Tiffany Girl

by Deeanne Gist

An arrow tied to a string went straight from the peck on his cheek and the words from her mouth to the innermost spot in his heart. A direct hit. And with it, his walls crumbled. For as far back as his memories took him, he’d never had the privilege of calling anyone Mother, in any language. But he’d wanted to, oh, how he’d wanted to.

  Affection for her shot up from the arrow’s mark like a fountain in Central Park, showering him, covering him, deluging him with a love like none he’d ever felt before.

  Pulling her against him, he buried his face in her neck and sobbed.

  CHRISTMAS CARD 38

  “The snowman had a pipe stuck in a downturned mouth and a swig of holly trapped beneath his arm.”

  CHAPTER

  75

  After all that transpired, Reeve was not about to let Mrs. Dinwi—Maman—return to Klausmeyer’s alone. They sat on the same side of the carriage, covered with a cloak and sharing a warmer beneath it. He’d taken hold of her hand as soon as they’d settled and not let go the entire way.

  When they turned onto West Fifty-Seventh, his heart began to hammer. He knew Flossie wasn’t there, that she would be home with her parents, but he couldn’t seem to convince his heart of the same.

  “You haven’t asked me why I brought such a big basket for such a small-sized present,” she said.

  He gave her a sideways look. “Far be it from me to question the ways of a woman.”

  Releasing his hand, she took the basket from the floor and up onto her lap. “There’s some molasses candy and a block of fruitcake in here for you.”

  “There is?” He glanced at the checkered cloth. “I’ll have to hide it or the boys will eat it before I have a chance.”

  “Flossie made it.”

  He froze. “Flossie?”

  “Yes. She made it in her mother’s kitchen, then gave it to me for Christmas.”

  He let out a slow breath. “This is yours, then?”

  “No, this is yours. She made two batches.”

  He fingered the corner of the cloth. “And she said one batch was for me?”

  “Not in so many words, but when she gave it to me, she handed me the first batch and said, ‘Merry Christmas.’ Then, she stuttered and twirled her hair and worried her lip before finally saying she knew I was going to see you and she thought we might like a bit of refreshment for our visit, so she made a little extra.” Mrs. Dinwi—no, Maman shook her head. “This is much more than a ‘little extra.’ It’ll last you a week.”

  He took in deep breaths, trying to understand if it was an olive branch, or if Flossie was merely worried that he would starve Maman during their visit. Which he had, he realized with a start.

  “I never offered you a bit of refreshment.” He struck his forehead with the butt of his hand. “I’ve never entertained before, so it didn’t even occur to me. You must be famished.”

  “I’m not famished. If I’d been famished, I’d have had you give me a piece of candy.”

  The carriage pulled to a stop. Reeve glanced at the familiar stoop of 438, but had no time to reminisce before Maman handed him the basket.

  “You keep this,” she said. “And I will expect regular communications from you.”

  “I’ll write you every week, but please don’t ask me to come here. I-I—”

  She squeezed his arm. “Letters will be fine for now.”

  The driver opened the door.

  She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Don’t get out. And Merry Christmas, my boy.”

  Curling a finger beneath her chin, he drew her forward and gave her a light kiss on the lips. “Merry Christmas to you, too, Maman.”

  She blushed.

  Ignoring her instructions, he escorted her to the door, but not inside. He simply couldn’t bring himself to go back inside. As soon as he returned to the carriage, he uncovered the cloth, then jerked back his hand. Sitting on top of the fruitcake and candy was a Christmas card. A hand painted Christmas card.

  Lifting it, he held it to the window, cold air seeping through the glass. It was of a cat and a miniature snowman. The snowman had a pipe stuck in a downturned mouth and a swig of holly trapped beneath his arm. The cat wasn’t his, but was a black cat sprinkled with snow. It had approached the grouchy snowman, and stood back a bit while its nose stretched forward—sniffing, sniffing, not quite sure if it was safe to touch.

  Squinting, Reeve sought out her signature painted in the bottom corner. F. Jayne.

  He rubbed his thumb across it, then studied the card more closely, looking at things he’d missed the first time. A stone wall next to the cat. The shadows and the play of light. The collection of snow on the walkway. The white whiskers radiating from each side of the cat’s face. And the color of its eyes—not quite gold, but not exactly brown, either.

  A MERRY CHRISTMAS had been written in block letters across the top. She’d become better since he’d seen her little watercolor figures around the edges of their questions at dinnertime. She must be practicing quite a bit.

  He wondered if she were taking lessons. But, no, she wouldn’t be able to afford them. He sighed. He hated to think of her shut up in an attic like some sleeping Briar Rose.

  The carriage rounded a corner and knocked him into the side wall. Straightening, he adjusted his hat, then opened the card and read it. Then, read it again.

  Dear Mr. Wilder,

  I hope Cat is doing well and has settled in to her new quarters. I was very happy to hear you’d become a member of the 26th Ward YMCA there in Brooklyn. No one knew where you had gone, though we were able to read and enjoy your articles, of course.

  With my Jane Austen books long since gone, I’ve had a terrible time finding any good fiction to read. I’ve tried several books and a collection of short stories, but nothing seems to hold my interest. I know of a talented writer, but he’s only written one thing. I do declare, but I wish he’d write something new. If he did, I would be first in line to read it.

  I hope this finds you well. Please give Cat my deepest regards.

  Christmas Cheer,

  FRJ

  Closing the card, he sat back, wondering what the R stood for. Rachel? Regina? Roberta?

  He fingered the card’s edges. She wanted him to write something, something fiction. Not about Marylee, surely. No, no. She wouldn’t have meant that. But perhaps something different?

  He wasn’t sure what it all meant, didn’t know if he should write her back or if she didn’t want to hear from him until he’d written a story. Or maybe she didn’t want to hear from him at all, maybe she was just being polite or wanted something to read.

  After the morning he’d had with Maman, he couldn’t think about Flossie. It was simply too much.

  He took a piece of molasses candy from the basket and popped it in his mouth. He lifted his brows. It was very good. He’d had no idea she was a good cook.

  Looking to the side, he watched the blur of brownstones go by and redirected his thoughts to possible story ideas. Maybe he’d give it a try. It couldn’t hurt, and if it was anything as popular as Marylee’s story, he just might be able to buy back his childhood home, after all.

  CHAPTER

  76

  The Gusmans sold his house. At least, Reeve assumed they had. He searched the paper three times, but the listing wasn’t there. Grabbing his coat, he all but ran to Georgia Avenue.

  A large wagon filled with a rocker, a bedstead, and all sorts of odds and ends was parked out front. The Gusmans were nowhere to be seen. Instead, an older man with two teeners unloaded a sofa.

  Reeve stood at the edge of the property, his breath vaporizing as his lungs pulled in and pushed out air. This couldn’t be happening. This was his house. He was the one who’d lived in it first. He was the one who’d been born in it. He was the one who was supposed to buy it back. He searched the sky. Heavy clouds blocked the heavens and offered no answer to his inward cries of Why? Why?

  He should have bought it when he had the chance. But, no, he couldn’t have used the
money from the Marylee story. He’d have never been able to live with himself. His knees weakened, his eyes stung, his nostrils flared. Jamming his hands in his pockets, he spun around, ducked his head, and began to walk back to the Y, the snow slushing beneath his boots. His body began to shake. He’d needed that house, needed it.

  He fisted his hands inside his pockets, reminding himself he wasn’t as lonely as he used to be. He’d made some friends. He had a maman. But he didn’t have a home. He didn’t have a place he belonged. Not like he would’ve in that house.

  He rubbed his mouth. What would he do? Where would he go? He’d merely been tolerating his roommate. Telling himself it was only temporary. Only until he could get his home back. His roommate had gone home for the holidays, but that was hardly the reprieve Reeve was looking for.

  When he returned to the Y, he tossed his coat and hat on the bed, and made himself some coffee. As soon as he had a cup ready, he sat down at his desk and stared at a stack of empty pages. Thoughts piled up like a shuffled deck of cards waiting to be drawn, turned over, and spread out for all to see. He flexed his fingers.

  I do declare, but I wish he’d write something new. If he did, I would be first in line to read it.

  He glanced at her Christmas card propped on the corner of his desk, the Tiffany tea screen, and the cat figurine in front of it. Sucking in a deep breath, he dipped his pen in an inkwell, gave his emotions free rein, and began to write, the nib of his pen scratching across the paper, his mind moving faster than his fingers. First thoughts, then sentences, then paragraphs, then chapters. It felt so good to get it out and onto paper where he could move it around, mark it out, or add to it.

  Little by little a story began to take shape. A story. Never had he expected to write another word of fiction, wouldn’t have even thought to, if it hadn’t been for Flossie. He worked well into the night, only stopping when the sun began to peek through the shutters and his fingers began to cramp. Finally, he fell into bed, not bothering to remove his clothes.

  Perhaps he wasn’t a journalist after all. Perhaps he’d been a novelist all along and simply hadn’t realized it. It was his last thought before sleep overtook him.

  CHAPTER

  77

  Reeve stood at Freddie Blackburn’s doorway, his smile wide.

  Blackburn looked up from his desk. “What has you in such a merry mood?”

  “My house kit from Sears, Roebuck arrived.” He squared his shoulders. “I’m in the building business.”

  Crossing his arms, Blackburn leaned his chair back onto two legs. “I take it that means I’m in the hammering and nailing business?”

  Reeve chuckled. “I could sure use the help.”

  “When do we start?”

  “No better time than the present.”

  Plopping his chair down, Blackburn nodded. “Let me finish up here, then, and you go see who else you can round up.”

  “Thank you, friend.” Reeve pushed off the doorway, then went up and down the hall recruiting any who were willing.

  He’d finished his book in February and sold it in March, but only on the condition that he agree to publish it under the pseudonym of I. D. Claire. Reeve fought and fought the publisher about it, but with the reputation he’d made for himself on the Marylee piece, it was a sure thing that any book with Claire’s name on it would sell. He’d finally agreed.

  That was the bad news. The good news was, I. D. Claire’s name meant the publisher would pay him a tidy sum. It wasn’t enough to buy a four-thousand-dollar home, like the ones around the Y, but it was enough for a down payment on a seven-hundred-dollar lot on Sheffield, one street over from his childhood home, and to buy a five-hundred-dollar home kit from the Sears, Roebuck catalog.

  With hammers, saws, nails, and a lot of enthusiasm, the starting lineup for the basketball team of the Twenty-Sixth Ward YMCA headed out in the crisp spring air. By the time the group of laughing young men made it to Reeve’s lot, the neighborhood children had come to see what all the fuss was about.

  Once word spread, the men who lived on Sheffield Avenue pushed themselves up out of their porch swings to offer strong backs. The women, in turn, kept a supply of food and drinks coming—mostly made and delivered by their daughters. Some tall, some short. Some curvy, some willowy. Some giggly, some sober. But all of them swishing their skirts until they sounded like high wind in a tall grass. That ended up working out well for Reeve, because with all those young ladies prancing about, not only did his team of workers grow, but so did their efforts.

  Swiping an arm across his forehead, he soaked up the heat of the sun. He couldn’t help but think of how much had changed since this time last year when he’d hidden in his tiny room at Klausmeyer’s full of resentment over the pretty little magpie who’d moved in next door and wouldn’t shut up. If someone had told him then how much he’d be missing her now, he’d have never believed them. Putting two nails into his mouth, he set the third against the intersection of two beams, began to hammer, and turned his mind to what he was doing.

  CHAPTER

  78

  Sitting on an upside-down apple crate, Reeve poked at a log in the red brick fireplace of his brand-new home. It had taken all summer and well into the fall to build the house. The fellows at the Y had been enthusiastic helpers at first, but as the months wore on and as baseball leagues were formed, fewer and fewer stayed around to help. As their numbers diminished, the neighbors went back to their porches, the ladies back to their kitchens.

  That was all right with Reeve. He’d enjoyed every part of the process, from the foundation to the fireplace to the roof shingles. When it was only one or two guys helping, he found it a lot easier to get to know them.

  The whole thing had ended up costing much more than he’d expected. Storm doors and windows were twenty-six dollars extra, material for steps off the front porch and rear stoop were nine dollars, and a cook stove with a reservoir was ten dollars.

  That hadn’t left much for furniture. Looking around, he sighed. It hadn’t left much for any furniture. Still, building the place with his own two hands had made it, in some ways, even more personal than his birthplace.

  Cat rolled onto her back, paws in the air, and soaked up heat from the fireplace.

  “You’d best not get too close. I haven’t bought a screen yet and those sparks will singe the hair right off of you.”

  Cat flicked her gray tail, but gave no indication of moving. Shaking his head, Reeve took a gulp of coffee and glanced at the only screen he did have—Maman’s tea screen on the hearth. The flame from the burner made the glass glow and its colors change.

  He’d tried to drink tea, but it was just too weak. So, he’d ended up brewing coffee in his pot instead. He’d not told Maman, though. She would not have been pleased.

  Setting down his cup, he picked up his lap desk, opened the hinged top, and removed his metal figurine and a piece of paper.

  Dear Maman,

  It is finished. The last nail has been hammered. The last screw tightened. Cat and I are sitting in the parlor and the only thing missing is you. You’ll be glad you aren’t here, though, for I’ve nothing but an old apple crate to offer as a chair, and nothing in the cupboards—because I don’t have any cupboards! So it has yet to feel like a home.

  Dear Maman,

  I have made my first piece of furniture. It is a table and the ugliest thing you’ve ever seen. With the house, everything was precut, but Sears, Roebuck doesn’t sell any furniture kits. They do have kitchen chairs for forty-five cents apiece, however, which is cheaper than I can get them around here. They are nothing fancy—wood seats, four spindles, bowed backs, and some ornamental stripes—but I daresay they will be better than anything I could make.

  When I collect my next paycheck, I will order two of those. Maybe then the place will feel more like a home.

  Dear Maman,

  The boys from the Y surprised me last night and came to the house bearing gifts. I now have a soccer ball, a fishing r
eel, an abacus, a saucepan, a spittoon—of all things—and The Board Game of Old Maid. It’s the same one I’d donated to the Y’s game room. (The guys were only too glad to be rid of it.)

  Since it was too cold and dark to go outdoors, we played a rather ruthless game in the barren parlor with my soccer ball. We split into two teams and lined up on opposite sides of the room, then tried to eliminate the other team’s members by striking them with the ball as hard as we could. The first team with all players down were the losers.

  I didn’t play, however. I, instead, was the defender of my windows. They are still intact, I’m pleased to say, but the fellows could tell how nervous I was and kept flinging the ball perilously close to them. I had to make several dives to protect them. The wooden floor is not nearly as forgiving as grass. I’m stiff and sore and bruised, but very happy.

  We made the losers play The Board Game of Old Maid, which always generates a great deal of laughter and moans. That, of course, was the best gift of all, that and the conversation which filled the house. It almost felt like a home, then. Almost.

  Dear Maman,

  Your blanket arrived today, and I have no words. I don’t have to ask to know that you knitted it with your own two hands. It is beautiful and warm and my favorite color. Well, I didn’t really have a favorite color before, but now I do. It is and will forevermore be blue.

  I wear it like a cloak all around the house, especially at night when the temperatures drop even more. It is so big that I roll myself up into it like a scroll. It keeps me warm the whole night through, even when the fire has dwindled down to nothing but embers.

  Dear Maman,

  My library rocker arrived today, and I am sitting in it right now with your blanket over my legs. I decided to save my money a little bit longer this time and buy something of value that would last, rather than buy two cheap rockers.