The Fifth Avenue Story Society

by Rachel Hauck

  She was as beautiful as ever with a touch of summer sun on her freckled skin and an air of vulnerability. Seeing her tonight made him miss her more than he thought possible.

  Locking on his bike helmet and anchoring his arms though his backpack, Jett headed home.

  He’d imagined their first postdivorce meeting a hundred times. A scene like Streisand and Redford’s in The Way We Were. Regretful, perhaps still in love, but selfishly ensconced in their own worlds.

  He’d see her walking down some New York avenue as he exited his publisher’s, where he’d learned his latest book spent a total of sixty weeks on the bestseller list. She’d be decked in her CEO attire with a conquering stride, afternoon sunlight streaming through her hair. Then, as if sensing an unseen force, she’d look around. Their eyes would lock. He’d wave. She’d smile and cross over to greet him, dodging a speeding taxi. They’d exchange a light hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  He’d tell her he’d just finished his tenth novel and recently sold an option to Hollywood.

  She’d confess she’d read his latest book and loved it.

  He’d offer congratulations for her article in Forbes. Named to the Top 100 Women in Business to Watch.

  She’d tell him she’d married last year. No one he knew.

  He’d say he’d just gotten engaged. But it’d be a lie.

  She’d reach up and brush his unruly bangs aside and—

  A car horn blast jolted him out of the scene. He righted his trajectory and pedaled with focus.

  But his thoughts continued to stray. He didn’t love her. Not anymore, though he wasn’t sure when the flame went out.

  Somewhere between “I do” and “Storm is dead.”

  Chapter 5

  Ed

  The Evans family in 211 lost their water heater Tuesday morning and Ed spent the whole day mopping up their flooded kitchen and living room, then prying off wet baseboards and setting up a fan to make sure the walls were dried out before he did any repairs. Dave Evans hired a friend to install the new water heater. Ed was grateful. He’d battled water heaters in the past and been defeated. However, the Evans disaster set off a series of events that consumed Ed’s week into the weekend.

  So here he was Friday evening, walking around the Romanos’ apartment on stilts, patching the ceiling where water from the Evanses’ water heater leaked through.

  Needless to say, the Underwood sat quiet all week with a piece of paper tucked around the roller.

  He wanted to get started, but how? He needed the professor’s wisdom.

  “Alex,” he said, dismounting the stilts, a little unsteady. Being seventy-eight was starting to show. “Tell your parents I’ll come check on them this Monday. But looks like the patch work is done.”

  The teen nodded once. “I hope you make the people upstairs pay for it.”

  “Not my call.”

  In short order, he had his tools tucked away in the super’s closet and rode the slow-as-molasses elevator up to his third-floor place.

  He was tired. Looking forward to a quiet night at home.

  He made his way to the fridge, where he retrieved a chicken pot pie and set the oven to preheat. Then he tossed the junk mail he’d brought up during lunch, keeping the one bill in the holder on the counter—right in front of the story society invitation.

  The whole scenario puzzled and intrigued him. Who and what brought the five of them together?

  Jett struck him as an upstanding young man. Ed looked him up on the internet and discovered he was the son of the adventure guy Bear Wilder, a burlier version of Marlin Perkins from the old show Wild Kingdom.

  He’d also written a novel, Rites of Mars, so Ed ordered a copy.

  Chuck appeared to be a decent fellow, too, if not a bit wounded. Nothing popped on the internet for him.

  He liked the girls best. They were sweet and reminded him of his daughter, Holly. Stunning Coral’s broken heart was reflected in her eyes, and Lexa’s in her words and demeanor. She was guarded.

  The oven preheat alert buzzed. Ed set the frozen dish on a cookie sheet, slid it into the oven, and set the timer.

  He had thirty minutes or so to clean up and maybe type a line or two on his love story. He’d been thinking of what to say all day.

  In his familiar old bedroom, he shed his work coveralls before stepping into the shower. After drying off, he dressed in a baggy pair of sweats and his favorite T-shirt—one his father used to own—before passing through the kitchen to his den.

  At his desk, he rested his old fingers on the keys and stared at the blank sheet of paper rolled into the Underwood.

  Esmerelda was the love of my life. I first saw her on Broadway with my buddies Nick and Sam. It was the summer of ’67.

  He wasn’t Wordsworth or Longfellow. So? It was a start.

  Opening his laptop, he checked his email and the sports scores. By the time the oven timer announced his dinner was ready, his stomach was gurgling.

  He followed his normal routine, carrying his dinner to the TV tray set up next to his chair. He took a beer from the fridge, flipped off the top, then took a swig.

  He rather looked forward to this coming Monday night and the story society, soliciting help and ideas for his memoir.

  Wasn’t often people had a love story like his and Esmerelda’s, one of enduring devotion and affection. People nowadays divorced for no reason. He suspected Jett and Lexa had parted company too easily. Just a gut feeling.

  People needed the hope of true love. He’d experienced it. Lived it. Why not tell the world? At the very least his daughter and grandkids.

  Esmerelda died so long ago he worried Holly didn’t remember her or their love.

  All set with his dinner, he aimed the remote and tuned in to Jeopardy just as a knock hit his door.

  “I’m eating.” Steam billowed from the broken pie crust.

  “Ed? It’s Mabel Cochran.”

  What did she want? Darn woman was always pestering him about something.

  I made a cake. Care for a slice?

  I heard a noise in the pipes.

  I might walk down to the movies. Care to join me?

  “I’m eating, Mabel.”

  “Well, do you have room for some homemade pasta?” Her voice was muffled through the solid wood door. “I made way too much.”

  Pasta? Well now that was hard to resist. His taste buds rebelled at the idea of eating a frozen dinner when fresh pasta was available.

  He opened the door to find his neighbor empty-handed. “I thought you brought me a plate.”

  She motioned to her open door. “Won’t you join me? The table’s all set and everything’s hot from the oven.”

  The aroma of tomato sauce, cheese, and bread wafted down the hall and made him weak. His belly stood at attention.

  Holly invited him out to Long Island for dinner every week for a home-cooked meal, but he preferred his place. Besides, her family was busy, going here and there, between her job as a Good Morning New York executive producer in Manhattan, her husband’s tech business, and two teens in sports.

  He angled forward to see into Mabel’s apartment. She’d lit candles. Who did she take him for? “Can’t you just bring me a plate?”

  “Sakes alive, you’re stubborn, Ed Marshall.” Her scowl almost made him cower. “It’s just dinner. I don’t bite.”

  “What am I going to do with my pot pie? I can’t just throw it out.”

  She pushed past him, swept up his dinner, and set it in the fridge. “You can have it for lunch tomorrow.”

  Back at the door, she waited, hands clasped at her waist. She was pretty, and shapely for a woman in her late sixties, maybe early seventies. Smart too. A former fashion magazine editor. Any man would be lucky to have her. It’s just that Ed wasn’t any man.

  “Well?” she said.

  “Bring me a plate and I’d be happy to help you with your overload of pasta.”

  “Ed, why are you so stubborn?”

  “Why are you s
o bossy?”

  She stepped past him and into the hall. “Pardon me. I won’t bother you again.”

  Oh, good grief. “Mabel, wait.” He touched her arm. “You, well, you caught me on a busy work week with the Evanses’ water heater breaking and leaking through to the Romanos’. Maybe another time?”

  She exhaled, her shoulders dropping before she smiled. “Leftovers?”

  “Sure. Leftovers.”

  “One night next week?”

  “Okay.”

  “So, tell me.” She motioned toward his place again. “What are you writing? I saw the paper in the typewriter. I used to be an editor, you know. If you need help, I can—”

  “I don’t need any help.” He eased the door closed. “Just so happens I like to collect old typewriters. I used to work at the New York Times press plant, you know.”

  “It’s not a collection if you only have one, Ed.”

  “All right, you got me. I’ll confess. I’m writing one of those, whatcha call ’em, bodice-tearing romances, under a pen name. Eloisa Hampersmith?”

  She glared at him, then burst out laughing. “Well, that would be the name you’d use. How about dinner Monday? Bring your first chapter. I’d offer tomorrow but I’m visiting my son and his family.”

  “Monday? I’m actually busy. But check back. And I won’t bring the first chapter.” He shut the door before she could propose Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, or Saturday.

  Rescuing his dinner from the fridge, he warmed it up in the microwave and returned to his worn but comfy leather mission chair he’d rescued from the side of an apartment building on East Eighty-Ninth Street and answered the Daily Double trivia question as he cut into his pot pie.

  Eloisa Hampersmith. Ed, you’re too funny.

  He was jesting about writing a romance, but maybe that’s how he needed to structure his story. A romance. Because that’s what he and his beautiful, refined society girl Esmerelda Belmont shared.

  Ed pressed his fist to his chest, subduing the ache that resided between his ribs and heart ever since she left this world. Dead at thirty-four, but he was keeping his promise to love and remember her until his own dying day.

  Of course, he saw Esmerelda every day in Holly. He was right proud of their girl, the executive producer. She married a good man, too, with a solid head on his shoulders. Brant liked to advise Ed on financial matters and how to increase his conservative retirement pay.

  And the two of them had given Ed and Esmerelda two fine grandchildren. Drake and Hope.

  “You should see them, Esmie. Good kids. Smart. Athletic.”

  He played along with the Jeopardy contestants as he finished the last bite of his pot pie and washed it down with a swig of beer. He figured he was up to about ten grand when he wagered five thousand on another Daily Double and lost.

  Well, you win some and lose some. But on such an easy question! Which great American twentieth-century author won the Pulitzer Prize for fiction in 1926?

  “Dad?”

  Ed jumped up, tipping the TV tray. He caught it before the contents spilled. “Hol?”

  “I came up the back elevator.” She peered around the kitchen wall, holding up two canvas totes. “I brought you some produce. What smells so good?”

  Mabel’s pasta. “My pot pie.” He schlepped into the kitchen with his clean plate and nearly empty bottle of beer. “What are you doing here?”

  Tall and lean, Holly embodied the city in which she grew up—quick, fast talking, fast moving, always in black with the aura of professional ambition.

  “Seeing my father?” She kissed his cheek before raising three grocery totes to the counter. “I’m beat. Long day. Did you watch the show? Our first guest was a pain in the rear. She was obsessed with avocados. Had to have a fresh one. On warm toast. Like she’d die otherwise. After the fifth run to the bodega, I was ready to smash the whole lot in her face. But”—she speared the air with her finger—“we have Sabrina Fox next week, so that should make up for it.”

  She smiled as if Ed understood every fast word. Which he did, sort of.

  “What’d you bring me?” He peeked into the nearest bag, sniffing out asparagus and potatoes. “I’ll make a soup.”

  “I reminisced with the kids the other night about your famous potato soup. You should come to the house one afternoon, make it for us.”

  Ed started unpacking the totes, but Holly was distracted by the mail holder on the counter. Every now and then she stole one of his bills and paid it for him.

  “Leave that be. I can handle it.”

  But she bypassed the bill for the story society invitation.

  What’s this? ‘You are cordially invited—’”

  “Didn’t I raise you not to be so nosy?” Ed tried to snatch it from her but she was too quick.

  “I’m a television producer, so no. A story society? Dad, are you writing?” She gazed toward his den. His typewriter.

  “Not really.” He snatched the invitation from her fingers. “I had an idea but didn’t know what to do with it. This invitation came out of the blue, so I thought I might go see what the fuss was about.”

  “The literary library? On Fifth Avenue? Oh, the one at the old Winthrop mansion. Of course. You never hear about that place anymore. I remember visiting when I was in high school but since then . . . This might be a good story.”

  “There’s no story.” He peered inside the nearest tote. Bananas. Good. He’d cut up his last one on his cereal this morning.

  “Who’s sponsoring this society? The Winthrops? One of the universities?” Holly began unpacking oranges and apples and a head of cauliflower.

  “Don’t know who’s sponsoring it. There were five of us in all, and no one knows who sent this invitation. Even Coral Winthrop is confused.”

  “Coral Winthrop.” Holly stared at him with her blue eyes wide. “The cosmetics heiress. Head of CCW? The daughter of Eric Winthrop III. She was there?”

  Uh-oh. He knew the tone, the look. “Now don’t go getting any ideas.”

  “Dad, please.” Holly tucked the empty tote under her arm and gripped his hand. “We’ve been dying to have her on GMNY. Ever since she ran out on Prince Augustus she’s been a recluse, a media mystery. She’s not even the face of CCW anymore. Every news outlet in the world wants to talk to her. Dad, you’ve got to—”

  “I don’t have to do a thing.” He directed her toward the remaining tote. “Unload. Listen, Hol, I’m not sure what our little group is about, but I’m pretty sure handing over one of the members to a news outlet is questionable. You’re just going to have to find your story another way.”

  Holly sighed, giving him her rebellious-daughter look. Blue-eyed determination with a hint of “pretty please.” “Well if you get a chance, ask her—”

  “I won’t.”

  They finished unloading the totes. Holly tucked them away in her oversized satchel, then made her way to the living room. She pretended to reminisce about her childhood home on these spontaneous visits, but Ed knew she was inspecting the place to see if he was living well.

  “The place looks good.” She smiled at him over her shoulder. “Always feels good to be home.”

  “You know you’re always welcome.” He’d been here forty-nine years. Moved in with Esmerelda when Holly was one. Seemed like he’d signed the bank papers and taken the keys just a few years ago. “Needs some updating, but I like this place well enough.”

  When the building co-op board had caught the former superintendent stealing, they offered the job to Ed. Which he eagerly took.

  A year into his retirement, he felt a bit adrift if not stir crazy. The place where he’d raised Holly seemed rather small at times—like when she had her friends over—until he lived in it alone, facing day after day of solitude, memories flooding to the surface.

  “We still want you to move out to Rockville Center with us. We bought our house with you in mind. The father-in-law suite is as big as this place, and you’ll have a yard for that gard
en you always said you wanted.”

  He kissed her forehead. “I know, and I love you for it, but I’m not ready to give up my place.” Or his memories and every hope and dream the old apartment represented. He glanced at the ceiling where a thin crack ran through the plaster. “This is home.”

  She headed for the door. “You know you’re my hero, don’t you?”

  “And you’re my princess.” Esmie was his queen. But Holly was his princess.

  “Plan on coming to the house this week, okay? We miss you. I’ll be at the Gottlieb Gala Friday night, but any other time . . .” Holly checked her watch. “Is it after six already? I’ve got to go. Hope is making dinner tonight.” She gathered her things and headed for the kitchen door. “You’d tell me if being the superintendent was too much for you.”

  “I would.”

  “Or if you were lonely.”

  “I know where to find you.”

  “You’re such a good man, Dad.” Holly brushed her hand over his shoulder. “Grandpa’s old shirt. I miss him.”

  “Me too. Now get going or you’ll miss Hope’s dinner. Give my love to the kids.”

  “Come to the house. This weekend.”

  When he shut and locked the door, Ed chuckled. He had him a spitfire of a daughter. And she had probably saved him.

  He tidied the kitchen and shut off the light, then rewarded himself with an ice-cream bar. Back in his chair instead of the den where the typewriter taunted him, he flashed through the cable guide.

  So this was his life. Work. TV. Sleep. He was okay with simple. Peaceful. And the fact very little changed. It kept him connected to his love.

  He’d settled on a rerun of Bonanza when his work phone jangled from the kitchen counter. Ed frowned at the name on the screen. Mabel Cochran. Now what?

  “Sorry to bother you, but my garbage disposal is broken.”

  “I told you not to shove potato peels down it. Clogs it up every time.”

  “I didn’t, you lug head. I made pasta not potatoes. I simply poured water and a few noodles down the drain and kerplunk.”