Judging by the college boys' heh-heh-hehs and catcalls, though, she assumed she rattled out her usual description of what went on in the parlor circa 1850: the musical entertainment, the serving of exorbitantly overpriced drinks, the purchasing of wooden disks in the shape of roses that were stamped "Good For One" and allowed a man upstairs for a more private visit.
The idea of a "private visit" set the rugby boys off again. They laughed. They elbowed one another. They asked, "Good For One is good for what, exactly?" Several wanted to know if Kitty gave out free samples of the house wares like the bakery did.
But their obnoxiousness didn't even make her blink, not when her brain was so frantically preoccupied with the problem of Dylan Matthews. It wasn't until she was preparing to lead the group to the brothel bedrooms that her agitated mind finally latched onto a sensible, calming thought. Just because her OSM knew who she was, it didn't mean he knew what she'd done.
As a matter of fact, the more she considered it, the more she could believe that he'd joined the tour out of some offhand, nostalgic curiosity. Likely he was merely reacquainting himself with the town's history following his long absence. After all, Hot Water was his heritage as much as it was hers.
On that happy thought, she managed not to hesitate before stepping off the footstool and pushing her way through the towering walls of rugby chests in order to reach the narrow stairway. Once at the bottom of the steps, she pinned a gracious smile on her face and lifted a hand. "Gentlemen, please proceed."
Like a herd of hungry cattle, the boys hurried from the parlor, eager to check out where the "butts hit the bed," as one silver-tongued young man referred to it. When the first size 16 shoe hit the bottom stair tread, Kitty collared Sally. She dragged the tour director toward a far corner of the front hall, removing them both from the proximity of the visitors as if to discuss important business.
Because even if Dylan's appearance at the brothel was perfectly innocent, when it came to her OSM, Kitty wasn't. So there was no good reason to risk an encounter with him, however casual. Aloof should work. If she treated him like any other tourist, as if she didn't recognize him, then she might encourage early ennui and thus an early - maybe even immediate? - departure from The Burning Rose.
A wishful hope that Sally instantly dispelled. "Who the heck is that?" she demanded, her finger quivering as it pointed to a figure in black climbing the stairs, not heading out the front door.
"I don't know," Kitty lied.
"But he knows you."
Those panicky goose bumps prickled her skin again. "He used to live in town."
Sally frowned. "You just said you didn't know him."
Kitty turned her back to the stairs and fiddled with her dress. "He hasn't been home in eight years," she mumbled, vainly tugging upward to add more coverage. "I don't really know him."
It was an honest answer. Although she'd recognized him at once, the tough-looking Dylan ascending the brothel stairway right this minute little resembled the handsome, good-natured young man the entire town had always admired and loved. Eight years ago he had already been changing, understandably affected by the tragedy that had marked them all that June, but the hardness Kitty saw in him now made her stomach knot.
Either that, or it was her guilty conscience.
Sally propped her hands on her hips. "What is this? Are you holding out on me?" she huffed. "I demand the scoop. Right now."
Since the "scoop" was something Kitty had managed to keep to herself for the past eight years, she edged away. "I've got to get upstairs," she said.
Sally grabbed her arm. "Come on. Give me something. Does he have a job? Kids? Wife?"
"Yes, job. No, kids." Kitty slipped free of her friend's hold and hurried to the stairway.
Sally's loud whisper drifted after her. "Okay, but what about a wife?"
Kitty pretended not to hear.
Keeping a close eye out for the dangerous man in black, she followed the last of the rugby players upstairs, then lingered at the top landing as the men shuffled in and out of the five bedrooms on display. In each were feminine toiletry articles, lingerie, and hand-lettered lists of the men purported to have taken their ease at The Burning Rose.
The first madam herself had entertained two governors, a future senator, and a banker who