There was a man leaning against the wall beside Blue, same build, same dark hair, similar smile. He had his head tossed back in mid-laugh. I guessed it was Blue’s older brother, Frank. As I scanned the rest of the photographs, catching Blue in various poses at different ages – as a boy riding a bike; opening presents on Christmas morning in pajamas; hugging a beautiful, smiling woman I could only guess was his mother – I realized something rather euphoric. My heart began to race.
I didn’t know how I had gotten there, but I was in Blue’s house.
I was back in Chicago.
Is that why I was drawn so strongly to that particular soulmark in my garden? Because that was the one that would lead me back to Blue? Had it known I wanted to get back to him more than anything? Or had it been just a coincidence? Was Porter still standing beside that soulmark waiting for me? Would he be furious with me when I got back?
I shoved all those thoughts aside. After all the stress and shock Porter had put me through, the least he could do was let me have a few hours to myself to process things. I needed time to digest everything he told me. I needed to slow down so I could grasp the concepts of time travel and reincarnation. It’s not like time would pass while I was gone anyway. And I needed to know what happened after I heard the gunshot. I had to know how I ended up at Blue’s house in my past life and if he was all right.
I set the picture frame down and caught a glimpse of myself in the oval mirror. A stiff, cream-colored nightgown hung from my bony shoulders. My long dark hair was rolled into rag curlers all over my head, some white, some red, some blue, like the colors of the American flag.
I made my way over to the bedroom door and eased it open. There was a small landing and a staircase leading down. I took the stairs gently, but they still managed to squeak and announce my presence. At the bottom, Blue peeked around the doorframe of a sunlit room. “You’re up,” he said, flashing me a grin.
He was alive.
I couldn’t help it. I threw my arms around his neck. He laughed in my ear, his breath a puff in my hair.
“What was that for?” He leaned back to see my face. His smile was like sunshine. Infectious. The only sign of the fight in the alley was a shiny silver bruise – a swipe of charcoal below his left eye – and a cut above his right temple. His bottom lip was pale purple, only a little swollen.
“The last I heard was the gunshot,” I said. “I thought you were dead. I thought it was all my fault. I’ve been so worried, you can’t even imagine. How long was I away?”
“Away?” He cocked his head to the side. “You mean asleep? You blacked out after you tackled Teeth. You’ve been out like a light ever since. I bet you’re starving. Come in and have a seat. I’m making soup.”
He motioned for me to follow him into the sunlit room. It was a small kitchen awash with soft yellow light reaching lazily through white lace curtains. A large soup pot sat on top of an ornate green and white gas stove that stood on spindly legs. It was just like the one Gran and Pops had at their old farm. A porcelain-topped table stood in the center, surrounded by four white chairs. Blue pulled one out for me, and I sat down, tugging the hem of my night gown out from under my foot. It was too long for me. I guessed it was Blue’s mother’s. She must be tall, like my mom.
“Hey, I got you a present,” he said, reaching for something off the counter and tossing it onto the table.
A newspaper. All shiny and new and ready to turn my fingertips black.
I grinned. “Did you pay for it?”
“Naturally,” he said with a bow of his head.
I shook my head, smiling. As I watched him tend his soup at the stove, I got lost in the sight of him. I’d forgotten how handsome he was. He wore dark slacks, the kind men wore every day back then. His feet were bare, like mine. A soft, white undershirt and dark suspenders stretched across his muscular shoulders. I imagined this was the sort of thing Pops wore when he was a teenager. If so, I could see why Gran fell for him. There was something about a young man in that classic, old fashioned style that made a girl’s heart flutter. For one, the shirt sleeves were shorter, showing off a lot more bicep than modern T-shirts. I thought about how Jensen’s short sleeves came almost all the way down to his elbows.
Not that Jensen had much to show off in the bicep category.
But Blue…
The fingers of a blush stroked the back of my neck. Before it spread to my ears and cheeks, and before Blue turned around to see it, I snapped my attention to my hands.
Hands were so much more interesting than biceps, right?
That’s when I noticed my fingernails were filthy. Outlined in grime like I just came in from gardening with Gran. Only I never bloodied my knuckles planting hostas.
I scrubbed my nails clean at the sink with a nail brush. The soap was harsh and made my skin squeak, but it did the trick.
“So what happened last night?” I asked, joining him at the stove. “After I blacked out? I heard the gun go off. That’s the last thing I remember.”
With a large knife, Blue scraped a mound of freshly chopped dill from a cutting board into the steaming pot. “After you tackled Teeth, I knocked the gun out of Loogie’s hand. It went off when it hit the ground. No one got hurt, if that’s what you were thinking.”
“What happened then? How did we get here?”
“Mr Clemens – he owns the hardware store on the corner – he heard you shouting, so he knew something was going on. Came out with his shotgun.” Blue smiled at the memory and gave his soup a good stir. “Cafferellis’ guys hit the bricks, and Mr Clemens helped me carry you home. We’ll be safe here; this is Fifth Street territory.” He rapped his long wooden spoon on the side of the pot and set it down. “Ma patched you up the best she could and got you dressed and in bed. I told her not to bother curling your hair, but she did it anyway. Made it easier for her to look at that knot at the back of your head.” He reached up and flipped one of my striped cotton curlers with his fingers. “Looks cute, though. Very John Philip Sousa.”
At first I thought he meant I looked like the heavily bearded composer on the cover of one of Pops’ old records, the guy who wrote all those patriotic marches the marching bands play during parades, but I shot him a playful glare when I got the reference. The red, white, and blue rag curlers. “Oh yes, I know, very Stars and Stripes Forever.”
We laughed as he ladled soup into two bowls. “Hungry?”
We sat down, and I leaned over my soup. The hearty smell filled my nose. My stomach growled.
Blue’s soup was an old Polish recipe called Zupa Ogórkowa, which I tried to pronounce and failed. He said it meant pickled cucumber soup, which didn’t sound appetizing in the least. Who was the genius who thought putting pickles in soup was a good idea? I prepared myself for something truly disgusting, but it so wasn’t. It was steaming hot chicken broth seasoned with dill, with sour cream stirred in to make it creamy and silky smooth. The few slices of pickles floating beside tender potatoes and carrots made it a bit salty and sour, tart on my tongue. I supposed it was the same idea as Gran adding lemon juice to her chicken noodle soup. Either way, it was glorious, and I loved every bite of it. I devoured two bowls and half of a third before my stomach felt content.
Blue pushed his bowl aside and folded his arms on the table. “There’s something I’ve been dying to ask you.” Suspicion sat on his right shoulder. Intrigue sat on his left.
I raised my eyebrows as an invitation for him to ask away. I didn’t want to stop slurping down my soup just to say shoot.
“When Ma gathered your clothes up… She took them to the laundry, by the way. She wanted to get the blood out and mend a few tears for you.” He shook his head and waved that trail of thought away. “Anyway, she found something in your coat. In the hidden pocket on the inside.”