Free Saints and Sinners by Shawna Moore

him well in his job as an iceman. How anyone could haul those large blocks of ice up flight after flight of stairs amazed her. He thrust his hips forward just like he had on that fateful day. She shivered at the thought and with arousal of the time he’d sneaked up on her in the alleyway behind the buildings. She’d been fourteen at the time.
    Wind whipped at her hair and face. She saw Guiseppe and turned to run. For some reason, her legs refused to carry her away.
    Guiseppe’s greasy hair covered his collar. He stood with his back to her. At her approach, he turned to face her and fumbled with his fly.
    Her stomach soured, and she tried to run. “Get back to your business. Let me alone.”
    “Oh, I want to do anything but.”
    Someone whistled and brought her back to reality. “Remember my Christmas present to you, Moira?” he called and began unbuttoning his drawers.
    How filthy, he was. Filthy then and now. She closed her eyes to blot out the memory, but to no avail. Evidently unable to make it inside to a chamber pot that awful day, Guiseppe had pulled down his pants and watered the side of the tenement building instead. How his bare backside shone. Bare as the racks at Bainbridge’s after a sale. The coil of steam rising from the blocks. She’d lain awake all night thinking about his crudeness.
    Moira opened her eyes and slammed the window down, narrowly missing her hand. How fast her heart pounded. The half-eaten apple rolled across the floorboards and landed near the toe of her shoe. In her anger, she’d split the remaining section into a ragged wedge. She picked it up, fully intent on discarding it, even though some fruit remained.
    Shouts from beyond the window caught her attention. She couldn’t tolerate their teasing any longer. It was time they behaved in a civil manner.
    She heaved the window open and stuck her upper body through the open space. Moira blinked in disbelief as Guiseppe’s bare backside lapped over the sill. All right, two could play this game. With all her might, Moira heaved the hunk of apple.
    Splat . The apple met with its target. Moira squealed.
    Muttering what sounded like obscenities in Sicilian, Guiseppe rushed from view, rubbing his injured bottom. When she was certain they couldn’t hear her, she shouted, “ Dun do bheal .” Yes, may they shut their mouths today and always.
    Overhead the flooring creaked. Hannah O’Brian’s baby was always colicky. Every day the young Irish woman paced back and forth upstairs while trying to silence the squalling infant. Every day she thanked Moira for helping to deliver the fairy-faced baby girl in August. That had been hottest day of the summer and sweltering to be sure. Probably a hundred degrees, or maybe more, in the shade. At this point, she surely knew how babies came into the world. What she wanted to learn more about was the connection between a man and woman that made this so.
    Was it like a sweet, ripe plum on the end as Molly Brannigan claimed? Should she put it in her mouth and suck out the juice? Would the seed inside it sprout if she put the hardness between her legs?
    * * * *
    Moira managed only a few morsels of supper before she longed for the privacy of her room. In her haste earlier, she’d tossed the dress box on her bed and forgotten about it until now. Once the dishes were washed and dried, she headed upstairs to look at Reilly’s surprise. Her fingers tingled as she removed the lid and admired the lovely dress she’d wear to Reilly’s party. She ran her hands over chiffon fabric the color of a rabbit’s nose and shivered. How good this would feel against her bare body.
    A matching pair of slippers, brocaded on the top and shot through with golden threads, rested against the corner of the box. As Moira flung the box onto the floor, something else spilled out along with the tissue wrapping.
    She bent and picked up the book. Almost to the point of scalding her fingertips, the naughty item—and her naughtier