Before Sylvie opened her book, a familiar face caught her eye. Twenty-five-year-old Ivan Mazurek leaned against the wall, his folded arms brawny from laboring at the stockyards. Sylvie had known his family for years. She watched him, ready to wave should he look her way.
He didn’t. His walnut-brown hair was combed to one side, and a fresh nick on his cheek betrayed that he’d recently shaved. Frankly, Sylvie was surprised to see him here. If he was still as frugal as he’d always been, he’d never spend money at the coffeeshop, and she’d never known him to be interested in Shakespeare. He attended Readers Club but didn’t comment on the text.
Curious, she followed Ivan’s line of sight to Rose, who seemed completely oblivious to him. All the better.
Sylvie laced her fingers around her mug. Was this man a potential suitor for her daughter? He was Polish, but that alone did not make a match. In fact, Sylvie wasn’t convinced Rose needed a match at all. One’s happiness and fulfillment didn’t depend on it, at any rate. A truth Sylvie’s own life proved.
Giving it no further thought, she opened her novel and immersed herself in the story.
She was deep into Revolutionary Paris via Charles Dickens by the time practice ended and Rose returned to the table, glowing. Jozefa and Beth came right behind her.
“Will you come again, Jozefa?” Rose asked, and Beth echoed the invitation.
“Perhaps I will.” Jozefa smoothed her hair and brushed at a wrinkle in her skirt. “And perhaps next week I’ll come properly pressed, as well.”
“Where are you staying, Jozefa?” Sylvie tucked her book into her bag and stood. “Are the valet services inadequate?”
“My reservation is with the Palmer House, on the European plan.”
Sylvie’s brows lifted in surprise before she could hide her reaction. Then again, not all rooms at the hotel were as expensive as others, and the European plan meant Jozefa would find her own meals rather than eating each one at the hotel on the American plan. Still, she hadn’t realized the actress had the means to stay at the Palmer for an extended period of time. Perhaps Bertha Palmer, wife of the hotel owner and the director of the Fair’s Board of Lady Managers, had arranged a special rate for speakers at the Woman’s Building. It was the sort of thing she would do.
“But there’s been a mistake with the dates of my lodging,” Jozefa went on. “They weren’t expecting me until next Monday.”
Beth’s face screwed tight. “So where have you been sleeping, the broom closet?” She snorted when she laughed.
A hint of a smile tilted Jozefa’s lips. “Not quite. The Palmer staff referred me to the Sherman House while I wait for my room to open at the Palmer, but the Sherman is full up, too. Still, they’ve given me a cot and a corner of the lobby, among several other cot-sleepers. In Chicago during the World’s Fair, it seems there is literally no room at the inn.”
“Oh no.” Sylvie felt her cheeks flush at the thought of an international guest being treated this way.
Rose gasped. “That’s terrible! The Sherman House is just down the block from us.” She clutched Sylvie’s arm. “She can stay with us, instead, can’t she, Mimi?”
Before Sylvie could reply, Jozefa broke in. “I couldn’t impose.”
“Nonsense.” Rose turned back to Sylvie, pleading. “She can have my bed. I’ll sleep on the sofa. I don’t mind at all, and I’ll help with all the cooking, I promise.”
Beth lowered her voice. “If you don’t mind, Sylvie, it really would be a step up from a cot. I’d take her in myself if I had any room to spare.”
“Of course,” Sylvie said, and she meant it. After all, she had been the one to invite Jozefa to come at her own expense, which was no small sum. “It’s the least I can do, and we really are neighbors to the Sherman House. What we have isn’t fancy, but it’s home, and you’re welcome to it.”
Rose hugged Sylvie with a spontaneity that called to mind years past, when affections between them were freely bestowed and received. Heart in her throat, Sylvie held her daughter, then let her go.
THURSDAY, AUGUST 10, 1893
If Sylvie’s pulse skittered with excitement, she could only imagine how Rose felt as they sat with Kristof at a table near the restaurant’s entrance. She could scarcely believe it had worked. But here they were, waiting for a man who had answered Rose’s notice searching for her Polish roots. Wiktor Janik hailed from the Dabrowskis’ hometown of Wloclawek, Poland.
Beyond the second-floor windows of the Casino, Lake Michigan sparkled beneath the midday sun. Inside, waiters glided between tables. Swags of red, white, and blue festooned the Corinthian pillars designed to match those in Music Hall, the building’s twin on the other end of the Peristyle that connected them. Chatter hummed in the open, airy restaurant.
“I’m so nervous,” Rose murmured. “How well did he say he knew my parents, again?”
“He was their neighbor for several years,” Kristof said. “It sounds like they might have been friends. We’ll find out soon enough, won’t we?” He had been the one to translate the note sent in Polish and pen the reply on Rose’s behalf.
Sylvie thanked him again for meeting for lunch between his concerts so he could interpret for them. She’d known he was multilingual from growing up and studying in Europe, but she hadn’t realized until he met and spoke with Jozefa that his languages included Polish. The actress had offered to come and translate today but then recalled she had a lunch date with other women speakers. It was just as well. For such a momentous occasion, it was more fitting for Kristof to be here than a woman they’d met less than a week ago.
“Oh, I’m so nervous,” Rose said again, her knee bouncing beneath the table. “I don’t know why, but I am.”
Sylvie could practically feel Rose’s anxiety radiating from her. She looked younger than her seventeen years just now, and yet it seemed a lifetime since she’d been parted from her father. Sylvie prayed she would learn something meaningful today, something she could hang on to.
“Are you sure you want me to be here for this?” Sylvie asked. She wanted to stay, but she would understand if Rose wanted to receive Mr. Janik privately. As long as Kristof was there to translate and chaperone, she had no qualms about it.
“Of course, Mimi. You deserve to know about my family as much as I do. And if this man was my family’s friend, I’m sure he’d want to meet the woman who raised me.”
Sylvie exhaled. “I’m eager to meet him, too.”
Across the expanse of white linen, Kristof smiled at her over the centerpiece of pink and lime-green hydrangeas. As usual, his tuxedo appeared crisp and spotless, even after his morning concert.
She nudged the salt and pepper shakers out of alignment on the table and waited. Two seconds later, Kristof’s long, lean fingers moved them back into perfect place. This was what he did. She teased him about his need for order, but in all honesty, it was comforting that he took what was crooked and made it straight again. He fixed things.
She arched an eyebrow at him. He shrugged and smiled, that particular smile she’d noticed was only for her. The one that said, I know what you’re doing. I know you. He did. In her mind, they were older versions of Jo March and Laurie from Little Women, the way they understood each other. Friends, yes. Lovers, never.