Irene Dawson stared at her reflection, studying the flaws of her pale skin. She spindled her fingers through her hair, shifting the strands to momentarily cover up the part of her face she hated. It was childish. As if she could hide any scars, birthmarks or freckles in so simple a manner.
Then she sucked in a breath and started her morning routine. She opened her leather pouch of cosmetics and began her daily craft with care.
First, she lightly dusted her face with a pinkish-colored powder. For her eyes, she skipped any shading, but darkened her lashes with two quick flicks of mascara. With meticulous care, she rubbed a rosy rouge over her cheeks, and then her lips.
She took one last long moment to inspect her work, tilting her chin one way and the other. She dabbed a finger in her rouge again and touched up on her cheekbone, just as Josie used to have to remind her to do. Once Irene was satisfied with her work, she braided her thick blonde hair in a low style, draping it over one shoulder.
After that was complete, she donned a dark skirt and high-collared long sleeve blouse. She only owned one set of footwear, a pair of black lace-up boots that she had purchased for their sturdiness rather than their fashion.
Irene lived in a boarding house located on the northern side of Saint Denis, crunched in a courtyard between a few restaurants and a mortuary. She was on Milyonne Ave, but not the western side where the wealthy were all housed. No, she resided on what the rich would consider the rough part of town.
She'd lived in Saint Denis for nearly six years now, but sometimes she still found the city's massive maze of tall buildings and endless alleys as immensely intimidating as they had been upon her arrival. However, the scale of its size had meant there had been plenty of work for her. There were shops of all sorts down each street: restaurants, saloons, boutiques, hotels, bakeries and more. It had given her the liberty of choice, one she hadn't had back in Van Horn.
She wouldn't name it the perfect place to live. There was no denying that with more people came more crime. Since she'd been here, she'd heard of the occasional bank robber passing through, of high profile men getting assassinated, and even been witness to acts of petty theft by the orphaned street kids. There came a point where one ignored the newspapers and paid attention only to their daily life. To allow oneself to fear Saint Denis would be a debilitating kind of living.
And while some in the city complained of the overcrowding, Irene felt protected, anonymous among the thousands of people who lived here. It was the closest she'd been to stability in years and that was all that mattered. She'd never experienced a place like Saint Denis.
While the streets and alleyways themselves could be dangerous, Café Belle Helene was her safe spot. From the moment she'd seen it, she'd drifted towards the sanctity the café seemed to offer. She'd been in luck with her timing when she found out Henry, the owner, was looking for a waitress at the time of her arrival. With her hiring, she gained not only employment, but also the option of renting at the attached boardinghouse at a lower rate. It was only too easy to stay on.
That wasn't to say she never fell into trouble at the café. There were plenty of drunks who'd get handsy and belligerent, but her time working at the Old Light Saloon in Van Horn had taught her a few tricks in how to extract those who attempted to mess with her. While Henry didn't make much of an effort to put a stop to any nuisances occurring in the café, Irene worked with another waitress who wasn't afraid to throw a punch if the situation called for it, and a bartender who acted as her guardian angel.
Irene's walk to work was a short one. It was a convenience she'd been grateful for the first winter—and every winter following—since she'd come to live here. It was less than ten minutes when she reached the back door of the Café Belle Helene. As she entered the building, she spotted Daisy, the other waitress, scowling and reworking her black hair at a hung mirror.
The smells of the kitchen assailed Irene next. There was always a house stew on the burner, but tonight there was an additional aroma of tenderized steak circulating the room. There was also an earthy, buttery smell which she recognized as boiling potatoes, and lastly a fresh vegetable scent wafting through the air.
She breathed it in with pleasure, savoring the variety. When she'd been a waitress in Van Horn, Josie hadn't ever changed her menu as she'd found the effort to do so pointless in nature for the drunken patrons in which she catered. For years, Irene had had to endure the fetid odor of fish stew and boiled cabbage on the daily. But most days even that had been cloaked by excess smoking, pungent sweat and spilled beer. It was another reason Irene never took for granted the good fortune she'd had when she'd stumbled upon the Café Belle Helene.
"Evenin', Irene," Daisy caught her eye in the mirror. Her moody expression disappeared as she turned and looked Irene up and down. "'Bout time you made an appearance."
"Good evening, Daisy," Irene replied without taking offense at the other woman's tone. "And I'm here the same time I always am, you know that."
"Yeah, sure." Daisy swiped her a little wave and proceeded to inform her of the situation in the dining room. "Just a head's up, Jerry's talkin' shit about Mayor Mercier again so avoid him until he's ready for his bill. Rory is half-passed drunk at the bar and..." A sudden mischievous smile crept up her features. "Your Mr. Smith is here early."
"Really?" Irene responded, a little too quickly judging by Daisy's widening smile. "I mean, that's not unusual. Sometimes he makes it in before the dinner rush."
"You can't hide your interest from me. I've seen the way you pour all your attention on him."
Irene said defensively, "I pay him no more attention than any other guest."
Daisy stepped towards Irene and dramatically fell against her, draping an arm over her shoulder. She raised the pitch of her voice and teased, "Is there anything else I can get you, Charles?"
Irene pressed her lips together, holding back a smile as she denied, "I do not sound like that."
Daisy batted her eyelashes. "I could bake you something special, Charles-sweetie."
Irene laughed despite herself. She explained as she'd explained dozens of times before, "It's only on Christmas I do any baking, and that cake is always for everyone."
"Deny your fascination with him all you want, but I know what I've seen."
"He doesn't seem to have any family," Irene continued, unable to help herself in expressing her empathy. "He's always by himself."
"Bleeding heart." Daisy rolled her eyes. "Honey, you don't know that he doesn't have no family. Most of the men that come in here are purposefully avoiding their damn families."
Irene bit her lip, recalling whenever she saw Charles. "I don't think that's the case with him."
Daisy opened her mouth, probably about to push her wild theories as to why a man would frequently dine by himself, but Henry came through the door, yelling, "Someone needs to get out there and serve the damn food! I got paying customers waiting on their meals!"
"I'm nearly ready," Irene replied, snatching her apron off of a hook and hurriedly tying it around her waist.
Henry grunted in response and left the backroom to return to his spot at the stove in the kitchen.
"I haven't taken Charles' order," Daisy said slyly. "I know how much you like to do it."
Irene didn't respond, not wanting to encourage Daisy's silliness any further. She checked her apron pockets for her pencil and notepad.
Daisy pouted. "He only smiles when you're here. I only get the grumpy version of that man."
She felt a blush rise in her cheeks when there was no cause for it. "I'm sure that's not true."
"Mm-hmm." Daisy grinned at her. "All I'm gonna say is, if a man like that gave me the same time of day that he does you, I'd give him the time of his life."
Irene gaped. "Daisy! How crude."
Daisy laughed loudly as she skirted Irene's playful smack. She picked up a plate and went back to her server duties. Irene took a minute to smooth down her apron, and collect herself before following after.
Charles sat in his usual spot in a corner with his back to the wall, reading a portion of the newspaper he had laid flat on the table. Yet, he wasn't fully distracted as his eyes streaked across the dining area in a cursory way every few minutes.
He was dressed as any other laborer, with a striped, collared shirt under a leather vest. Yet, despite his simple clothing, there would never be any mistaking him for anyone else. He was dark-skinned and kept the length of his hair long, with tresses darker and thicker than her own. Sometimes, he'd have it pulled back, but most often, he kept it liberated and flowing.
Knowing his usual order, Irene went behind the bar and poured a cup of coffee, tossing in a few sugar cubes. She stepped into the dining area again and headed straight to Charles. He looked up as she neared, folding his paper and setting it to the side so there was space for her to place his coffee.
She smiled in a welcoming manner. "Good evening, Charles."
He nodded in return. "Irene."
From the start of their first meeting, he'd been a man of few words. Every day that he'd come in, Irene would attempt to pull a few sentences from him. Just small talk, as she did with every patron at the café. Eventually, that evolved into her wanting to do more. It took her nearly a month to coax out of him a genuine smile over his customary perfunctory one.
Yet, despite her best efforts, to this day she didn't know much about him. He'd stepped into the café on Christmas, found a job, and chose the Café Belle Helene as his nightly restaurant. He spoke very little, even less for awhile after Daisy's initial attempts to flirt with him in her typical flamboyant manner. Eventually Daisy had grown bored with his non-responses and Irene became his sole server. He spent nearly every evening at the café, unless he worked late or found a meal elsewhere.
Irene still hadn't figured him out, but the men around here took to him from the start. Henry, because he was a regular, paying customer who never skipped out on his bill. The bartender Martin, because Charles had assisted in throwing out drunken stragglers at the end of the night when Martin couldn't handle it himself. Because of Charles' recurrent presence at the café, he was nearly part of the staff.
"How was your day, Charles?" Irene asked.
"I managed."
Her lips quirked. Charles always spoke in short sentences, but not only that, in a tone to dissuade one from continued conversation. Daisy always said his silences were off-putting, but Irene found she didn't mind them. "Sounds better than yesterday."
"It could be."
"Are you reading about anything interesting?" she asked, indicating the newspaper.
He glanced at it. "Fortunately, no."
She found that an odd statement. After all, why would he continue to read the paper if he wasn't looking for something of interest? However, she didn't know how to pursue a question like that without sounding rude. "What can I get for you today, Charles?"
Irene took his order, writing it on her little notepad and left Charles to drop it off to Henry in the kitchen. She waved a hello to Martin behind the bar and then moved to speak to a few patrons who had just walked in the restaurant.
She cleared a table of plates and ran into Daisy at the sinks in the kitchen. Before she turned to leave, Daisy stopped her, "Oh, Irene! I nearly forgot to tell you. I know your hands are full with one admirer, but you had another one asking for you earlier."
She had been ready for more of Daisy's teasing, but this had her frowning. She paused in grabbing a plate of food ready to go out from the counter. "Who?"
"He didn't give his name and he wasn't particularly good-looking. Some pasty feller with bushy eyebrows."
Irene felt all the blood leave her face and ice gripped her heart. No. It couldn't be.
Daisy went on, not picking up on her sudden distressed silence. "He looked stingy the moment I saw him. Why are the ones who always dress the richest actually the worst?"
Irene swallowed and managed to clear her constricted throat enough to ask, "Is he still here?"
Daisy waved a hand. "Naw. This was in the morning. I told him to come back tomorrow. I shoulda said never since he didn't even tip. The bastard."
Daisy returned to the floor and Irene was stuck in place. Had Hahn found her again? She thought she'd been so careful this time.
"Irene!" Henry yelled, startling her into coming back to the present. "Get out there!"
His scolding propelled her into moving. She picked up two plates from the counter and returned to the floor. She took more orders, brought out more food, and cleared the tables, all with her usual smile plastered on her face. It was all to hide her mind spinning in turmoil and her heart pounding in growing fear.
As she was setting a bowl down in front of Charles, the front door opened and the little bell above clattered with, to her ear, an ominous chime. She startled and stew inevitably spilled on the table.
Immediately, Irene ripped a towel from her apron pocket and began wiping the surface. "I'm so sorry, Charles."
"It's not a problem."
She finished cleaning the spill and couldn't help but risk glancing again to the door, to make sure it wasn't the man Daisy had described entering. Her heart pounded furiously at the false scare.
"Everything alright?"
Irene shifted her attention back to Charles. He was studying her and she was making a scene. Stupid.
She pushed the fear down as if it never existed and turned up a bright smile. "Of course."
Unsettled and on edge, Irene went back to work. Her last hour felt like a blur and the end of her shift couldn't come soon enough. She managed to keep her cheery outward manner, but inside fear curdled her stomach. Daisy's description sounded like Hahn, but could it be so? She didn't want to believe it, didn't want to accept it.
As soon as the last customer of the night paid his check, Irene was untying her apron with haste. She was trying to remain calm, but she was antsy to get home, to think about what she should do next.
"Have a good night, Martin," she called to the bartender as she headed for the front door.
"Whoa, whoa, where's Daisy?"
Irene stopped. She knew why he asked, as her and Daisy tended to walk home together since their rooms were near each other. Tonight, more than any night, Irene did wish for the company, but Daisy had left an hour ago. "You know she's been leaving early to go to Doyle's lately."
Daisy had started working a few nights a week at Doyle's Tavern for extra cash. She claimed she wasn't selling her body, but her time. Apparently, Guido Martelli had started hiring women occasionally to lure men from the tavern to a designated alley so they could get the jump on those who were trying to avoid his iron fist. It sounded like a dangerous game to Irene, but she couldn't convince Daisy to back out.
"You're walking home by yourself?"
"I'll be fine," she said dismissively, even as dread sunk her stomach.
"Don't think for a second I didn't notice you acting skittish all night," Martin said, ignoring her protests that she would be okay. His eyes roamed the room momentarily before they stopped on the corner behind her.
"Smith, can you get Irene home tonight?"
Surprised, Irene turned around. She hadn't noticed he'd still been here. He so easily sunk into the background, always so quiet, unmoving and observant.
Irene tried to say, "There's no need—"
"Would you, Smith?" Martin asked over her objections.
Charles stood. "Of course."
Martin nodded, satisfied. "There's a good lad. I'll give you a drink on the house tomorrow night."
Charles followed Irene as she exited the café. She took a few steps before she paused and turned to face him. "You really don't need to do this, Charles. I don't live far."
"I don't mind."
She considered him, torn between truly wanting an escort and feeling uncomfortable with him acting on a social obligation. Her anxiety won out. "Alright."
Irene started to walk again. The night was clear, the fog that often crept through the city's cobbled streets choosing not to make an appearance on Milyonne Avenue tonight. The sight had her calming down some. Hahn would more likely avoid the fog rather than use it as cover to ambush her. He preferred a more direct approach in frightening her.
She shivered, all the more appreciative of Charles' presence. She watched him out of the corner of her eye as he matched pace beside her. There were few instances she'd ever stood next to him before this. She was taller than most women, but Charles had a few inches over her. She also couldn't help notice the width and breadth of his shoulders. There was no mistaking that frame as anything other than a man with muscle.
"It's through here," she told Charles as they approached a wrought iron gate that led down the alley.
She was usually comfortable with Charles' silent nature, but tonight all it did was allow her paranoid thoughts to take over. For once, she needed the distraction of a normal conversation.
Charles opened the gate for her and she walked in and waited. As he closed it, she recalled Daisy's offhand remark about men who only came to the café to avoid their families. She had always seen Charles alone...but he was a private person.
She started down the alley, saying, "I hope this inconvenience isn't keeping you from anyone or anything."
He tilted his head slightly to one side and answered, "It's not an inconvenience."
"Good," she said, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "You didn't have to listen to Martin. He can be overprotective." She tried to sound nonchalant, but ended up babbling. "I think perhaps because he has three daughters and overthinks my situation." She didn't mention Martin's instincts had been correct. "He thought I was acting strangely."
"I know." Charles said. "You were."
She blushed. Had she been that obvious about it?
The lane opened into a narrow space, where Mr. Campbell, the undertaker, often constructed his wooden coffins. Through an archway, the usually occupied courtyard below her room was empty of anyone tonight. The benches were vacant, leaving her feeling more uneasy.
It was her taking a risk, but Irene confessed to Charles, "Daisy told me a man I have no desire in running into had stopped by the café earlier today."
"Someone you're concerned about?"
She pulled down her braid to cover one side of her face. "You could say that."
"If you want help, I could make sure this man stays away from the café."
Irene stared at him, curious as to the dark threat that seemed to loom under the surface with his offer. She understood he meant more than just a stern talking to. Charles meant well and, maybe with his size, he could scare Hahn off. Because Hahn certainly couldn't be reasoned with, she knew that firsthand.
Quick memories of her last encounter with Hahn rose from her mind, sharp and relentless. The jailhouse going up in flames, the gunfire piercing the streets, the ropes cutting into her wrists, and the life she'd had to take in order to escape. Hahn was the reason she'd left Van Horn behind and why she had blood on her hands.
If killing him had been a possible solution, Irene would have found a way to take care of him years ago. The problem was, Hahn wasn't the only person after her, and his death could put into action more people of her past coming after her. The only choice she had these days was to run.
Which brought her to the inevitable conclusion she'd been avoiding thinking about since Daisy had told her of Hahn's visit. As much as it pained her, Irene would have to leave Saint Denis.
She squeezed her eyes shut a moment, feeling tears arise. She blurted to Charles, "Let's speak of something else. How's the lumberyard? I heard a rumor there will be layoffs at the end of summer."
Charles was silent a moment, but he thankfully didn't press her for any answers, or question the sudden wetness of her eyes. He looked ahead and told her, "I've heard those rumors too. Someone at the yard said I could make some money on back alley fighting if I need to."
Irene frowned, pausing at the foot of the stairs leading to her front door in order to stare at him. "You're not seriously considering that, are you?"
"I hadn't given it much thought yet."
"It wouldn't do for you to get yourself involved with them. You haven't been here long, but I hear the only way out of those fighting rings is death."
"Hmm."
She placed a hand on his arm. "You must promise you won't enter those fights, Charles."
"The pay sounds good."
"Too good." Irene knew the fights had begun under Angelo Bronte, but they clearly hadn't gone away when Martelli had taken over his stead. She insisted, "It's not worth your life."
Perhaps she was reacting too boldly. He had no reason to heed her warning. But it disquieted her to think of him involved in dangerous bloody fistfights every night, instead of spending his time reading a newspaper at the café in peace.
His eyes searched hers. "I'll stay away from it, if you think it so unwise."
She released his arm in relief. "Thank you."
She continued up the stairs, turning at the top and passing three doors until she reached hers at the end of the row. Outside her door, there was a little round table and single chair where she often spent her Sunday afternoons reading. She'd miss those little moments of solitude.
"Here's my door," she said needlessly and then crinkled her nose. "I told you it wasn't far."
"It was no trouble."
Irene unlocked her door, opened it and turned to Charles, about to thank him and say goodnight, but instead impulse had her asking, "Would you like to come in?"
He hesitated in his half-turn before facing her fully again. "Why?"
She stared back at him, partially standing inside her apartment. She was unsure if he was waiting for her to state her meaning out loud or if he truly didn't know what she wanted of him. He waited for her to answer and she supposed that was enough for her to figure out.
By morning, she would be uprooting her life here. It was too late to say goodbye to her co-workers, even Daisy who had been a decent friend the last few years. But maybe she could leave Saint Denis with one less regret to carry.
Irene stepped forward, lifted her hand to Charles' face and brazenly planted her lips on his. She kissed him, tall enough to reach with a little lift from her toes. His mouth tasted of the last coffee she'd served him at the café with a hint of chocolate from the brownie that had been the dessert tonight.
Charles stilled a moment, clearly surprised at her action. Those few seconds had her momentarily worried she'd been misreading any possible interest he'd had in her. She liked Charles, in a way she hadn't felt taken with a man for a long time. She had hoped he'd felt the same.
Charles always held himself so reserved that it was unexpected when his response turned out as hungry and desirous as her own. His steady fervor left her dizzy, but she managed to pull back from him a moment, a little gasp escaping her lips. She asked again, in a whisper, "Won't you come in?"
He nodded. She grabbed Charles' hand, pulling and leading him inside. He shut the door behind him and she closed the gap between them before either one could second guess their actions. As before, he matched her ardor.
As Irene kissed him, she felt the prickliness of his stubble, the firmness of his jaw. His hands were warm and steady on her hips. Her fingers explored, coming into contact with a thin, raised scar running up his jaw.
Charles worked the buttons at her collar next while she lowered her hands to slip the buttons through the loops of his shirt. His leather vest was next, but she gasped at the sudden coolness of the air exposed on the skin of her chest. They stared at each other the briefest of moments before they picked up the pace in the removal of the rest of their clothing.
His hands traveled along her torso, her breasts and they kept close together as Irene started to guide him backwards to her bed. They pulled each other along on a heady journey of matching arousal while they moved together in a smooth abiding of their bodies. Through groans and quivers, they made love in effortless abandon, as if they'd done it hundreds of times before.
After it all, when they'd exhausted themselves with pleasure, she curled up, resting her head on Charles' chest. He pressed a kiss on the top of her now loosened hair with simple affection and Irene tried to stay in the moment, to keep this night free from any invading thoughts of loss and regret.
It had been the best night she could've made for herself in order to remember her time in Saint Denis, before she'd have to upend her life once again.