by Ann Cristy
The hour passed quickly. Afterward, Misty and Aileen chatted over another cup of coffee while the children drank milk and munched cookies that Misty stocked especially for them.
"So, how was it last night?" Aileen asked, keeping a close eye on the twins, who were wrangling over a game on the oval carpet.
Misty shrugged. "The usual Christmas party scene. People getting drunk, laughing too loudly." She paused. "But at least they were all chauffeured home after this gathering. The boss arranged it."
"Oh? Who's the boss?"
"Lucas Stuyvesant Harrison. Isn't that some name?"
Aileen whistled. "I've seen his picture in the paper lots of times. That man has a veritable stable of women. I read in a gossip column that he has no intention of marrying anyone from outside his social circle. Keeping up the family name, don't you know?" Aileen curled her pinky finger and raised her cup in an exaggerated imitation of a pretentious person.
"Ah, yes, noblesse oblige." Misty grinned, but she could feel her stomach contract. Undoubtedly Luc Harrison had thought she would be eager to join his stable of women. She should be pleased to think he might want to set her up in an apartment, give her clothes, deign to see her on Wednesdays, perhaps even on Thursdays—but never on weekends. He must save those for the family, the little woman.
"Hey, what are you thinking, Misty? I can almost hear your red hair crackling with anger. Your eyes are sparkling like emeralds. What's going through your mind?" Aileen leaned eagerly forward, her chin in her hand.
"Nothing. That type of man irritates me, that's all."
Aileen shrugged. "He's got everything—money, women, a great position with the bank. He's sailed in the America's Cup race. He's a scratch golfer. He's even competed in the triathlon in Hawaii, and you have to be in superb shape to do that. You have to swim, run, and ride a bike twelve miles without stopping in between." Aileen refilled her coffee cup and added cream. "I suppose a man with that kind of record comes to expect good things to tumble into his lap." She smiled at Misty. "I know you've sworn off men for some reason." When Misty began to protest, Aileen held up her hand, palm outward. "And, no, I'm not prying again. I admit I'd like to know, but I'll wait until you're ready to tell me."
I'll never be ready, Misty thought. Even though you are the best friend I've ever had, I can't tell you.
"But it wouldn't hurt to flirt a little with a man like Luc Harrison," Aileen added.
"I doubt I'll see him again," Misty said. "He came with his staff for the party. He won't be back. Men like him go to private clubs."
Aileen shook her head. "Don't sell the Terrace Hotel short. Some of the most influential people in the world stay there. David says you can walk into the Elm Bar any night and see celebrities. From what you've said, quite a few frequent the Edwardian Room as well."
"Quite a few," Misty conceded.
She and Aileen talked of other things. Then Aileen rounded up the twins and said good-bye. Misty was tired by the time they left, but instead of going back to bed, she straightened the apartment, showered, and shampooed her hair. She was due for a fitting at Morey Weinstein's design studio downtown that afternoon, so she wouldn't have time for a nap. If Morey didn't have any clothes ready for her to try on, she'd shop for shoes and accessories instead. Morey designed most of the clothes she wore while performing. Although he wasn't a commercial success yet, Misty had no doubt he would be someday.
Misty left her apartment at three o'clock that afternoon, knowing she wouldn't be back until three the next morning. She shook her head, trying not to think of the fatigue that would soon weigh on her like an iron blanket. Luckily she had tomorrow night off.
It took Misty half an hour to get to Morey's garret like studio on the top floor of a run-down building encrusted with grime. Morey had every intention of moving uptown one day, and Misty was sure that, considering his talent, he would eventually make it.
She rang the bell adjacent to a locked oak door and submitted to being scrutinized by an eye at the peephole. The eye disappeared, and the door was swung open by a whipcord-thin man of medium height who radiated energy and enthusiasm.
"Mystique! I've been thinking about you for two days. If you hadn't come this afternoon I was going to call you. I found some fabulous silk." Morey shoved his black-rimmed glasses up his nose with an index finger and grinned, his pale blue eyes sparkling with excitement.
"Silk, Morey? I can't afford silk. For that matter, neither can you." Misty laughed as her irrepressible friend tugged her across his littered workroom to the cutting board under the skylight.
"True," he conceded. "But this was water-damaged, so Fetler let me have it for almost nothing." He grinned and waved his hand when she frowned. "Now, don't worry. Fetler didn't bother to unravel the bolts. I did. The damage doesn't go through all the way. This is great stuff—the finest silk from Japan. Look at the colors—blue, green, burgundy, orange, cerise, lemon." He let out an ecstatic sigh as Misty bent over the material.
"It is beautiful," she agreed, "but I can't afford to pay you what it's worth."
"Listen, Misty, don't worry. The clients you've sent to me have a lot of friends. My business is really picking up.
I've hired two women to sew, and"—he paused, clasping his hands together—"there's a good chance I might get into that building I was telling you about, the one uptown. I could live in the apartment off the main room."
"Oh, Morey, that's great!" Misty gave her friend an enthusiastic hug.
"Now, don't get too excited. I haven't talked with the bank yet, and Manhattan Stuyvesant is tough on this sort of thing, especially since my only collateral is my talent."
"But that's very big collateral," Misty assured him.
Morey's expression became momentarily woebegone. "I hope the bank thinks so." Then he brightened. "Come on, get undressed. I want to see this stuff on you."
When Misty arrived at the Terrace Hotel for work that evening she was already bone tired. Morey had pinned, pulled, and draped material on her until she couldn't stand another moment. But by the middle of next week their efforts would pay off when she became the proud owner of two lovely silk gowns. The cost wouldn't even put too much of a hole in her savings. She shouldn't let Morey sell the dresses to her too cheaply, she thought as she took a black satin gown and matching pumps from her carrier. But she also realized she would never be able to afford them if he didn't give her a good deal. He was such a good friend.
That evening she played for a smaller Christmas party than the night before. "Thank God, this is the last of them," Willis commented wearily during her break.
"Amen to that. Only three days to Christmas, and I haven't put up my tree or finished my shopping."
Willis laughed and shook his head. "My wife takes care of that."
"Lucky you."
Misty left the hotel at two-thirty the next morning. Her head was throbbing painfully because she'd skipped dinner. Fatigue clung to her like wet cement, making every movement an ordeal.
At home, she barely took time to hang up her clothes and put away her dress carrier before she tumbled into bed and down, down into the well of sleep.
Hours later, the insistent peal of the telephone jarred her awake. She blinked at the clock on her bedside table and was stunned to see that it was four in the afternoon. Her day off was almost gone. At least she had the evening to herself. '"Lo?" she said groggily.
"Misty, it's Morey. The bank turned me down!" Her friend's anguish came through to her with painful clarity.
"Oh, no! They couldn't have. How could they be so stupid?" Misty sat up in bed and pushed back her thick hair. "Did they give you a reason?"
"It seems I need more collateral than my talent." Morey tried to laugh, but Misty heard the heartache in his voice.
"Listen, Morey, don't give up yet. I'll put up my apartment as collateral. It's the least I can do after all your kindness to me. Let me help you out. Please."
"Misty, I can't. Your apartment is all you have."<
br />
"Please let me. I'll become your silent partner. Weinstein Couturiers must survive. Please. I want to do it."
"Misty..." Morey's voice cracked. "Except for Zena, you're the best friend I've ever had." As soon as his business was well established, Morey planned to marry Zena, who worked as an assistant wardrobe mistress in a downtown theater.
"It's too late to go to the bank today," Misty went on, "but we'll be there waiting when the doors open tomorrow."
When they walked into the awesome foyer of the Manhattan Stuyvesant Bank early the next morning, Misty stared admiringly at the three-story vaulted ceiling decorated with mosaic tiles in intricate patterns. Offices on the second and third floors opened onto a horseshoe-shaped balcony that afforded a clear view of activity on the main floor, with its long row of tellers' windows and intimate groupings of officers' desks and chairs. The open space and hum of subdued voices created a hushed, formal atmosphere.
"The silence is intimidating," Misty whispered with an uneasy smile.
"If you think you're intimidated now, wait until you meet Mr. Watson." Morey ushered her over to a chair. "We have to wait our turn," he explained.
Twenty minutes ticked by. Misty began to fidget. She kept getting the feeling that someone was watching her. But when she glanced around the bank and up to the second-and third-story balconies, she saw no one looking her way.
Finally, after they'd waited for thirty-five minutes, Mr. Watson ushered them to his desk on which a discreet sign said: Loan Information. They all sat down. "Now then, Mr. Weinstein," Mr. Watson began, "you said you wanted to see me again. I must tell you, however, that I don't think we can change our minds on this—" The phone rang, interrupting him. "Excuse me." Morey and Misty exchanged glances as Mr. Watson picked up the receiver. "Ah, good morning, sir." Mr. Watson sat straighter in his chair. "Yes, yes. A loan. Ah, no collateral." Mr. Watson shot a quick glance at Morey.
"But he has collateral—my apartment," Misty exclaimed, jumping out of her chair and leaning across Mr. Watson's desk.
Mr. Watson appeared to be taken aback by her forwardness. He quickly covered the mouthpiece of the phone and directed a quelling look at Misty, then spoke quickly. "Ah... I'm sorry, sir. No, there's no need for you— You want me to what? You're coming down here?" Mr. Watson finished weakly and stared at the receiver with a baffled expression. "He hung up," he muttered.
"Who?" Misty asked, still standing.
"Huh? Ah... never mind. What were you saying about your apartment? There could be extenuating circumstances." Mr. Watson took the papers Misty handed him and began perusing them, but his thoughts were obviously elsewhere. Several times he looked anxiously up toward the second-floor balcony. Then abruptly he jumped to his feet, his gaze going past Misty and a disconsolate Morey to a distinguished-looking man in a three-piece suit. "Mr. Damon, sir. Did Mr.—"
"Never mind, John, I'll take care of this," the man said. "Perhaps you could attend to the next person. Why don't you use another desk?"
"Of course." Mr. Watson sprung away from his chair and hurried toward an elderly couple sitting nervously some distance away in the cavernous lobby.
"Hello, I'm Lester Damon," the man greeted them. He shook Misty's hand, then Morey's. "Sit down, please, Miss
Carver. I'll just take a look at Mr. Weinstein's papers." Silence fell as Lester Damon perused the sheets in front of him. At length he paused and looked up. "Miss Carver, do you plan to put up your apartment as collateral, so that you will, in effect, become partners with Mr. Weinstein?" he asked.
"Yes." Misty met Lester Damon's direct gaze without flinching, but she had a terrible feeling that he was going to rum them down. Why hadn't he let Mr. Watson consider their loan application? Why was he stringing them along? Her temper was beginning to rise.
But to her surprise, Lester Damon said, "Fine. Everything seems to be in order." He pushed the papers toward Morey. "You have your loan, Mr. Weinstein."
"I do?" "He does?" Morey and Misty croaked in unison.
"It's all set," Mr. Damon assured them, shaking their flaccid hands. "If you have any problems, Mr. Weinstein, please call me. Don't bother going through Mr. Watson. But I don't think you'll run into any difficulties. Pick up your check from Miss Edwards at the cashier's desk. Good day." Mr. Damon smiled at each of them, then strode swiftly away.
Morey fell back into his chair. "I think I'm hyperventilating," he wheezed, loosening his tie with trembling fingers.
"I'm having a little trouble myself," Misty whispered back. "Come on," she said, urging her friend to his feet. "Let's get out of here. Don't forget that stamped paper. Let's pick up the check; then we'll call Zena and celebrate."
"Lord, Misty. Maybe Zena and I can get married this year after all," Morey said in trembling tones as they approached a smiling woman behind a desk.
Minutes later, they left the bank arm in arm. Misty had the feeling that at any moment Mr. Damon would come rushing after them and declare that it was all a mistake. "Hurry, Morey." She urged him along the street to the bus stop, not pausing to take a breath until they were on the bus and several blocks from the Manhattan Stuyvesant Bank. They called Zena from Morey's apartment and agreed to meet her for lunch at a nearby deli.
Morey insisted on buying the lox and cream cheese. Zena sniffled all through the meal.
"Zena, honey, stop crying," Morey pleaded. "There's a policeman over there who keeps staring at me."
"I will, I will," she promised tearfully, kissing his cheek and turning grateful eyes to Misty. "You're the best friend we ever had, Misty. Thank you."
"Thank you. Not many people will have the privilege of saying 'I knew Morey and Zena Weinstein before they were famous.' But I will." She grinned happily at her two friends.
After lunch, Misty shopped for Christmas presents. She was delighted when she found a scarf for Aileen, a word game for Mark, and a stuffed animal for Mary. For Morey and Zena she bought a starter set of china in a pattern they had admired. She sent a poinsettia to her aunt and uncle at their new home in Florida. Since her mother and father had returned every gift she'd sent them, she planned to mail them a check. For her sister Celia she bought a chess set; for Marcy she bought tapes of the latest rock music; for Betsy, the youngest, she'd already bought a hand-crocheted vest at a church bazaar. Though she always tried to choose gifts her sisters would enjoy, she never really knew if they liked them. Her mother's terse thank-you note never provided details. Misty had buried her hurt so long ago that she rarely dwelt on it now. On her way home, she selected a small Douglas fir tree from a corner vendor.
Back at her apartment she just had time to set the tree in a container filled with water before she had to get ready for work.
The Edwardian Room was crowded that night, only two days before Christmas. A sense of anticipation filled the air, and Misty willingly immersed herself in her music. Then, abruptly, unaccountably, she stiffened and raised her
eyes.
Lucas Harrison was sitting at a table directly in her line of vision. His eyes met hers for a brief, intense moment before she looked hastily away. From then on, whenever she looked up, she found his gaze riveted on her.
During her break she gestured to Willis with a shake of her head. "Isn't it a comedown for the director of the Manhattan Stuyvesant Bank to be here?" she asked.
Willis gave her a knowing look. "He's been here three times since the Christmas party. Last night, when he heard you were off, he left right away. Usually he asks for a table in the back where you can't see him."
Misty was stunned. "He's been here every evening since the party?" she repeated incredulously.
"Yes. For at least an hour each night." Willis moved away to greet a couple who had been hovering at the entrance to the Edwardian Room.
Misty continued to play, but her head was filled with the fact that Luc Harrison had come to watch her play the piano several times.
During her break she strolled to the powder room, then to her usual place a
t the Elm Bar. She had just sat down when she felt the press of silken material against her bare back.
"Let me buy you a drink, Mystique."
She didn't bother to turn around. "All right. I'd like mineral water with lime, please."
Luc Harrison gave the bartender her order and his own for an Old Bushmills on the rocks. Once the drinks were in front of them he said casually, "You play very well."
"Thank you." Misty took a gulp of the cool drink and coughed when it went down the wrong way.
"Are you going to face me at all?" the voice asked, "or are we going to converse by looking at our images in the mirror?"
Misty's eyes flew to the reflection over the bar and caught the saturnine look on his face. "It's not necessarily a bad way to converse," she said.
"No, but I prefer the more personal way—face to face." He moved between her stool and the waitresses' pickup station. They were so close that their legs bumped. She only had to lift her eyes a few inches to meet his gaze.
Misty took a deep breath as his eyes scanned hers. A tingling sensation ran through her body. "I... I was in your bank today, the main one downtown. It's beautiful."
"Yes. It's an architectural marvel—or so the brochures describe it to sightseers."
"My friend procured a loan to move his business to a better location," Misty explained, glad to have found a safe topic of conversation.
"Is he your lover or just a platonic friend?" Luc queried smoothly.
The question surprised her. "What difference does that make?"
"None." The terse answer seemed to linger between them. The silence grew heavy.
"At first your bank turned down my friend's loan application," Misty said, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. She cleared her throat nervously.
"I know. I saw you at the bank today."
She stared at him, stunned. He was looking straight ahead into the mirror. "I had a feeling someone was watching me," she blurted out.
