By dinnertime, the conversation had yet to die down. Emma had helped Julia with the cooking, despite her new friend's protests, and the resulting spread was a delectable slice of home. The girls talked throughout the meal, with Julia's father, Paul, throwing in dryly-witty one-liners that made Emma long for such an easy familial connection.
"Your father is lovely," Emma said, as they washed the dishes after the last drops of au jus had been licked from their plates and the boys had retired to their rooms.
"You caught him in the right mood. You should've seen him a week ago." A darkness crossed Julia's face, and Emma felt guilty for inadvertently reminding her of whatever terrible recollection was rushing through her mind.
"Our father only had one mood, and it wasn't a pleasant one." She knew it was wrong to speak ill of the dead, but she couldn't help herself.
"I take it you weren't close."
Emma laughed. "He loved me in his own way, but no, we weren't close. I was really only ever close to my brother."
"What's he like?"
She thought of him before the war, and smiled. "Wonderful. Shy with most everyone, but never with me. He has the biggest heart of anyone I've ever known. We were inseparable, growing up."
"Were?"
Her smile faded. "Something got in the way."
"A woman?"
"A war."
Julia scrubbed at a plate, staring down into the soapy depths of the sink. "We lost Freddy in the war."
"Your brother?"
Julia nodded. "He was an athlete—a damn fine one, at that. Dad thought he would get a scholarship, but he enlisted and we couldn't stop him. He wanted to prove himself."
"Sounds familiar." Emma dried the last dish and set it in the cupboard with the others. She twisted the rag in her hand and asked, "Is Tommy Freddy's son?"
"Tommy," Julia sighed, "belonged to a good friend of mine. I'm watching him until...well, actually I'm not sure for how long."
"That's kind of you."
"I didn't really have much of a say in the matter."
"It's all right," Emma said quickly, sensing that this was a difficult subject. "I didn't mean to pry. He's a good kid."
"That he is. Honestly, I don't mind. I always wanted kids, and Dad's really taken to him. I think it's almost like having Freddy back." She glanced at the clock. "Oh Lord, look at the time! Where are you staying? I can give you a lift."
Emma wiped her hands with the dishtowel, embarrassed. "Actually, I don't know where I'm staying. I sort of thought I'd be heading home by now."
"Then you'll stay here."
"No, I couldn't." Emma blushed; she couldn't imagine putting the Sagorskys out any further.
"It's not up for discussion. You can have my bed."
"Julia, really. You've done more than enough for me already."
Julia took her hand, looking her in the eyes. "Please, Emma. You're the first friend I've made since—" She swallowed, her words catching in her throat.
Emma nodded, unsure of how to thank her. "I can help you with Tommy. I'm not nearly as good with kids as my brother is, but I'm sure I can be of some use."
"Honestly, just having you here is enough. You have no idea how lonely it can be."
"Trust me," Emma said, "I know all about loneliness." Her friend squeezed her hand, and she smiled until she noticed that look of vague recognition in Julia's eyes, same as the one with which Tommy and Paul had looked upon her. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," Julia said, shaking herself back to the present. "You just...remind me of someone."
As Emma settled into Julia's small but comfortable bed, she thought about her friend's statement but decided not to give it much thought; she felt her eyes drooping as her body succumbed to the exhaustion of the day. Regardless of what tomorrow held, she knew she would sleep well tonight.
Morning was a welcomed buzz of chatter and activity. Emma rose early and surprised the Sagorskys with a country breakfast for the ages: fluffy scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, roasted potatoes glazed with butter and herbs from the garden, and a sinfully moist coffee cake topped with pools of buttery brown sugar.
"Julia," Paul said, as Emma poured his coffee, "You should bring strangers home more often."
"I can't believe all of this!" Julia was thrilled. "You really shouldn't have."
"I never get to cook like this anymore," Emma said, waving off her friend's protestations. "Always seems like a waste for just me. And it's the least I could do to repay you for your hospitality."
Tommy's eyes widened at his heaping plate. He took a too-big bite and mumbled, "These eggs are better than my mother's."
"Now Tommy," Emma said softly, kneeling down beside him, "that's quite a compliment, but when you get to be my age you'll realize that nothing will ever taste as good as your mama's cooking. Eat up."
She ruffled his hair and took her seat.
"Are you going to attend to your business again today?" Julia had at least waited until her mouth was empty before speaking.
"I suppose so, although I really don't know where to begin."
"I can go with you—" Julia started.
"No!" Emma hadn't meant to raise her voice. She couldn't be sure why, but she felt she had to protect her friend from whatever danger Richard's whereabouts might place her in. "I can handle myself."
"Says the farm girl," Paul stuffed a strip of bacon into his mouth.
"Dad's right," Julia chimed in. "It's been dangerous around here lately. I don't think you should stay out too late alone."
"I promise to be home before dark," Emma smiled. It was nice to be worried about. She took a bite of her eggs and spent the rest of the meal enjoying the little family's company while the day's plans nagged at the back of her mind.
A handful of policemen were still milling about the shell of the Artemis Club when Emma arrived, but she thought it best to avoid them for the time being. Instead, she stopped a passerby and asked for any information he might have.
"You gotta talk to Nucky Thompson," was his response. "He runs this town."
"And where might I find this Nucky Thomspon?"
"Try the Ritz, on the boardwalk."
She thanked him, masking her curiosity. She had assumed Mr. Thompson was some sort of political figure, but what would the mayor be doing at the Ritz? She supposed there was still a lot she stood to learn about this town, and the Ritz seemed as good a place as any to start.
Emma marched into the glitzy hotel, acutely aware that her old dress looked far shabbier than usual when surrounded by so much glamour. But she had never been one for self-doubt, and she knew she had her confidence to thank when the concierge pointed her towards Mr. Thompson's office without question. For a moment, she assumed it would all be far easier than she had feared.
That assumption was quickly challenged by the armed guards milling about Mr. Thompson's suite. "Can I help you, lady?"
Emma lifted her chin in defiance. "I need to speak with Mr. Thompson."
"That ain't gonna happen."
She retrieved the letter from her pocket and showed it to the guard; his face paled and he ushered her inside.
Mr. Thompson's office was dripping with class and wealth, from its rich wood paneling to the elegant furniture and the plush carpet underfoot. The man himself looked up from his desk when the door opened, the heavy bags under his eyes giving him the look of someone beaten down by the world. "Dammit, Brennan, what the fuck am I paying you for?"
"To...keep people out, sir?"
Mr. Thompson rolled his eyes. The man rushed forward, holding out Gillian's letter. Mr. Thompson's face darkened further as he studied the envelope, and he looked at Emma with chilling focus.
"Where did you get this?"
Emma swallowed, her confidence swayed by the strangely commanding way with which Mr. Thompson presented himself, but she had come too far to lose her nerve so soon. "Gillian Darmody," she said clearly, hoping the name would mean something to him.
"Get out," Mr. Thompson said to Brennan, and beckoned Emma forward. When the door had closed, he addressed her with far more warmth than she expected. "I apologize," he said, handing her back the letter and offering her a seat before his desk. "I've had a difficult couple of weeks."
"No need to explain, Mr. Thompson. I appreciate your seeing me."
"Would you mind telling me who you are?"
"My name is Emma Harrow." She couldn't be sure, but she thought she saw a flash of recognition behind the man's eyes. "I received a letter from Gillian Darmody, asking me to come out here to take my brother home. I have reason to believe he is in trouble."
"What would Gillian have to do with that?"
"He works for her; his name is Richard Harrow. Perhaps you know him?"
Mr. Thompson had his back to her, mixing a drink for himself at the beverage cart beside his desk, but she could have sworn she saw his muscles tense at the mention of her brother's name. "Can't say that I do," he said.
"Well, I'm sure you know Gillian Darmody."
He turned to her, his eyes awash with suspicion. "What makes you say that?"
"I may run a farm, but I'm not stupid, Mr. Thompson."
He sighed, taking a long sip. "I can tell you where to find her, but I would suggest that you proceed with caution. This is a dangerous time to be in Atlantic City."
"So I've heard."
His mouth pursed into an almost-smile, "I like you," he said, and went to his desk to scribble something on a sheet of notepaper. "You can find her at this address. And I'll keep an eye out for your brother."
"Thank you, sir." She stood to leave, curious about his statement. How could he keep an eye out for a man he had never met?
The address Mr. Thompson had so generously offered turned out to belong to Saint Theresa's Hospital, and a kindly nurse led her to the last bed in a large room. Its occupant sat up against her pillows, trembling slightly with a vacant look on her face as she stared listlessly out the window. Emma tentatively approached her.
"Ms. Darmody?"
Gillian turned towards her, eyes sunken in her pallid face and a thick layer of sweat dampening her brow and her lovely red hair. "Do we know each other?"
"My name is Emma Harrow," she said, retrieving the familiar letter and holding it out to her.
Gillian smiled sweetly. "You came."
"As soon as I received it. I was on the first train out."
"I only wish I'd written sooner." Gillian looked exhausted, turning back towards the window as she seemed to choke back a spasm of pain.
"I went to the Artemis Club—"
"I'm afraid the Artemis Club is no more. I had hoped it would be my legacy, but your brother thought otherwise."
Emma took Gillian's hand; the woman looked mildly offended, but clearly couldn't muster the energy to pull away. "Please, Ms. Darmody. Do you have any idea where I could find my brother?"
Gillian shook her head slowly. "If only I did. You should check with his little girlfriend. What was her name? Jessica, Jospehine—"
Emma stifled a shocked laugh at the idea of her brother having a girlfriend—the only girl he'd ever had any involvement with other than her was Jenny Hastings, and she'd had the distinct impression that hadn't cared for her either way. "Do you know where I might find her?"
The patient shrugged, which appeared to take a great deal of effort. A nurse approached with a large hypodermic needle. "It's time for your medicine, Miss Darmody."
Emma took this as her cue to leave. "Can I come visit again tomorrow?"
"I don't see why not," Gillian answered. "Nobody else does."
Emma nodded and turned to go. She was halfway towards the door when Gillian called out to her.
"When you find your brother—" The nurse plunged the needle into her arm, and she closed her eyes as the mystery medicine flowed through her veins. "Tell him," she continued, quietly, painstakingly, "Tell him I want my son back."