Tiffany Girl

by Deeanne Gist

  The only thing Flossie never could reconcile was that Marylee hadn’t been able to continue with the photography she’d loved. She’d been forced to choose between her passion and marriage. Shocking as it would have been, Flossie almost wished Marylee had chosen to marry and still maintain her photography business. It was fiction, after all. It would have done no harm.

  But she’d never been able to ask Reeve about it, for she’d judged him and found him guilty when she was the one who owed the apology. Well, maybe not the apology, but certainly an apology, one that mirrored his. Only, he’d offered his the minute she’d thrown a book at his wall.

  I can hear you and I’m sorry.

  Shut up. Just shut up.

  She’d offered an apology of sorts with the Christmas gifts and card. Hadn’t he seen that he was the snowman? That she was the cat, wanting to get close but was too skittish to make the first move?

  Yet her apology had been returned with nothing but silence.

  Shut up. Just shut up.

  She’d thought he was flinging her words back at her, but now he’d offered yet another apology. Only, this time he’d laid it out in print for her parents, her friends, her housemates, her workmates, and thousands of others to see.

  Taking a handkerchief from inside the neckline of her chemise, she dabbed her nose, turned the page, and began chapter 1.

  I love winter. Its desolate snowscape. Its absence of bird song. Its leafless trees coated with ice. Ice so heavy that the limbs bend down to the point of breaking.

  At nine o’clock her stomach growled. She’d made it a third of the way through, but she didn’t want to stop and eat dinner. Opening a drawer, she fumbled around until she found a lemon candy stick, then continued to read.

  Her Ohio buckeye had already begun to leaf, the foolish tree. It was much too early and was in danger of the frost damaging those virgin leaves. Yet Miss Cheery Cherie came down her walk, her step light, her smile intoxicating. “Look, Mr. Glumb! Spring is coming.”

  I stood in solidarity beside my Kentucky coffee tree, confident it had nothing to fear. It would be the last tree in the neighborhood to leaf out. Always had been, always would be. No frost damage for it.

  Miss Cherie opened her gate, a basket hooked on her elbow, her hat sporting the very songbirds she longed to hear. Only these had been snuffed out, never to whistle a merry tune again. I wondered if she saw the irony of it.

  “Nice hat,” I said. “What kind of birds are those?”

  “Chickadees. They’re my favorite.” She tilted her head. “Do you have a favorite?”

  “The crow.”

  Instead of believing me, she laughed, the sound so pure, the leaves on her buckeye produced more buds. She was halfway to the corner when I realized I was no longer standing beneath my coffee tree, but had ventured several steps away so that I might keep her in my sights. She laughed, waved, and called out greetings to those she passed, upending the entire neighborhood the way spring and songbirds upended the forest. The way she was upending me.

  At midnight, Flossie undid her corset, took off her undergarments, and put on her nightdress. Crawling back under the covers, she continued to read, pulling one hairpin out at a time. For the next few hours she laughed, she sighed, she cried. But most of all, she fell in love with Reeve all over again. The entire book was a love letter, and if the dedication were to be believed, it was a love letter to her. The songbird who’d changed his winter to spring.

  Her entire yard had come out in full glory. The cottonwoods, the spicebushes, the chokecherries, and her beloved Ohio buckeye, but it was the clove currants lining her house which produced a magnificent scent. Soon its fruit would ripen. I longed to taste it.

  My coffee tree lay in the height of dormancy, as I knew it would. At that moment I decided to plant a new tree—maybe even two—just as soon as the weather permitted. Something that would fill out the yard a bit and bloom a little earlier. Maybe some cottonwoods. Of course, I’d need to get one male and one female or they’d both wither.

  I stood at my gate staring at her yard, an unexpected longing filling me. I flicked the latch open and closed. Perhaps tomorrow I would venture forth and ask her for some cuttings.

  At three in the morning, Flossie turned the final page.

  Cheery and I sat on a swing suspended from our Kentucky coffee tree, its leaves full, its shade unsurpassed. Fifty years had come and gone since we’d said our vows from this very spot. Across the street, fast-growing trees had squeezed out and replaced the chokecherries and spicebushes of our youth, but the buckeye and cottonwoods still stood.

  The cuttings we’d planted together in my yard gave us early blooms, late blooms, and fragrant blooms. But no matter what time of year we sat beneath our tree, be it dormant or thriving, we always found friendship and love within the shelter of each other’s arms.

  Swiping her tears, Flossie slid down beneath the covers and hugged the book to her. If she’d interpreted the metaphors correctly, he wasn’t lonely. He’d learned to make friends. He’d made himself a home, and he’d extended her an invitation to be a part of it. All she needed to do was say yes.

  But had he really changed so much? It was one thing to write all that into a piece of fiction. It was another thing altogether to put it into practice. Either way, it was as if she didn’t even know him anymore. The man who’d written this book was a far cry from the one who’d lived in this room, the one who’d written The Merry Maid of Mumford Street.

  She closed her eyes and considered everything she’d just read. It was then she realized the question wasn’t how could she say yes, but how could she possibly say no?

  She turned onto her side, confused, then hopeful, then confused again.

  She fell into an exhausted sleep and dreamed of barren trees grabbing her, entangling her, and never letting her go, no matter how much she struggled and screamed.

  CHAPTER

  81

  Reeve’s hands shook as he opened the missive, the familiar handwriting telling him who it was from.

  My dearest RW,

  Thank you for the book. I stayed up half the night reading it and the other half thinking of you. It was beautiful, and the dedication moved me deeply.

  Mr. Holliday is giving Mrs. Holliday a birthday party this Sunday after church. I know it would mean a lot to her if you came, too. Unfortunately, it is an ice-skating party, but I am not bringing my skates. I will be sitting on your bench drinking hot cocoa and, I hope, becoming reacquainted with you.

  Very truly yours,

  FRJ

  Lowering the letter, he frowned. He’d spent months pouring himself out into that book, had agonized over the dedication, and the most she could say was that she wanted to get reacquainted?

  Sighing, he took a piece of paper from his lap desk, dipped his pen into his inkwell, then gave his wrist a shake.

  Dearest FRJ,

  Bring your skates, for I am bringing mine. I will see you at our bench.

  Yours,

  RW

  CHAPTER

  82

  Reeve stood half hidden behind a cluster of trees several yards away from their bench. She wasn’t wearing the maroon gown she’d worn the last time they went skating. Was that a sign? Was she trying to tell him nothing would ever be the same again?

  Or maybe she didn’t wear it because she didn’t want any more reminders of that skating debacle. Or perhaps her mother simply made her a new gown. All three were likely possibilities. He wished he knew which one it was. He’d have asked Maman, but she hadn’t come to the party. Said the cold was simply too much for her these days.

  Lifting his hat, he ran a hand through his hair. He wanted to go over there, but had no idea what to say. Couldn’t decide where to start, which thing was the most important, which issue she wanted to hear about first.

  Should he start by telling her that he hadn’t used any of the money he’d earned from the Marylee piece? At least, he’d not used it for himself, only for others.
The financial gain from it continued to mount. Every time he turned around, another paper was running it. The blasted story simply would not die.

  No, maybe he shouldn’t mention Marylee at all. But how could he not? That’s why he’d left Klausmeyer’s. That’s why she’d never wanted to see him again. He’d pretended to be her friend while he’d used her to further his own purposes.

  But that wasn’t true, either. He hadn’t pretended—at least not toward the end. He really had been her friend. He’d cared deeply for her then and cared deeply for her now. He blew out a breath, a puff of vapor forming. If he’d treated her like that when he cared for her, it wasn’t much of a recommendation.

  A breeze ruffled his scarf, the cold air stinging his ears. He couldn’t stand there all day. It was time to pay the piper. He’d just say whatever happened to pop into his head. Taking a deep breath, he slung his skates over his shoulder and made his way toward the bench.

  SHE SAW HIM COMING and he looked so magnificent, she almost rose to her feet the way men did when a lady entered a room. Instead, she forced herself to stay seated, gripped her gloved hands in her lap, and simply absorbed all the changes.

  He wore his hair a bit longer. His shoulders had broadened. And his skin tone had darkened. With an index finger, he held a pair of skates over his shoulder. The fringe on his blue plaid scarf swirled in the breeze. His legs nudged the hem of his frock coat open with each step.

  Then he was there, his eyes still green, yet changed. They were clearer, less opaque. Happier? Could eyes be happy?

  “You look beautiful,” she breathed, then slapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes widening.

  Smile lines gathered on either side of his mouth. He tugged the brim of his hat.

  Her face heated, despite the cold. Please, earth, just swallow me up right now.

  “May I sit down?” he asked.

  “Oh!” She scooted over. “Of course. Yes. I’m sorry. Sit. I mean . . .” She took a deep breath. “Won’t you have a seat?”

  Dropping the skates beside him, he sat and almost took up the whole bench with his long legs, the added breadth of his shoulders, and his very being. Whiffs of peppermint shaving soap came and went as he angled himself to better see her.

  Perfectly relaxed, he crossed his legs and perused her without trying to camouflage his examination in the least. He started at the top of her peacock-feathered hat, then moved to her hair, which hadn’t cooperated at all this morning. She’d been ready to chop it all off by the time she was done with it. It took every bit of control she had not to reach up and see if the Gibson girl coif had sagged like a goose down pillow that needed fluffing.

  He continued his survey, studying her oversized sailor collar and the leg-o’-mutton sleeves it rested on. His gaze lingered on the big buttons running down the front of her shirtwaist, the revers that flipped out at her waist, then the braided trim running up the edge of a reverse pleat in her sky-blue skirt.

  “What does the R stand for?” he asked.

  His voice ran straight through her, producing a warmth as potent as a forbidden gulp of her father’s whiskey. With a shiver, she looked down at her skirt, pressing her hands against her chest and waist to see what he was referring to. “What R?”

  “The R in FRJ.”

  She lifted her gaze. “You mean Rebecca?”

  He tilted his chin up slightly and gave a self-deprecating shake of his head as if he’d lost a bet with himself. “Rebecca. Flossie Rebecca Jayne.”

  “Florence Rebecca Jayne.”

  He smiled. Her insides turned to mush. She didn’t remember this happening before. Had he always had this effect on her? If he had, she certainly couldn’t recall it. Maybe it was that book. That book with all its metaphors about trees and fruit and flower buds, about songbirds turning winters into spring.

  “Florence,” he said. “Of course, I’d forgotten.”

  She stared at him. “Forgotten? When did I ever tell you my name was Florence?”

  “You didn’t, I heard it through the wall.”

  Her lips parted, then she narrowed her eyes. “What else did you hear through the wall?”

  “Everything.”

  Her stomach bounced. She looked at the skaters gliding by, but didn’t really see them. Instead, she tried to remember all that she and Annie Belle had said to each other. Had she ever talked about him? She was sure she had. What she wasn’t sure of was what she’d said.

  She crossed her arms. “It was in very bad form of you to eavesdrop.”

  “It was. I apologize.”

  She turned back to him. He still leaned lazily against the bench at a cockeyed angle.

  “You don’t look sorry.”

  His smile broadened. “That’s probably because I’m sorry that I acted in bad form, but I’m not really sorry I heard all your conversations. That’s when I first started to fall in love with you, listening to all that jabber. Completely fascinated me.”

  Her jaw slackened. How in all the world was she supposed to respond to that?

  She began to tap her foot. “You know, I spent many hours as a young girl fantasizing about how the man of my dreams was going to tell me he loved me. Never, ever in all of my imaginings did I think he’d say it was my ‘jabbering’ that did the deed.”

  He propped an elbow on the back of the bench and rested a cheek on his fist. “Am I the man of your dreams, Flossie?”

  She flattened her lips. “Nightmares, more like it.”

  He reached over and snagged a tendril that had come lose from her unruly coif and gave it a gentle yank. “Want to go skating?”

  “No.”

  “Want to kiss me?”

  She jumped to her feet. “No.”

  He stretched his arm against the back of the bench. “I’m afraid it’s going to have to be one or the other because if I don’t get my hands on you soon, I’m going to go stark raving mad.”

  Spinning around to face him, she planted her hands on her waist. “What in the world has gotten into you? You never used to act like this.”

  “I might not have acted it, but I thought it. I definitely thought it. Do you not like it? Because now that I’ve been unleashed, I’m afraid there’s no going back.”

  Oh, she liked it. She definitely liked it, but they’d only been sitting there for fifteen minutes, yet they’d been apart for fifteen months.

  “You are not kissing me anytime soon. I haven’t seen you in forever and a day. So if you want that kiss, then you have some courting to do. And a lot of it.”

  He came to his feet. “Let’s get our skates on, then, and I’ll show you what I’ve learned.”

  She eyed him with suspicion, a breezed flipping back her collar. “What have you learned?”

  He smoothed down her collar. “To dance, little magpie. I’ve learned to dance.”

  CHAPTER

  83

  Taking her right hand, he placed his other hand on her back, dug in with one skate, and pushed off. Surprised, she responded automatically and followed his lead.

  “You’ve learned to skate,” she said.

  “To dance.” The green eyes that had been so bright and clear before now darkened a shade.

  “Watch where you’re going,” she said. “I don’t want to bump into anybody.”

  He lifted a corner of his mouth. “No running over any fingers today. Now, close your eyes and give yourself over to me.”

  Close her eyes? Give herself over to him? Not likely.

  He began to hum The Blue Danube. At first, she didn’t trust him to navigate the ice, but then realized that though he wasn’t the best skater on the pond, he was certainly competent. Average, even. And there was nothing wrong with being average.

  Once she relaxed, it all came rushing back. The Fourth of July, their first dance. Her storming into his room, music box in hand, forcing him to connect with her. She allowed her eyes to close a moment and listen to him hum, memories flooding her.

  The feel of his hand on her back,
the rhythmic pattern of their steps, the scent of peppermint from his soap, and the rush of desire roaring through her veins. How many times had she tried to recapture those feelings in that very same room where she now slept? How many times had she opened her music box, closed her eyes, and done the one-two-three steps in an effort to evoke the feelings now coursing through her?

  Many times. Too many times. All of them falling far short of this.

  Reeve swerved around a wobbly skater. Breath catching, she jerked her eyes open and missed a step. He pulled her close, then spun them in a circle while she regained her balance. She looked into his eyes, eyes she’d tried to remember. Eyes she’d tried to forget.

  He winked, then pushed off again, his humming starting anew.

  The wind rushed at her back and she reveled in the feeling of being free, even while she was within the confines of his arms. But his arms weren’t confining. They were . . . how had he put it?

  No matter what time of year we sat beneath our tree, be it dormant or thriving, we always had friendship and love within the shelter of each other’s arms.

  His hand spanned the small of her back. He flexed his fingers, spreading them, lightly caressing her through her jacket. Her head fell back, her eyes slid shut. His humming began to slow, as did their skating. Slower and slower until they turned in a tiny circle. Finally, he stopped. She opened her eyes, her limbs heavy.

  He brought the hand he held to his shoulder, then slid his hand down the whole of her arm and the entire length of her side until he rested both hands against her waist.

  Sweet heaven above, but she wanted to kiss him. But they were in the middle of Central Park and she’d just told him no kisses until he’d courted her properly. Until she’d learned about this more mature, more confident, more open and alluring Reeve. Still, she was reluctant to step away from him just yet. He moved his hands to her back, his fingers brushing the curve at its base, his thumbs skimming her sides. Her fingers tightened on his shoulders.

  “Shhhhh.” He smoothed a tiny piece of hair from her face, then brushed her eyebrow with his thumb.