Page 24 of My Darling Girls

August frowned. He pinched his nose. His silence was pressing against Jo like a wall.

He finally said, “Let me run my own business the way I see fit. If you want to do more, why don’t you focus on babies and mothers. You work well with female sitters. Women and babies. It’s the natural order of things.” She tried to take consolation in the thought that certainly there was some kind of explanation for his words other than showing her her place. It was so unlike August to shut her down, to dismiss her ideas so promptly. Until that day, he had never tried to stop her from thinking like a man. She wanted to ask for an explanation, but he left the studio so abruptly that night, she didn’t have a chance to ask.

He was dead the next day.

If she gets enough light in the room, Grace’s face would be perfectly shadowed to showcase her high cheekbones and small, sculptured nose. The more Jo thinks about taking Grace’s picture, the more her pulse is thumping in her throat at the idea. The girl could be an excellent model for those advertising prints Jo always wanted to try. If she could capture Grace’s ethereal beauty—and with the right lighting, she definitely could—both the girl and Jo could have a good source of income. Jo could take Grace’s photographs to the big retailers such as Marshall Field & Co. or even Montgomery Ward and Sears and see if they’d bite. And why wouldn’t they? Grace is one of a kind.

But, of course, she won’t ask the girl to sit for her. If anything, Jo needs to distance herself from this family where death is as thick as a morning fog by the river. Nothing good will come of her association with the Snakes. Only trouble, and she has had plenty of that already.

Jo gets to her feet, floorboards screeching under her shoes, and stands over the girl. She needs to wake her up and take her home. After all, Grace has family. They should be taking care of the girl.

“Grace.” Jo touches the girl’s hands. “Grace, darling, wake up.” When the girl doesn’t reply, Jo’s fingers brush over her cheek. “Grace.” A little louder. A little more impatient.

The girl’s eyelids flicker, and she slowly opens her eyes. The storminess of the blue—made sharper against the beige sofa—is unnerving. There is so much sorrow in Grace, Jo’s soul fills with a dull ache.

A moment of silence as the girl tries to process her surroundings. Her eyes, still cloudy with sleep, travel over Jo’s studio, pausing on the camera on top of the Knickerbocker stand and the portraits on the wall. “Where am I?” A barely audible sound.

“You’re in my studio. Do you remember what happened? You were in Zhang’s den, and I brought you here. You didn’t want to go home. But I sent for Finn.”

“Is Finn here?”

Jo shakes her head. “Not yet. I’m sure he’ll be here soon.” She doesn’t feel certain he’ll show up at all, but she isn’t going to tell Grace that. The girl is so tense, Jo expects her to physically fold into herself.

Grace slowly sits up, pushes the coverlet away. She smells faintly of orange blossom and something musky. Jo remembers the musky smell from the night she took Millie’s photos. It’s the same heavy, unpleasant scent. Then she sees it. There’s a swollen yellow bruise on Grace’s forearm that spreads from the front to the back. A sudden rush of heat—an exploding blaze—sweeps at Jo’s throat, drying it up.

“Who did this to you?” Jo asks, her voice rough, her stomach in knots.

Grace follows Jo’s eyes and recoils. “It’s nothing. I fell.” She pulls down her sleeve and wraps the blanket over herself, covering as much skin as she can. She turns to the window and watches a flock of small birds in the tree in front of Jo’s studio.

Jo nods, but inside she’s seething. The bruise looks like someone’s strong hand gripped the girl’s bony arm. Someone hurt her. It was not a fall. Of that, Jo is certain. She also understands the girl’s determination to keep her secret. Grace won’t share with a stranger what happened to her, all the things she has seen and felt. Jo’s chest tightens as she wonders if there was a warning, some way for Grace to know of the harm that was intended for her. “It must’ve been a nasty fall. I hope it heals fast.” Grace’s lower lip quivers. She turns her head away from Jo. “Are you hungry?”

Grace shakes her head. Wraps the blanket tighter around herself. “Finn brought your photos the other day. Millie looks so beautiful in them. She looks . . . asleep.” A sob breaks from the girl’s constricted throat. “She looks at peace.” The girl is collapsing internally, and Jo wishes she could console her, give her some comfort, but there’s a more pressing matter at hand.

“You asked me not to take you home. Why?”

Grace flinches and withdraws deeper into the sofa. A hunted bird. “It’s the drug. It gets into my head and makes me see things. Say things I don’t mean. I didn’t want my mother to see me like that.”

“Is it safe for you at home?”

“It is.” Grace’s voice trembles.

Jo has been well schooled in lies and nightmares. Especially fear and how it can claim your mind and possess your soul so fully that you no longer know right from wrong. She takes the girl’s hand and squeezes gently. “I’m going to give you my shawl to cover yourself up. And I’ll take you home. We’ll take a cable car. There’s a stop right around the corner.”

“What about Finn?”

“Something must’ve detained him.”

Grace shakes her head. “No, I know he’ll come. I’ll wait here. Can I wait here? How long can I stay?”

“As long as you want. But at some point, you’ll need to go home. And when you do go back home, I want you to think about something.” Jo sits on the edge of the sofa. There are a great many things she wants to say to the girl, but for now, she’ll start with a simple job offer. “As a photographer, I’m always looking to expand my business. I’m always looking for models. You’re a very special girl. Very beautiful.” How easy it is for Jo to offer help to a girl like Grace. Is it because she wishes someone had offered her help when she was Grace’s age? Or is it because focusing on someone else allows you to ignore your own messes? Because saving yourself requires admittance of all the wrongs you’ve ever done, and the thought of it is terrifying.

Grace slowly nods.

“How about you become my model? You sit for me. For a couple of pictures. I’ll take your photographs to the biggest department stores in Chicago and see if they make us a business offer. If they buy my work, your photographs might be included in their fashion catalog or their calendars.”

“You want to take my pictures?” Her voice shakes. “Fully clothed? And pay me?” Grace’s gaze bores into Jo as if she wishes she could read Jo’s mind.

“Yes, of course fully clothed. Why would you think otherwise?”