he have kept something like this hidden?”

Mr. Lawrence placed the folder on my lap. “I’m not certain. I’ve only just learned of it. Perhaps you should read this, and then we’ll proceed.”

Rose got up and sat next to me, and I placed the document between us. I read through it a few times, but the repetition wasn’t necessary—for something that would change our lives so irrevocably, it was remarkably straightforward.

In his beautiful handwriting, all measured slopes and perfect loops, our father had clearly communicated his wishes. He’d left the management of his estate to this man, a son he’d sired six years before marrying our mother. Asher John Adams. It was an untouchable name, mysterious with a dash of history, and so naturally one my father would choose. To my surprise I felt a stab of affection for this lost half brother, the unending possibility of him stretching my imagination. I pictured him dark and mysterious, with a certain Valentino exoticism. I’d studied the great actor in the theaters of downtown Albany, memorizing the way he crushed his eyebrows and widened his eyes at the same time, the magnificent strength as he folded his arms, muscles rippling. My brother would look like that.

Asher. Was he a gift from the grave? “When can we meet him?”

Rose gasped. “Ivy, please take this seriously. This is our house. Ours. Father’s mind must have been compromised.” She sat forward, appealing to Mr. Lawrence. “Can you provide proof? How do we know some swindler didn’t concoct this scheme? Where is this first wife? How do we know this man is father’s son?”

“If you’ll sift through the file, you’ll find the necessary documents,” Mr. Lawrence said. “I looked them over closely this morning. I think they’ll settle any question of legitimacy.” He touched the open file with his finger. “Please remember that seeing things in black and white can be a shock,” he added, his voice a touch softer. I knew he wasn’t warning me. It was Rose who’d gone still.

I began sifting through the memos from the bank, threatening letters from the state assessor’s office and countless hastily scribbled notes in my father’s handwriting. Asher’s name appeared periodically, with no other information than his birth date. April 29. Mine was May 1. Had father thought about him when I came into the world? He must have. I felt a constricting of my chest. Was it a pang of loss or anger or sadness? I shook it off.

“And Asher’s mother?” I asked as I continued rummaging through the paperwork. “What of her?”

“Deceased,” Mr. Lawrence said, frowning. “There are no other known relatives.”

I’d almost exhausted the file when I spotted our brother. As large as a letter, it took a minute to register as a photograph. “It’s him, Rose.”

The photograph had been enlarged and cropped, and I stared into his extraordinarily light eyes. They were Rose’s eyes. In fact, he was the male embodiment of Rose— aquiline nose, lean frame, full mouth. He was in shirtsleeves, arms crossed, the thickness of his forearms hinting at manual labor. The half smile cocking his mouth was a brash challenge hidden under a thin layer of civility. A metal plate lay tucked behind his left shoulder. It was stamped with two words: EMPIRE HOUSE.

“He could be your twin,” I said, trying not to sound as disappointed as I felt. I’d sat across from Rose at thousands of family meals. Though good-looking, Asher’s features were as exotic as a jar of strawberry jam. I thought at the very least he’d look like an outsider, different, like me. “He is definitely an Adams,” I admitted. “No one can deny it.”

“He’s still a stranger,” Rose said in a choked voice. “If he wasn’t, he would be here, wouldn’t he?”

Mr. Lawrence sighed. “There lies the problem. Asher John Adams seems to have vanished from the face of the earth. It appears your father had very little contact with his son over the years, no more than a handful of terse phone calls. When your father wished to finally speak to his son in person, he learned Asher Adams has no known address in New York City or the whole Eastern seaboard, for that matter.”

I didn’t like that. Was Rose right? Had my father been swindled? No. He could be flighty, but he was too intelligent for that, too sharp-minded. “Yet, something in those conversations convinced my father to make Asher manager of his estate,” I said. “He could have given it to Rose or me, or even you.”

“I’m not the eldest anymore,” Rose said. “But I am here, and he isn’t.” Her posture regained its straight line. “Could the problem be solved that easily? If we can’t find him, everything stays as it is?”

Mr. Lawrence looked pained, indecision clouding his hazel eyes. I stared at him, mercilessly, as he waged debate within himself. How he must tip his hand in the courtroom! I began to wonder why father picked this man. Then it hit me, his fee was probably right next door to nothing. I glanced down at the bank notices. “There are further financial complications,” I said evenly. “Could you explain what those are?”

He nodded. “The mortgage and property taxes are in severe arrears. If the heir does not make claim on the house and bring the tax bill to date, the home will be sold and the bank and state will see its money.”

“Did my father leave any funds in his accounts?” Rose asked, though we both knew the answer to that one.

Mr. Lawrence paused. “I’m sorry, but not very much at all.”

My mind reeled, the implications of this development still unclear. “What if Mr. Asher John Adams can’t be found? What happens then?”

“If he doesn’t come forward within a year, the house will revert to the bank,” Mr. Lawrence explained, his tone regaining a professional aloofness. “The bank will pay the property taxes and sell the home as soon as they can get the stake in the ground.”

We were silent a moment as we considered that image.

“What if we could raise the funds?” Rose said, growing desperate. “Could we pay the bank in installments?

Mr. Lawrence looked away. “I’m afraid you’d need Mr. Asher to approve that route, Miss Adams.” He pitied us. I hated pity. It was a thin veil hiding the firm belief that a similar fate could not possibly happen to him. “Your father was in the process of finding Mr. Adams when he passed on. He’d begun searching in New York City, but hadn’t gotten any further.”

“Could we hire one of those private detectives?” Rose asked. “That seems the logical route.”

“Of course,” Mr. Lawrence agreed. “However, there is the matter of the fee. Pinkerton charges a thirty-dollar per diem, expenses not included. New York is not an inexpensive town.”

Rose slumped in her chair. “I see.”

“I’ll go,” I volunteered.

Mr. Lawrence cleared his throat. “I don’t think it wise to go alone, but if you went together, you might find Mr. Adams quickly and we can get this sorted out.”

Rose stood and tugged at her shirtwaist irritably, displacing her black silk belt. “We’re supposed to pick up and go to that awful city and allow a stranger to make decisions about our future?” she said, shaking her head. “I can’t, Ivy.”

“Can’t what?”

“Allow any of this,” she said, rising. “I know you’re not accustomed to it, but listen to me for a minute. If we continue to let our life fall away, piece by piece, we’ll be left with nothing.” Her eyes filled and brimmed over, but she didn’t brush at her cheeks. Tears had already replaced our home as Rose’s most constant companion. “There must be something we can do to keep the house. I can get a job, two even. We have a year, don’t we?” Rose asserted, her voice gaining authority. “You just said it.”

“Most men don’t make that sum in a year’s time,” Mr. Lawrence said gently.

“But we’re women, Mr. Lawrence,” I interrupted. “Unless you hadn’t noticed.”

He reddened, and I decided to take advantage of his discomfort. “I can’t shake the feeling we’re not getting the whole story,” I said. “Is that true, Your Honor?”

He looked away. “I’m not a judge.”

“You’re sure acting like one. Why not tell us everything?”

“Ivy.” Mr. Lawrence met my eyes. All the wavering had disappeared from his, and now they bored into me, direct and clear as a midsummer’s sky. “I don’t enjoy bringing bad news. I hope you understand that. Any decent person would be concerned about the sheer number of revelations it’s become my responsibility to impart.”

“Revelations aren’t meant to be experienced piecemeal. I assure you very little shocks me. Please continue.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, and he glanced quickly at Rose. “Bankers are not patient men. Eviction proceedings have begun. I paid a visit the other night to tell your father of the bank’s decision. I’ll never forgive myself for adding to his misery.”

“It’s not your fault,” Rose said automatically, but something tore inside her, a messy, ragged break. She covered her face with her hands and really let go.

Mr. Lawrence looked as helpless as I felt. I knew I should comfort her, but I hesitated. And as I crouched down, she lifted her head, and I knew I was too late. There was something new in her eyes, a coldness that frightened me a little. “I’m going with you to New York.”

“You haven’t been past Albany,” I said to my sister, but not unkindly.

“Neither have you.” She sniffed.

“I’ve been to the city a thousand times in my mind. That counts for something.” I was meant for Manhattan; Rose was not. The city would find a thousand ways to hurt her, one sucker punch at a time. I picked up the photograph of Asher. “Look at how he’s standing, like the devil himself. Let me go first and see what we’re getting mixed up with.”

Rose snatched the photo and held it at eye level, as though she was speaking directly to him. “This man is my brother,” she said, her voice steely. “It can’t be denied. He won’t take the house, not after seeing me.”

“Is it that important to you, to keep the house?” It was a roof over our heads, nothing more. A prison, even. Rose was already too old to be living at home, and I was determined not to follow in her footsteps.

“Yes,” Rose said. “I’ve built my entire life around this house. It’s all I have, and we both know it.”

I couldn’t argue with that. Rose needed something tangible to prove her worth in the world; I had what was in my head. My father had given that to me, and only me. Guilt wasn’t something I experienced often, but I could recognize it. “We’ll find Asher,” I promised, taking the photograph from her hands. I held it up to Mr. Lawrence. “Where did you get this?”

“According to your father, the photograph was sent to your house approximately eighteen months ago,” he explained, obviously relieved I’d asked a question he could answer. “No return address. Empire House is a boarding hotel for women, so either he knew someone who lived there or the spot was chosen at random.”

“It’s a start,” I said, growing excited at the prospect of traveling to the city. Empire House sounded grand. I pictured ladies in their finery, sipping gin rickeys on the sly and admiring each other’s diamonds. “We’ll send a telegram to let them know we’re on our way.”

Mr. Lawrence reached into his suit coat pocket and extracted a white card. “My address. Please write to let me know you’ve arrived safely and keep me apprised of whatever you find. I’ll see what I can do from here.”

We both knew that was nothing much. I added his card to the folder and tucked it under my arm. “We’ll keep in touch,” I said as he took my hand. “Thank you.” When it was Rose’s chance to say goodbye, Mr. Lawrence returned to his valise. He lifted a small framed drawing from it, an India ink rendition of a single rose. “Your father admired this when he visited my office, Miss Adams,” he said, handing it to my sister. “I’d like you to have it.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Rose said in a small voice.

Perhaps I’d misjudged Mr. Lawrence, I thought as I watched Rose hug the frame to her bosom. Given his closing argument, he was probably quite good in the courtroom.

“I suppose we can’t blame him,” Rose said after he left. “He does seem a decent sort of person.”

“For a solicitor,” I muttered. We stood there in silence, neither of us moving. I had no idea what Rose was thinking, but I had only one thought: let’s get started. I gestured toward the drawing. “Should we put his gift on our wall, even if we only own it for another few hours?”

She smiled bitterly at my choice of words. “All right.”

Father frequently changed the paintings on the walls in his study, leaving a hodgepodge of bare nails and crooked frames as a result. Though I admired his work, the sheer volume made careful scrutiny impossible. As I scanned his makeshift collage, looking for the perfect spot to hang Mr. Lawrence’s drawing, my eye fell on a small painting I was certain had been gathering dust for years. It featured a woman holding a wiggling toddler. Blonde and pretty, she stood on a stoop in front of an imposing brownstone, a copper plaque half-hidden by the child’s flailing arms.

“Rose, bring that photograph of Asher over here.”

She did, and I held it next to the painting. The door, the plaque—it was Empire House.

Rose squinted at the two. “I suppose I should send that telegram right away.”

CHAPTER 3

Rose

WE RECEIVED AN answer from Empire House two days after Ivy sent the telegram. She’d come running up the driveway and into the kitchen, bringing the spring morning behind her like a trail of hope. I was pressing her dresses in the kitchen, where I’d set up an orderly “Packing Station” so that we wouldn’t bring too much or too little. We could only bring the most necessary items, and the rest of our things would be sold lock, stock and barrel with the house if I did not succeed in New York City. Choosing what to take and what to leave behind was more of a chore than I’d anticipated, and soon I wanted to bring nothing at all.

“You haven’t had your toast, Ivy.”

“Who cares about toast! We’ve gotten our rooms, Rose! Listen...

“‘Dear Ms. Adams,’” began Ivy, reading me the letter and pacing back and forth with excitement.

“Did you want tea, Ivy?”

“No...I don’t want tea. Would you listen?”

I nodded.

“‘Dear Ms. Adams,’” she began again.

“‘Though it is not our usual rule to lease space to young women we have not already met and interviewed, it seems you are in luck. We’ve had a recent vacancy here at Empire House, making room for you and your sister. Please be advised that the accommodations are modest at best. If you do not arrive within the week, we cannot assure the room will be available. Please send a telegram on the day of your arrival, so we may prepare. Note, as well, that if we deem you unsuitable, you will be denied occupancy. Please send us your arrival date, and we will have a driver waiting for you at the station.

Nell Horatio Neville (Proprietor of Empire House)’”

“Not very warm, is it?” I said, misting a cotton nightdress with water.

“It is the city, Rose. I swear, you are so...so...”

“What?” I asked.

“Pedestrian...”

Then she ran off again. She’d been spinning in circles since Father’s funeral. I had, too, only my circles were in my head, while Ivy seemed to be walking on a cloud.

I was worried.

I put the hot iron back onto the stove and sat at my kitchen table folding father’s shirts. I was going to give them to Mr. Lawrence, but I wanted them to be tidy. It was the proper thing to do.

I knew Ivy was devastated by our father’s death. We both were. But when Lawrence gave us the news...the unspeakable news about Asher, Ivy seemed to forget all her sorrow. Part of me was glad that she had a diversion. Glad that her dreams of living in The City were coming true. I knew that eventually she’d fall back into grieving, but her excitement set me free to take care of my own sorrows.

I’d lost my father, my house and my future. It was a quiet loss, one that no one seemed to notice.

I wasn’t going to New York City to throw myself into Asher’s arms. I was going to New York City to find a stranger, make a great deal of money and get him to sign my house back over to me.

I knew the resemblance could make the difference in allowing him to accept us. Ivy didn’t seem to be at all worried that, once found, Asher might not want to have anything to do with us. I feared her romantic, theatrical view of life was clouding her view of reality. Our father had raised us...not him. Was it not fair to assume he might want to avoid being found at all? That he might resent us? I didn’t mention this to my sister. In truth, as Ivy hid from our father’s death inside a bubble of expectation and hope, I hid from it by convincing myself I’d slipped into a new narrative. I couldn’t help but think we’d been thrust into a Dickens or Austen novel almost overnight. It kept me separate...it kept me curious instead of dead inside. When we found him—if we found him—he would not be able to turn his back on me. No good character can walk away from another who could be their very twin. It’s the denouement of all great mysteries.

Father always said that “Everyone has an inner narcissist....” I would be his conscience, and Asher would sign my house over to me. If you understand a bit of human nature, and don’t overestimate people, getting what you want is simple enough. I knew I could get the house back if we found him. The question was, how would we find him?

I picked up one of father’s shirts and held it against my face.

“I don’t want to believe you did any of this on purpose. I want to believe you thought you were protecting us somehow. But from what? Oh, Papa!”

I wanted him so badly at that moment. I wanted him to come into the garden and have tea and toast. I wanted to tell him of the horrible dream I’d had. Nothing seemed real.

It occurred to me that grief is like a tunnel. You enter it without a choice because you must get to the other side. The darkness of it plays tricks on you, and sometimes you can even forget where you are or what your purpose is. I believe that people, now and again, get lost or stuck in that tunnel and never find their way out.

I had no intention of doing that. I’d leave myself notes in my pockets saying, “Father is dead,” if I had to.

I got up from the table quickly, held back my tears and packed the rest of Ivy’s dresses.

* * *

Later, I was sitting on our front porch, reading, when Ivy came and sat at my feet.

“It’s like he left us a present, Rose. Papa gave us one last adventure. I can’t tell you how that comforts me,” she said, a dreamy look in her eye.

“Did you know about him?” I asked.

“Know about who?”

“Did you know about Asher? Did father tell you on one of your trips? I know you two had your own language. Be honest, Ivy. I need to know.”

She stood up, her face red and angry. “No. I didn’t know. Do you think I could have sustained this whole charade? Do you think so little of me that I would have kept so large a secret from you? Honestly, Rose...sometimes I think you don’t know me at all.”

Then she stormed back in the house.

I followed her inside. My whole world was bobbed, like Ivy’s hair, at bold angles. Very little was making sense, so I did the proper thing. I made supper.

* * *

A few foggy days full of packing and planning passed. Ivy flitted around, but I wasn’t surprised. I saw her at breakfast and at dinner. She must have been wandering by the lake, because she’d come home disheveled and muddy. If she’d chosen to grieve alone, it would have been nice to let me know. As it was, I thought she was simply running away again.

I was surprised at how easy it was to empty the house of our personal belongings. Life is much more fleeting and changeable than I’d thought.

I was the one who sheeted the furniture and put the better china in the secret attic space. I was the one who got the locksmith to put dead bolts on the doors. I was the one who rang Mr. Lawrence when we knew the date we were to leave. And it’s a good thing I did, or we would have had to drag our trunks to the station.

The morning Ivy and I left for New York City, Mr. Lawrence came to fetch us.

“How very gallant of you, Lawrence...but I’ll walk. I feel as if the air would do me good,” said Ivy. “Besides, I’ve always had this vision of myself walking down the road without turning back. I’m no Lot’s Wife. Not me.”

“Would you like to make sure you have everything you need, Ivy?” I asked.

“You are the most organized person I’ve ever met, sister. I’m sure I’ll be all set.” Then, with a quick nod to Lawrence, and a “See you on the platform, Rose!” to me, Ivy left for the train station where she would send the telegram to Empire House letting them know what time we’d be arriving, and purchase two one-way tickets to New York City.

“Father babied her, and now I’m going to have to make sure she doesn’t get ruined by New York. She really is impossible,” I said.

“I know it isn’t my place, Rose. But do you think you could learn to trust one another, you and Ivy?”

“Trust her? You must be joking. Have you sat too long in the sun?”

“Would it make a difference if I told you that your father mentioned he wished the two of you were closer?”

“Are you hiding something, Lawrence? Because if you are....”

“Let’s go, Rose. I’d hate for you to miss your train,” he said, saving me from trying to conjure up an empty threat.

As he started his motorcar, I walked through the house one more time. Saying goodbye to it. “I’ll come back to you,” I said. But it didn’t answer me, the house. It felt hollow, and its hollowness hurt my soul.

* * *

I found Ivy sitting on a bench at the very end of the platform.

“Hiya!” she said, getting up to greet me.

“You didn’t even say goodbye to Mr. Lawrence. You can be a very self-centered girl,” I said.

“I don’t like anything drawn out—you know that,” she said, melting back onto the bench, slouched over. I sat next to her as tall as I possibly could.

“I’m afraid your dress may make the wrong impression when we finally meet Nell Neville,” I said. She was wearing a purple satin drop-waist dress with a beaded fringe. The back fell into a deep V and the front exposed more neck than I wanted to look at. Her stockings were showing, and her shoes were black heels with a small strap, showing the top of her foot as well as her ankles. She was as good as naked.

“No, Rose. You are the one who will make a poor impression. I told you to leave those clothes behind. You look like a servant or an old lady. Either way, it’s not good. Plus, you’re going to sweat to death in The City. No lake breeze there, honey.”

She threw one of her legs over the iron arm of the bench and leaned into me.

A train far off in the distance sang its song. Ivy bit her nails. “When we were little you loved that sound,” she said. “Did you know that? We used to lie in bed together and play that game ‘Where is it going?’ and then we’d make up fantastic adventures.”

“Don’t bite your nails, Ivy. It’s a childish, unclean habit.” I said, not acknowledging her memory, even though I did, in fact, recall it.

She looked at me and smiled. A true, infectious smile, one that always softened any roughness I felt toward her. Ivy has that affect on people, causing whiplash of affection. “Darling, of course I remember,” I said. “I’m just not in the mood for memories right now. Tunnel of grief and all that.” She nodded her head and sat back up.

On that platform, with my high-laced boots crossed at the ankle, and Ivy slinking lower down on the bench every second, all I could do was read my copy of Edna St. Vincent Millay’s A Few Figs From Thistles. I especially liked the poem entitled “MacDougal Street,” though it made me cry.

“He laid his darling hand upon her little black head,

(I wish I were a ragged child with ear-rings in my ears!)

And he said she was a baggage to have said what she had said;

(Truly I shall be ill unless I stop these tears!)”

I clutched the book to my breast and hoped against hope that Empire House wasn’t anywhere near MacDougal Street.

* * *

Ivy settled in by the window on the train. She had father’s leather rucksack on her lap and kept buckling and unbuckling the straps. She was quite talkative, which was different than usual.

I was hoping she’d sleep on the train and I could read. Ivy slept when she was excited about something she had to wait for—she was always the first to bed on Christmas Eve. But as she spoke, I began to understand that she was as nervous as I was about the trip. I found myself worrying about what the city would do to her. It never once occurred to me to worry about myself. My objective was clear: find Asher, convince him to sign the house over to me and get a job to acquire the money to pay the back taxes on our home. And I told her as much when she asked me.

“Aren’t you the least bit curious?” she asked, frustrated.

“I wouldn’t be human if I wasn’t, Ivy. But please remember, I don’t intend to get involved in any sort of life once we get there. I plan on finding work, finding Asher and then finding my way home. What you do after all is said and done is your prerogative.”

“So you’d just give up whatever life we make for ourselves, and return to that desolate place?”

Desolate?

I leaned across the narrow space between us and took her chin too sharply in my hand. “Have you ever even considered that as you made your life plans, that I was making plans of my own? Or did you think I was an empty-headed fool who lived to serve you and Papa?”

She yanked her face away and leaned her forehead against the window.

“I suppose I thought you’d... I don’t know. Did you? Did you have plans?”

“Of course I did. My plan was to live quietly at Adams house until I died. That sounds terrible to you, doesn’t it? A wretched sort of existence. But let me tell you something, Ms. Ivy Adams. As we grew older, the fact that I would not marry was not lost on me. How could I? Who was I to meet? I thought you would finally get up the courage to leave Forest Grove, and I would look after Father until he was an old, old man. I would be the keeper of our traditions...I would be a safe harbor for you, if you ever needed anything. And I would always have the house. And just look at the both of us now. Our father died too soon. He left us with lies, secrets and no money. I no longer have the peaceful future I set out for myself. And yet? Here we are! On our way to YOUR future. So, to answer your question...YES. I would return to that desolate place. Because that was my dream.”

Ivy took a moment to respond. I could almost see the thoughts brewing behind those lovely eyes of hers. I could see her deciding whether to be mean, or sarcastic or simply honest. In the end, she chose humor.

“Well, now, Rose. That was quite a monologue. I should note that down. Really. I’m not kidding...you’d be a good writer I think. You read enough. Have you ever thought of that instead?”

“And you, Ivy, would make a good politician,” I said. I had to smile at her. She could have lashed out at me, but she chose not to.

“I think I’ll read my book now, if it’s not too rude,” I said.

But I never got the chance, because we’d already arrived at Grand Central Station.

* * *

“Come, let’s get the trunks,” I said as we disembarked.

“No, you get them. I’ll go find the driver they sent from Empire House.”

She ran away from me quickly and was swallowed by the crowd.

“Ivy!” I yelled, climbing back up the steep steps of the transom, trying, in vain, to catch a glimpse of her, and holding my hat against the hot, smelly air that came flying at me like the breath of a beastly giant.

I was pouring sweat already, and my lace collar—the one Ivy’d begged me not to wear—was sticking tightly to my neck. I was choking, probably to death, and I’d already lost my sister.

“Here you go, ma’am,” said a young man who’d taken my trunks from the luggage car.

“I say, are you planning on helping me get these trunks through the station and out...side?” I had no idea where I was going.

He held out his hand, and when I went to shake it, a man pushed passed me, laughing. “He wants a tip, not a handshake... Country girls, I swear, you’re all knee-slappers.”

Our money was so limited that I wasn’t going to waste it on handouts. Chivalry should be free, anyhow. So I looked at the trunks and convinced myself I could do it on my own.

I shook my head at him and tried to politely explain why I was not filling his hands with coins. Only no one could hear anything over the din of voices, the steam and chaos. I reached down and placed my gloved hands on the straps of each trunk, stooped over and began to drag what remained of us through the station. I can only imagine what I looked like. Finally, I saw the glass doors ahead of me, and I saw Ivy in her purple satin dress with the beads at the bottom shining in the sun. I wasn’t upset she’d worn it anymore. I’d be able to find her anywhere.

I lurched outside banging the trunks against people and bricks and anything that got in my way.

She was leaning against a black sedan, but it was the driver who saw me first. There was a sign taped to the passenger window that read EMPIRE HOUSE.

For some reason, it was that sign...affixed haphazardly to that dirty window that brought the whole ordeal into focus. No longer was this some foggy, dark dream. This was my life, and I was suddenly very present in it. Nothing was going to fit neatly into the pages of a book. Life, it seemed, was busy, and messy and loud. Everything about this city was so loud.

Ivy turned to look at me, following the driver’s gaze, and put her hand over her mouth. She laughed so hard I thought she’d lose her breath.

“Thank you ever so much for the help,” I said, trying to push my hair back from my sticky forehead.

“I know how much you like hard work,” she said as she came to me and took the trunks a whole three steps to the waiting automobile. “But I never considered you would try to become a mule. Why didn’t you let the porter take these?”

“Because he wanted money.”

The driver took the trunks from Ivy and opened the door for me.

“Thank goodness, a gentleman,” I said as he held out his hand, I thought, to escort me into the cabin of the car.

I started to place my hand on his palm, but he pulled it away. “Sorry to disappoint, miss, but I was sorta askin’ for a tip,” he said.

“Are you going to embarrass me every single day of my life, Rose?” asked Ivy as she reached into the outside pocket of Father’s bag and pulled out a few coins. She dropped them in his hand, slid into the sedan next to me. Then she batted her eyelashes, which made him smile at her. The whole flirtation happened practically in my lap, forcing me to lean back so that their hands didn’t touch me by accident.

“What’s your name, fella?” asked Ivy.

“Jimmy, doll,” he said cocking his hat to one side. He was darker, this Jimmy. “Black Irish” Mother used to say, when we were impressionable young girls. She’d say it with a bit of disdain when we’d see them in town. Wrong side of the track kind of people. We Adamses didn’t belong on the track at all, so we could always identify people on, off, on the right side or the wrong side of any situation. Father said it made us well rounded.

“Do you have a name?” he asked my sister.

“Ivy,” she said. “I’m Ivy and this is my sister...”

Jimmy cut her off. “Ivy, huh? You don’t look like something stuck to the side of a house. I’ll have to come up with another name that’ll suit ya better.”

As if he’d see her again. Not to mention he hadn’t wanted to know my name, which is when I realized that if anyone could become invisible in a city full of people, it would be me. That thought brought me back around to thinking about Asher. If it was true, and we were similar people, then perhaps he was invisible, too. I shivered at that thought. It would be too hard to find someone who could not be seen.

Ivy, however, didn’t seem to notice Jimmy’s dismissal of my presence. Or if she did, she didn’t care. He sat behind the wheel again, and Ivy scooted up to sit with her arms crossed on the back of the front seat. I could see their exchanges in the rearview mirror.

“So, Jimmy...which way are we headed? Uptown, downtown? Where is this Empire House?”

“Where do you want it to be?” he asked.

“I don’t care if it’s smack in the middle of the East River. I’ve been waiting for this moment for my entire life,” said Ivy.

The truth that I felt in her statement hurt me. I always knew she wanted more from life...but could she have been that unhappy in Forest Grove? And for how long?

She leaned back her head and winked at me. And before I could stop myself, I reached out and tugged hard at the fine edges of her bob that just grazed her exposed back. It pulled her neck in an unnatural direction and she snapped her head away from me yelling “Ow!”

“You all right?” asked Jimmy, even though he was glaring at me in that infernal rearview mirror.

His blue eyes met mine, only I decided to give him my best glare, and it made him turn away.

“Yes, I’m fine,” answered Ivy. “My hair got caught on my sister’s broach. Who even wears high necks anymore?” They were laughing at me, but I knew Ivy was hurt because she kept rubbing the back of her neck. Good, I thought. My shoulders won’t be the same after that trip through the station with our trunks....

“So, you never answered me. Where is this place? Uptown, downtown?” she asked.

“The best part of town. Only the best for you, uh...two. It’s in The Village, right off MacDougal.”

That did it. I put my head into my white-gloved hands, already gray with the filth of the city, and I cried.

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