June 8, 1914

I have quickly found a small house to rent in Brooklyn. It is a seedy community on the other side of the tracks.  I met August Durbin, the owner, at a pub.  It turned out he owned the saloon too. He explained, “The place is located next to a boarding house with married women as residents. You can take your meals there, if you wish.”

“I like to cook, and I get meals at the Cabin dining room.”

“Suit yourself,” he said. “The house has a full kitchen. The pots, pans, flatware, and dishes were abandoned, but useable. Want to take a look?”

“Indeed.”

He smiled at my answer, “You look cultured, speak well and seem like a good risk. Can you pay a deposit and first month’s rent?”

“Of course.”

“I like you even better now.” He shrewdly eyed me.

“I haven’t seen the house yet.”

“Oh, yes.  I’m getting ahead of myself.”

The layout is simple. With a kitchen, parlor with a desk, bedroom, and a solid roof, it is just what I was looking for. The windows needed some work. I will buy new dishes and silverware. I can throw a stone and hit the Yampa River. I will fly fish every day.

“I’ll take it, Mr. Durbin.”

“Good, I hope you stay a while, and call me Gus. We’re not very formal over here. Pay me and you can move in.”

I made the financial transaction, walked to the Cabin Hotel, borrowed a cart, and pushed my trunk with minimal belongings to my new home.

The boarding house next door has a street level café. The second story apparently enters from the back has a somewhat hidden stairway. I decided to have a bit to eat before starting to clean and arrange my furniture. There were no other customers, so I sat at a table. In a moment, a beautiful, well-dressed woman of color appeared. She smiled at me, walked to my table and asked, “What would you like?”

“A beer, a ham sandwich and chips,” I replied.

“Anything else?” she questioned, eyes twinkling.

“No, well, maybe some tea. Do you have any?”

“Of course,” she answered with another smile. Her teeth were straight and very white. Her dark eyes sparkled, and she winked at me while brushing black curly hair aside. “I’ll put the kettle on to boil.” I could not identify her accent.

I started reading The Steamboat Pilot, the local weekly. She brought the beer and murmured,” Freddie is making your sandwich. I’ll bring the tea in a bit.” She gently placed her fingers on my neck and ran them up and through my hair. I was instantly aware that I sat in a brothel.

“Cream or sugar?”

“Both,” I responded smiling.

The kettle sang. She slowly swayed to the kitchen lifting her dress, feigning an adjustment to expose her ankle. Freddie brought the sandwich and dropped it on my table without a word. She returned with a cup and saucer which she held just below her bust. The steam drifted and contrasted with her skin. I am certain two more buttons were undone and revealed more.  She breathed in the aroma and said, “You’ll like this.”

The precise, seeped tint was perfect and resembled the tone of her skin. I replied, “Marvelous, the nectar of the gods and bit of home in a cup.”

“Where are you from and how long have you been in Steamboat?”

“Salisbury, England. I arrived a week ago, and you?”

“Louisiana mostly. I’ve been here off and on for a while”

“You have an accent.”

“So, do you.”

“Yours seems French.”

“I am Cajun.”

“What is that?”

“Creole, French Plantation Society because I am native born. I made a pot; may I join you?”

“Indeed, please do. The tea is splendidly precise.”

We sat, chatted, and continued our impromptu low tea until customers arrived. I dare say, she certainly had a graceful style. I finished my sandwich, sipped on the beer, and watched her saunter around the café. Then, engaged in my new ethics, I left to arrange my new home.