by Dan Walsh
“Ben, you’re spoiling everything,” Barb said. Both women got up. Ben helped Claire put on her jacket.
“Maybe so,” Ben said. “Just trying to be a voice of reason.” Just then, a drizzling rain began outside. “Look, it’s already starting. We better get to the car. Can I drop you home, Barb?”
“That’d be great.”
As they walked through the front door of the diner, Ben looked at the storm clouds overhead, grateful for their assistance. He was for anything that kept them from having to sit through a movie about a nice guy coming into town who’s “not who he pretends to be.”
Chapter Nineteen
After Ben dropped Barb off at her place, Claire reminded him about Hank. Sure enough, he was standing in line at the theater for the afternoon matinee. Ben double-parked just long enough to tell him they weren’t coming.
When they pulled into Claire’s driveway on Ridgewood Avenue, the rain had temporarily halted, but the wind was blowing harder and now the whole sky was dark and threatening. “Let’s hurry before it starts coming down again,” Ben said.
Claire’s mom must have seen them coming. She had the front door open as they stepped onto the porch. She closed the door behind them; the house was nice and warm. “I’m freezing,” Claire said. She walked over to the radiator and stood as close as she could. Ben took his coat off and draped it around her shoulders, then rubbed her arms.
“I’m thinking, Ben, that you should put that coat right back on,” Mrs. Richards said.
“Why, Mom?” Claire said.
“I just got off the phone with your father. He said this storm is going to be pretty bad. The winds are getting so strong, they have all their crews tying down the airplanes at the base. They get the latest weather reports out there. He also said the rain’s going to come down in buckets off and on the next few days. Some low-lying areas on the beachside are expected to flood. He suggested Ben should head over to his house and pack a bag, maybe stay here until it passes.”
“Oh, I like that idea,” Claire said.
“We have a number of nice guest rooms upstairs, Ben.”
Claire shot her mother a look, as if that point needed to be clarified. “You could stay in Jack’s old room,” she said. “Right across the hall from mine. It will be so much fun.”
“I think I’ll do that,” Ben said. “You still cold, Claire? I can get your coat out of the closet.”
“No, I think I’m warm enough now. Want me to go with you?”
“I wish you’d stay here,” her mother said. “I could use some help with dinner. Your father is coming home early, as soon as the base is secure.”
“I’ll be fast,” Ben said, putting on his coat. “I pack light.” He leaned over and gave Claire a kiss. “Thanks, Mrs. Richards, for the offer to stay here. And thank your husband for me.”
“You’re welcome, Ben. But you can thank him yourself. You’ll probably be back here before he will.”
“Right, well, I’ll see you both in about twenty minutes.”
Claire walked him to the door. As she opened it, they both heard a loud crack. It startled Claire. They watched as a palm frond dropped on the front lawn. Instantly, the wind whipped it down the street. “Be careful,” she said.
“I will.”
Ben zigzagged through the downtown area, then crossed the Broadway Bridge toward the beachside. At one point, a wind gust hit him broadside, actually caused him to swerve and hit the curb. The wheels screeched. He pulled back to the left and just barely missed a car coming head-on in the other direction.
He noticed how dark the river water had become, reflecting back the color in the angry sky. The normally calm waters seemed to be almost boiling, with hundreds of little whitecaps tossing water into the wind.
Ben had to admit, the whole thing was pretty exciting. He especially looked forward to getting to spend so much time with Claire. As he turned down Vermont Avenue, he wondered whether the area could actually be called low-lying, and whether there was any real danger of flooding. It didn’t matter, he had to take precautions just in case. His thoughts immediately went to the suitcase filled with cash and ration coupons locked in the second bedroom.
Sure didn’t want that thing floating down the street.
He pulled into the driveway and hurried to the front door as heavy drops of rain began to fall. Once inside, he double-checked all the windows to make sure they were closed tight, then pulled out his keys and unlocked the bedroom. He pulled the suitcase from under the bed and set it on top.
The drapes were closed, as usual. He walked over and turned on the lamp. After opening the top dresser drawer, he slid out the watertight bag he’d originally wrapped the suitcase in, back on the U-boat.
He hadn’t used it since that night. Really, this bag and the suitcase on the bed were the last remnants of his old life. It was a good feeling.
Well, there was the pistol, which he hadn’t used since the night he’d dug the suitcase out of the sand. To be safe, he bent down and pulled out the bottom dresser drawer. There it was. He tossed the gun and the bag on the bed, intending to wrap it up inside the watertight bag with the suitcase. He peeked outside; the rain had stopped again. Maybe he should pack a bag first, get it out in the car before the rain started up again.
He walked across the hall to the larger bedroom where he slept. As he did, he heard the wind whistling through the kitchen. There was a large window in there, facing the backyard, next to his dinette table. It provided great lighting when he typed his articles for the paper, but it obviously had some leaks. If air could get in, so could a hard rain. He didn’t want his typewriter ruined. Better take that with him too.
Where was the case? he wondered. The typewriter worked wonderfully, but the portable case that came with it was a piece of junk. It was cracked across the bottom, and two of the corners had to be taped together. There it was, on top of the icebox. He quickly put the typewriter in the case, tried in vain to get the latch to close, then held it in both arms and hurried out the front door. He’d have to come back for the ream of paper, maybe put it in the suitcase he brought to Claire’s.
With the typewriter in the backseat, he went back inside to pack his bag. After he’d put it in the car, he went back to secure the bigger, more important suitcase. A series of even darker, more ominous clouds were moving in from the west. He’d better hurry.
He opened the suitcase and thought through how much cash and ration coupons he needed for the week ahead, and for that purchase he planned to make at his last stop before heading back to Claire’s. He wedged the gun in a side pocket, zippered it shut, then closed the lid and slid the watertight bag over it.
He stood back and looked at the dresser. Hard to judge how deep the water might get if the street did flood. A picture of the dresser flipping on its side and floating down the street, the suitcase drifting right beside it flashed in his mind.
No . . . that wouldn’t do.
Then he saw the perfect spot. He picked the suitcase up, turned it on its side, and lifted it onto the closet shelf. It was at least six feet off the ground and bolted to the wall. He closed the closet door, locked the bedroom door, took one last look around the house, then went outside and locked that door too. As he did, the rain started pouring down. He was nearly soaked by the time he got in the car.
Just one more stop to make, downtown. This time he’d have an umbrella. The Duval Jewelry Store on Beach Street. He’d had his eye on a particular item for weeks.
A diamond ring for Claire.
Chapter Twenty
When Ben arrived at Claire’s house, Mr. Richards’s car was already in the driveway. The rain came in squalls, pouring down heavily for several minutes then easing to a drizzle. The wind caused it to come in almost sideways. Ben waited in the car until the most recent torrent subsided.
He reached in his coat pocket, pushed the box containing Claire’s ring as far down as he could, then got out and flipped open his umbrella. The wind instantly turn
ed it inside out. It was useless. He opened the back door and pulled his suitcase out first. He didn’t dare lift the typewriter case by the handle; it would fall apart. He’d have to make two trips.
“Hurry, Ben, before it starts up again.”
He turned around to see Claire on the porch, holding the front door open. “Coming.” He shut the door and made a run for it. “I’ll just set this down here. Got to go back for my typewriter.”
“Do you have to work?”
“Probably not,” he said. “But my editor may call. If so, I can work from here, not have to go back out in the weather.”
“I’ll bring this inside,” she said, reaching for the suitcase.
“But don’t carry it up the stairs. Let me do that.” He ran back for the typewriter. She held the door open for him. He walked through, cradling the typewriter in his arms. As he entered the foyer, Mr. Richards was coming down the stairs.
“Ben, glad you made it. It’s getting pretty mean out there.”
“Hi, Mr. Richards. I—”
A loud crash. The typewriter fell to the floor, leaving Ben standing there holding the case, now in two pieces. Ben looked down. Apparently, the crack in the bottom had broken through. “Oh no.”
“Ben, are you okay?” Claire rushed over.
“I’m fine. Not sure my typewriter is.” He bent down to survey the damage. She bent down beside him and picked up a few of the pieces of the case that had splintered off.
“It looks okay,” she said.
“It does.” He lifted it up. “I wish I could say the same for the floor.” They looked down at a nice gouge carved into the wood floor where the corner impacted first. “Missed the throw rug by two inches.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Ben looked over his shoulder to see Mr. Richards bending over behind them, surveying the scene.
“Nice thing about wood floors. We’ll rub in a little stain, a little polish, and it’ll be fine, just a little more rustic.”
“Will you still be able to use it?” Claire asked, looking at the typewriter.
“We’ll see.” He walked over to the dining room and set it on a place mat on the table. “Okay if I put it here?”
“For a little while,” Mr. Richards said. “We’ll have to find a more suitable place if you need to work.”
“No, I just want to test it out.”
“Here.” Claire handed him a piece of paper. “It’s not typewriter paper, but will this work?”
“It should be fine.” He rolled it in and started typing. After a few moments, he announced, “Looks like no permanent damage.”
“Glad to hear it,” Mr. Richards said. “I’ll just be in the den until dinner.” He got up and left the room.
“You type fast,” Claire said.
“Twice as fast as when I started.”
“What did you write?” She rested her hands on his shoulders and leaned over to see.
I love Claire;
Claire loves me.
Because of this, I’m so happy.
q-x-y-z!
“Aww.” She kissed him on the cheek then whispered in his ear, “It’s pretty corny, but I love you too. What’s q-x-y-z?”
“Just trying to make sure all the keys work. Where should I put this?”
“There’s a desk in Jack’s old room, the room you’re staying in.”
“Great. I’ll put this and my bag up there, hang a few things in the closet so they don’t wrinkle, and be right back.”
“I’ll finish helping my mother. Dinner’s almost ready.”
“How much time?”
“Maybe ten minutes.”
Ben carefully climbed the stairs and walked down the wide hallway. He paused briefly and glanced in Claire’s room. Centered on her bed were the stuffed animals he’d won for her back in October. Still wearing their same silly grins.
The dinner was delicious. Ben was amazed at Mrs. Richards’s cooking. He could just imagine what she’d put on the table if she had no rationing restrictions. When he had come downstairs wearing a tweed jacket, Claire had asked if he was cold. He’d said he was just trying to rid himself of the chill he got from loading and unloading the car.
That was true, but the greater reason was the coat had better pockets to hold her ring box. If he put it in his pants pocket, she’d instantly know what it was.
“I’m going to light a fire in the den, Ben,” Mr. Richards said. “Want to help me?”
“Sure.”
“You two make it all nice and warm in there,” Mrs. Richards said. “I’ll clear the dishes and Claire will make us some coffee.” The wind howled outside so strong it rattled the windows.
“I hope this storm doesn’t mess up our radio reception,” Claire said as she headed toward the kitchen. “Some of my favorite shows are on tonight.”
Ben walked across the foyer, through the living room, and into the den, which occupied the far left corner of the downstairs. A big leather sofa and three comfy chairs surrounded a Zenith console radio. A finely finished brick fireplace occupied half the back wall. The other two walls were lined with dark, mahogany bookshelves. Mr. Richards was already bent over the fireplace, building a small teepee with twigs.
“Can you hand me a few sheets of newspaper there, Ben?”
“You’re not going to burn one of my stories, are you?”
Mr. Richards laughed. “Only if that’s what you hand me.”
Ben pulled out a few sheets from the classified section, tore them up into little pieces. Once the twigs lit, Ben handed him some pieces of kindling. “While we’re alone I wonder if I could talk to you about something.”
“Sure.” The kindling wood began to catch fire. “We’ll let that burn a bit.” He turned toward Ben. “So . . . let’s talk.” He eased into one of the leather chairs.
Ben took a seat in the adjacent one. “I think you know by now how much I care about Claire. Well, I love her. I’m in love with her.”
“I get the picture, Ben.”
“I’d like to ask her to marry me . . . with your permission, of course. I’ve tried to wait a respectable amount of time before bringing this up, but I knew she was the only one for me the day I met her.” Ben felt the little finger on his right hand twitch for some reason. He had to calm down.
Mr. Richards looked at the fire’s progress, then leaned back in his chair.
“I had a feeling we’d be having this conversation soon.”
“You did?”
“I felt the exact same way about Claire’s mom.” He didn’t seem upset, or even on edge. Ben began to relax. “And I’ve watched how you’ve treated Claire these past months. I’ve liked what I’ve seen, and I know how she feels about you.”
“You do?”
“I’m her dad. She’s my little girl. I make everything that concerns her my business.” He said this, still, without any tension in his voice. “Because of that, I hope you don’t mind, but I telephoned your editor earlier this week.” Ben was surprised. “Since I figured this conversation might be coming up, I wanted to know how you were doing over there at the paper, what kind of future you might have.”
“What did he say?”
“He likes you too. Thinks highly of you, in fact. He told me he felt you’ve become quite the reporter and that you have a bright future ahead of you at the News Journal.”
Ben liked the sound of that. He reached into his coat pocket. “I’d like to show you something.” He got up, walked over to the doorway. He could still hear the ladies chatting in the kitchen. “Here,” he said, opening the lid to the ring box.
Mr. Richards got a big smile on his face. “She’s going to love that.” After a few moments Ben closed the lid. “When you going to give it to her?”
“I thought sometime this weekend, since we’ll be shut up here in the house with this storm.”
“No, you don’t want to do that.”
“I don’t?”
“No. You want to make it special. Do somethin
g memorable, something she’ll want to brag about to her friends. Not just about the ring but the way you gave it to her. Women love to tell stories like that. Have you ever heard Mrs. Richards tell our story?”
Ben shook his head no.
“And you never will. I botched it up.”
“So what should I do?”
“You’re a smart guy, Ben. Think about it. Something will come to you.”
Ben appreciated the advice, but he was a little disappointed as he put the ring back in his pocket. He’d set his heart on giving it to her tomorrow, or the day after. But he hadn’t given it much thought, other than getting down on one knee.
Mr. Richards got up and carefully set a small log on the fire. “But there’s something I’d like to give you.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s right over here.” He walked across the room to one of the bookshelves. “Something I think you’ll get more use out of than I ever have.” He reached up and pulled a large wooden box down from the top shelf. He blew off the dust then turned and held it out as he walked toward Ben.
As he got closer, Ben knew this was no ordinary box. It was exquisitely hand-carved, on every side and on top, very ornate. Among the shapes carved into the surface was a large tobacco leaf in the center.
Mr. Richards set it down on the coffee table. “The moment I saw that typewriter case fall apart, I thought you could use this. Looks just about the right size. It’s a humidor, made of solid rosewood, hand-carved in Cuba. See the tobacco leaf etched in the top? My father bought it in 1898. Did I ever tell you about him?”
“I don’t think you did.”
“He fought with Teddy Roosevelt and the Rough Riders up San Juan Hill. He picked this up in Havana before they shipped him back home. Dad was quite a fellow, smoked Cuban cigars all his life. Stored them all right in here. Before he died, he gave it to me. But I don’t smoke cigars.”
“What about Jack?”
“Jack doesn’t smoke them, either. I figure you could use it for that typewriter. All you’d need is to screw a nice handle on the side.”
