Sweet Sanctuary Read online

  They reached a block of solid, brown-brick apartment buildings standing four or five stories high. Sets of concrete steps every fifteen feet or so either led one below sidewalk level or up to a square landing. Micah guided her to the third upward set. He opened the door for her, and she preceded him into a dimly lit hallway that stretched toward another door at the back. An iron-railed stairway led to the upper floors. She didn’t have a chance to explore further, because Micah stopped at the first apartment and knocked. They waited a moment. Then he tapped again.

  A sour voice came through the door. “I’m comin’, I’m comin’, no need to break down the ever-lovin’ door!”

  Lydia would have taken a step back, but Micah blocked her. The door swung open and a wrinkle-faced old woman in a wrinkled, faded housedress, bare legs, and—of all things—men’s boots with no laces, stood scowling in the opening. She fixed Lydia with a harsh glare. “Yeah, missy, what do ya want? I ain’t buyin’ nothin’, if yer sellin’.”

  Micah leaned over Lydia’s shoulder. “Mrs. Flannigan, me old darlin’, I wouldn’t dream of sellin’ you a thing.”

  The woman’s face lit when Micah came into her view. To Lydia’s amazement, she even preened, lifting her hand to touch the frizzy gray curls above her left ear. “Ah, Micah, m’boy. Didn’t see ya there in the shadows. What can I be doin’ for ya today?”

  Micah tipped his head to indicate Lydia. “This is Miss Lydia Eldredge, a friend of mine from Boston. She’s here in New York on business, and she needs a place to stay.” The woman shook a ferocious finger at Micah, her blue eyes snapping. Micah rushed on. “Now, you know I’m not suggestin’ she stay with me, Mrs. Flannigan. You know me better than that!” The woman’s face relaxed, the warmth returning to her faded blue eyes. “But I was wonderin’ if Kelsey’s apartment was rented yet. Thought perhaps she could stay there. Might be only a day or two, but I’d pay for the whole month.”

  Lydia shot him a startled glance. She hadn’t intended for him to pay her room bill!

  Mrs. Flannigan scratched her knobby, whisker-dotted chin. “Well, now, Micah, ya know I’ve got a waitin’ list for that apartment. Could call today an’ have it filled, just like that.” She snapped her bony fingers. Then she tucked her chin downward with a flirtatious smile, causing her double chin to triple. “But, for you, m’boy, I’ll put off that call for a day ’r two. Yer friend can stay.” Finally the woman’s smile swept to include Lydia.

  “I thank you, Mrs. Flannigan. You’re a real darlin’, ye are!”

  Lydia never expected to hear an Irish brogue combined with a Texas twang. Her ears might never recover.

  “Now, can I be trustin’ you to get Lydia settled? I’ve got some business I must attend to.”

  Lydia’s heartbeat increased its rhythm. He wasn’t going to leave her here with this crusty old woman, was he?

  Micah dropped the suitcase by Lydia’s feet, touched her back lightly, and whispered, “You’re in good hands with Mrs. Flannigan. Turn in early, rest well, and I’ll take you along to the clinic with me tomorrow morning. We’ll talk there.” After a broad wink in Mrs. Flannigan’s direction, which caused the woman to titter like a young girl, Micah spun on his heel and dashed out the door.

  Lydia propped a hand on her hip. She turned to Mrs. Flannigan, who still wore a glow from Micah’s attention. The older woman sighed, patting the soiled bodice of her dress, then glanced in Lydia’s direction. She gave a start, dropping the hand and fussing with a torn corner on her pocket in a self-conscious gesture.

  “Yes, well, come along now, Miss . . . Eldredge, did ya say? From Boston, eh? I imagine yer tired from yer journey. Mrs. Flannigan will take good care o’ ya, yes she will. Grab yer case there, m’dear, an’ follow me.” The older woman herded Lydia to the staircase and began grunting her way upward, tugging at Lydia’s hand.

  Lydia followed, but she looked between the stairway railing toward the doors where Micah had disappeared. How she wished she knew what business had caused such a state of urgency.

  10

  Micah hoped Lydia would forgive him for dumping her on his landlady, but he knew Mrs. Flannigan would get her settled in. He chuckled, fondness for the older woman warming his chest. She was a feisty old bird, but she possessed a heart of gold. Even so, she might turn up her nose in distaste if she knew of his package retrievals.

  He moved along briskly, glancing once in a while at his watch. He had to reach the synagogue before seven if he wanted to speak with Rabbi Jacowicz. He could make it in plenty of time if he drove, but he’d made it a habit to save his gas ration coupons for emergencies—such as making Jeremiah’s deliveries. Walking was good exercise, anyway. If he increased his pace, he’d get there in time.

  Arms swinging, heels pounding the pavement, he blew out a breath of frustration. What was the dockworker thinking to pass that message off to Stan? Micah had given all of the men strict instructions to give every communication directly to him. Anger propelled by worry rolled through his chest as he considered the possible consequences of the breach of confidence. Anger faded to guilt when he remembered taking his frustration out on Lydia. He shouldn’t have been so abrupt with her.

  He turned a corner and was forced to slow his speed as he weaved between evening shoppers returning home with their supper fare. The sight of food in baskets made his stomach growl. He hadn’t had his supper yet—getting Lydia settled had taken the place of eating. Of course, she hadn’t eaten, either, to his knowledge. Maybe he should pick up something—sandwiches from a deli and fruit from one of the vendors—and take it to her when he returned to the apartment. It would be a gesture of goodwill after his grumpy attitude earlier.

  What on earth was she doing here? She’d never mentioned her father having business associations in New York. He would get to the bottom of her “business” later. For now, making arrangements for his package took priority.

  He jogged the last few steps to the solid doors of the synagogue. The hinges released a low-pitched moan as he pushed the door inward. Micah entered the cool, dark interior. Two men with long beards, skull caps, and black sidelocks framing their cheeks, looked up from a table where they read together by candlelight. They nodded in a solemn fashion and went back to their book. Micah passed them and entered the small room at the back where he knew he’d find Rabbi Jacowicz.

  “Hello, Micah, my friend,” the rabbi greeted when Micah entered the room.

  The combination of words brought Nicky fleetingly to mind. Micah swallowed a smile and focused on the purpose of his visit. “Package arriving this evening. Should be here around ten.”

  “So you will bring it here by eleven?”

  “Between eleven and twelve,” Micah corrected. “Can you be ready?”

  “How many?” the man asked.

  Micah shrugged. “I’m not sure. At least two, probably. To be safe, we should make preparations for twice that number.”

  A single nod acknowledged Micah’s request. Then the man smiled, his beard lifting at the corners and his eyes crinkling. “I will be ready.”

  “As will I.”

  Lydia washed down the last bite of her sandwich with a swallow of milk, then wadded the empty wax paper wrap. She tossed the crumpled paper onto the table, releasing a sigh. Her tummy was now comfortably full thanks to Micah’s delivery of a cheese sandwich, two wrinkled apples, and a pint-sized bottle of milk half an hour ago. But the empty room closed around her.

  Why hadn’t he stayed to eat with her? She would have liked his company at the scarred kitchen table. This aloof, seemingly uncaring Micah was not the man who had sat across her own kitchen table and presented a way to help Nicky two weeks ago. He hadn’t even questioned her reason for being in New York. His preoccupation raised a dozen questions in her mind.

  Picking up the coarse white sheets Mrs. Flannigan had loaned her, she moved to the corner of the room. She flicked the sheets, one at a time, onto the contraption masquerading as a bed. Nothing more than a worn, sagging mattre
ss on a rusty iron frame that folded up on itself, the bed promised to be very uncomfortable. But she wouldn’t need to spend too many nights on it. Father had warned her to prepare for a lengthy stay in New York, claiming there was no way to know for certain how long it would take to find Mrs. Fenwick. But Nicky needed rescuing now, and Lydia trusted God to guide her quickly to the woman.

  Her hands paused in their task and she drew in a slow breath, a smile twitching at her lips. How wonderful to rest confidently in the assurance of God’s attention to her need—especially since Micah’s attention seemed sorely lacking. She had pulled out her Bible and read some passages in Matthew while eating her simple supper, and she reflected on a section of Scripture. The words “If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed . . . nothing shall be impossible unto you” had nearly leaped from the page onto her heart. Bending forward, she smoothed the wrinkles from the sheets as she reminded herself even if right now her faith was small—no bigger than a mustard seed—it was still sufficient. And just as a mustard plant grew from a tiny seed, her faith would continue to grow as she placed her trust in God. The thought brought a pleasant rush of peace.

  A breeze pressed in through one of the windows, riffling the back of her hair and carrying a mildewy odor. Crossing to the closest window, she pushed the simple off-white curtain aside. Palms resting on the dirty sill, she leaned out slightly and gazed left and right. The army-ordered dim-out resulted in the city resting beneath a muted glow, but the dimming of lights seemed to have little effect on activity. The afternoon’s busy traffic had slowed with the descent of evening, but groups of people loitered on the sidewalks, talking and laughing.

  At the corner, a pair of teenage boys leaned on the iron light pole, cigarettes dangling from their lips, while they jostled one another and whistled at any young woman who wandered by. While Lydia watched, one of the boys lifted his head and fixed his gaze on her. He punched his buddy, pointed, and then both boys leered at her. Lydia withdrew and closed the window as the boys’ raucous laughter filtered to her ears. She whisked the shades downward on both windows, sealing herself away from any other prying eyes. Then she busied herself emptying the contents of her suitcase.

  Shelves tucked into a cubby near the tiny kitchen held most of her belongings, but her suits required hanging. A search of the apartment revealed no closet, so she made use of a series of pegs along one wall. She slipped out of her yellow travel suit and hooked it carefully over a wooden peg. A smear of blood marred the lapel of her jacket. Lydia slid her fingers across the brownish stain, and an image of the frightened little girl she’d held filled her mind. How quickly the child’s countenance had changed with gentle attention. What a wonderful service Micah provided, seeing to the needs of the city’s immigrant population. She nibbled her lower lip, pondering. Might the package he needed to retrieve be supplies? If so, why did he seem upset rather than grateful?

  Reaching for her pajamas, she started to dress for bed. But an inner restlessness changed her hands’ direction. Instead, she donned a pair of trousers and a blouse. Despite the bedtime hour and her long hours of travel, she wasn’t ready to turn in. Perhaps a few minutes of taking in the night air would clear her mind and allow her to sleep. Leather slippers on her feet and the key Mrs. Flannigan had given her in her pocket, she left the apartment.

  On the stairway, she passed a couple locked in a rather ardent embrace and an older woman who muttered insults at the unconcerned couple. Her slippers slapped softly against the concrete stairs, her shadow creeping along beside her. She moved quickly to the double doors that led to the street, stepped outside, and seated herself on the top step. Pulling up her knees, she wrapped her arms around them and looked skyward, hoping to see stars.

  Her thoughts worked their way across the states to Boston, where Nicky was probably already asleep. She missed him. She’d never been away from him before. He had cried when she left, nearly breaking her heart, but she’d told him he should look out the window at the stars before going to sleep and know that Mama was looking at the same stars. So she searched the smoke-smudged expanse overhead for stars, thinking of Nicky doing the same thing. The idea comforted her.

  The squeak of the door hinges caught her attention, and she looked over her shoulder, prepared to move out of the way if necessary. To her pleased surprise, Micah stepped onto the stoop.

  He whisked a glance up and down the street, his brow puckered. “What are you doing out here?”

  His flat tone chilled her. She hugged her knees more tightly. “Just sitting. Taking in the night air. I often do that at home before turning in.”

  Micah descended two steps, then lowered himself beside her with his legs stretched out in front of him. “Lydia, this isn’t your neighborhood. This is a Queens ghetto. It isn’t safe for you to be sitting out here alone.”

  “Then sit with me.” She offered a smile, hoping to remove the scowl from his face. “Let me tell you why I’ve come. And you can tell me all about your clinic work.”

  Micah flicked an impatient glance at his watch. “I can’t right now. I have an appointment.”

  Lydia drew back, startled. “At this hour?”

  “Yes. But I won’t feel comfortable leaving until you’re back in your apartment. Please go back up.”

  A muscle twitched in his cheek, and he repeatedly clenched and unclenched his fists. The nervous gestures raised an alarm in her mind. Surely just finding her sitting outside on a stoop wouldn’t create this much anxiety. She touched his knee. “What’s troubling you, Micah?”

  Instead of answering, he took hold of her elbow and assisted her to her feet. He led her to the door, opened it, and applied gentle pressure to her back to ease her through the opening. “Uncle Micah says it’s time for bed.” His voice quavered, and his attempt at humor only served to increase her trepidation. “I’ll take you to the clinic with me in the morning and we’ll talk there, but for now you need to turn in. Good night, Lydia.”

  Without giving her a chance to respond, he turned and trotted down the steps, then headed up the street. Lydia stepped back onto the stoop, hands on her hips, staring after him. Curiosity twined through her middle. What kind of business would require his attention at this hour of the evening?

  He reached the corner, paused, looked both ways, then turned right. She bit her lip, her thoughts rolling erratically. He’d told her to go up to bed, but she wasn’t sleepy, and she wouldn’t be able to rest, wondering what he was doing. Without a thought to the ramifications, Lydia dashed down the stairs in pursuit.

  11

  Micah breathed in short, nervous spurts. Someone tailed him. The hairs on the back of his neck had been tingling for the last three blocks. The person walked with a light step, but the steps had dogged him relentlessly since he’d left the apartment. His heart beat in his throat. Who was it? The police? Someone who had discovered what he was doing and wanted to stop him?

  Fists balled so tightly his fingers ached, he forced himself to keep moving, circling blocks and forming a meandering path meant to confuse his pursuer. This was exactly what he’d feared would happen when Stan came in with that message. Whoever followed was certainly up to no good, and Micah couldn’t afford to have his plans disrupted. What would happen to the package if he didn’t retrieve it? None of the dockworkers knew how to reach Rabbi Jacowicz.

  He set a deliberate pace—not so fast as to alert his pursuer he knew of his presence, but fast enough to make the follower work to keep up. Every fiber of his being strained to break into a run, but he didn’t dare—if the person following was armed, he might be antagonized into shooting. Micah wouldn’t risk anyone being hurt. He clung to hope the person would tire of following him if he continued an aimless journey. But he couldn’t keep it up forever—he needed to go to his vehicle and then to the docks.

  Micah turned another corner, making careful note of street names so he’d be able to bring himself back on course. In and out of the soft glow cast by hooded streetlamps he went, his shad
ow running ahead and then falling behind, his ears constantly tuned and alert, his pulse pounding in worry. The mysterious follower turned wherever he did. How long would this continue?

  Then Micah’s heart leaped in his chest. Ahead, a gloomy alley opening beckoned. If he ducked in there, might he be able to hide long enough for the person to give up and leave? If so, he could get to his coupe and the ship docks. He maintained his same brisk pace as he approached the alley. Then, sending up a silent prayer for success, he abruptly dove into the dark passageway between towering buildings.

  He paused, disoriented. The absence of streetlamps left him temporarily blinded, but after a few seconds his eyes adjusted and he spotted a haphazard stack of wooden crates leaning precariously against the side of one building. He dashed behind them, then peeked out to watch the alley opening, his heart threatening to burst through his chest.

  In less than a minute he was rewarded with the appearance of his follower. Micah couldn’t make out the person’s features in the shadows, but the pursuer was slight in build—shorter than Micah—and very slender. The person paused, tipping at the waist and peering into the alley, apparently hesitant to enter it. Micah held his breath. Go away. Please go away. But the shadowy figure took two slow steps forward, head swinging back and forth, seeking. One hand came up, and it appeared he scratched his head. Micah stifled a satisfied snort—he’d managed to bamboozle the mysterious tail. Now if he’d just leave . . .

  Micah watched, hoping, as the person’s hands went to his hips. In a rush, recognition dawned. Fury roared through Micah’s middle. He burst from his hiding spot. “What do you think you’re doing, Lydia?”