Zelda laughed. “Oh, it is not for drinking. I mix with an egg white, makes a nice scrub for the face.”
“Really?” Come to think of it, she did have remarkably few wrinkles for a woman of her age. “Do women know about this?”
“Some do, I suppose. Poor women, maybe, who cannot afford to buy such fancy things.”
She was back to her humming, leaving Max alone with his parable, the wisdom of Solomon, and a fresh, blank page in his journal. At the top of it he copied the verse from Proverbs that had seemed so bitterly amusing less than an hour ago. Underneath the verse, he wrote the word Counsellors, with a bold underscore. And beneath that, he wrote a single name: Zelda Ovenoff.
Now he would wait for God to bring him the multitude.
“Perhaps,” she said, leaning forward a little, “you will tell me your name. If we are to be friends—” she smiled her grave smile—“as I hope we are, we had better begin at the beginning.”
ELIZABETH VON ARNIM, THE ENCHANTED APRIL
MONICA WAS STILL UNDER HER COVERS, not quite asleep but not ready to face the cold, when she heard the faint knocking on her door.
“Miss? Miss? A package for you.”
The voice belonged to Mrs. Kinship, Monica’s neighbor who worked overnight as a janitress for some of the government buildings downtown. For a quarter a week she’d clean the individual apartments in this building, too, but Monica was well suited to live with two bits’ worth of dirt and clutter. The other service Mrs. Kinship offered to her fellow tenants was the delivery of the mail, as it often arrived at the door to the common parlor shortly after her return from work. Before retiring for the day, Mrs. Kinship would slip the various envelopes under the appropriate doors. Occasionally, usually after reclaiming a letter that Mrs. Kinship had “forgotten” to deliver, the occupants of the apartments would put a dime in an envelope and slip it under her door—just to thank her for her troubles.
At first, Monica had refused to participate in this minor postal extortion, figuring she didn’t have a soul alive who would be writing her a letter anytime soon, and what could be the harm if her creditors’ notices piled up under Mrs. Kinship’s greed? But that was before Charlie and the almost-daily missives Monica received from him. Little notes describing his ardent desires, addresses and directions for places they could meet for discreet drinks and dancing. And occasionally, a trinket.
She threw her quilts off and ran across the stinging-cold floor, plastering on a broad smile as she opened the door to her neighbor, who hadn’t bothered to do the same.
Mrs. Kinship was one of those gray women—her hair, complexion, dress, and demeanor completely without life. Right now the only spot of color was the bright-red box tied with a silver ribbon that she held in her open claw.
“This from your gentleman?” she asked, as if she had the right to know.
“Well, I don’t know. I haven’t opened the card yet. There is a card, isn’t there?”
Mrs. Kinship sniffed. “Not my duty to inspect the packages. Just to deliver them.”
Monica wanted to correct her, saying, no, in fact, it wasn’t her duty to do even that, but unless she wanted to take it upon herself to sit at the front door in the mornings and grab the early post, it would be best to keep her smile.
“Thank you for that,” Monica said. She took the package from the older woman, who left her hand palm up and open, waiting.
“I thought I’d get some soup from Sobek’s later this afternoon. Shall I bring you some?”
Mrs. Kinship seemed to be weighing the chances that Monica would follow through. Satisfied, she worked up a bit of a smile, saying she hoped the package was something nice, obviously hinting that she’d like to stay and see just what it was.
“If you’re asleep,” Monica said, inching the door closed, “I’ll leave the soup at your door. Have a good rest.”
Once alone, she lit a fire in her stove and huddled next to it. As it turned out, there was a card, but she set it aside, eager to see the gift beneath the passionate red paper. Slowly, to savor the experience, she untied the ribbon, thinking it might be nice to embellish a hat or something later. With the ribbon gone, the paper fell away, revealing the more exotic, fiery-red—nearly orange—box, featuring the familiar image of a phoenix in flight.
Perfume. Mavis perfume. Not expensive or extravagant, but still . . .
He remembered. Valentine’s Day. She hadn’t even reminded him. In fact, she hardly remembered herself, unless spending the previous afternoon doodling cupids and arrows counted as remembering.
She grabbed the jewel-shaped cap, twisted it, and brought the bottle up to her nose, inhaling. Irresistible. That’s what the ads always said, with their pale, elongated women surrounded by exotic pillars and peacocks. Charlie was irresistible. No matter how many times she tried to put him aside, to move on to some other guy—it just took a note, a visit, a nuzzle to her neck, and she was back. Or he was. Charlie was warmth when she was cold, a joke when she was blue, a drink when she was lonesome. Most days that was enough.
The fragrance drew her back, the way Charlie always did, and then again, and she knew why. She’d smelled this before. On his collar. On his skin.
It was the fragrance of his wife.
That should have been enough to hurl the bottle across the room and curse his name as it shattered. Bad enough that she lived with secondhand affection—now a secondhand scent? But whose fault was that, really? Even she knew he was in love with his wife.
Then again, if he did love her, why did he bother with Monica at all?
She studied the bottle. At least she knew she wasn’t getting the cheap end of the deal here. Not like wifey bathed in something Parisian while she made do with Mavis. She was an equal in that way, at least, to the woman with whom Charlie chose to share his name and his life.
The fire in the stove was well blazing now, or at least enough to offer legitimate heat. In its glow, Monica dropped her nightgown to the floor. She tipped the bottle, bathing the stopper, and touched it to her skin. Behind her ears, in the hollow of her collarbone, along the pale vein running the length of her inner arm, the curve of her waist, behind each knee. Then she slipped on her silk kimono—black and emerald green with twisting, gold-stitched dragons—and ran a brush over her hair, its sheen rivaling the silk of the robe.
“I think of you when I’m with her.”
Because Charlie’s wife probably clomped around the house in something ratty and calico, quilted so she looked like a piece of furniture making flapjacks in the morning. And all the time nagging at him. “Where’ve you been? Why were you out so late? What time are you going to be home?”
Questions Monica was not allowed to ask.
“I think of you when I’m with her.”
That was the closest thing to a promise Charlie had ever given. But if she was honest with herself, she had to wonder if it wasn’t the other way around. He was all the time fretting about lipstick and face powder on his shirt, worried that his wife might figure it out. Now he wouldn’t have to worry about the scent of his skin.
She pushed the thought away and focused on the pretty box. The cut-glass bottle, the ribbon, and finally the small, square envelope. With a steady finger, she opened the flap and pulled out a card. On it, two lovers dressed in disheveled Victorian garb reclined in each other’s arms beneath a budding tree with a caption underneath.
Would I could die in a field of your kisses.
The words were the sentiments of the artist, not Charlie. His message, far less romantic, was scrawled on the back.
Friday night. 7 p.m.
Her place, probably. That was where their dates usually began and ended.
Well, no use getting drippy about it all now. Today was Bank Day, though she wasn’t looking forward to facing Uncle Everett after the run-in with Doc King. He—Everett—had sent her a note soon afterward, explaining that he’d been forced to surrender the card and hoped there wouldn’t be any repercussions. She’d want
ed to send one back saying they all got a whole lot more than ten dollars’ worth of excitement out of it but decided it was best to say nothing. He might not be so easy with the money next time if he thought it would get her into trouble.
She’d spent her last eighty-two cents the day before getting her latest batch of laundry out of hock, with a promise to Mr. Varnos to return with the balance later in the afternoon. All of her clothes had been wrapped in neat, brown paper packages and tied with string, but she’d spent the evening playing one record after another on the gramophone she purloined from Mr. Davenport until all had been pressed into the small closet or tucked away inside one of her three dresser drawers. She had her pick of her wardrobe and chose a heather-gray dress of light wool jersey with a band of rose-colored ruffles descending like a sash from the collar to her waist. The same ruffle graced the cuffs of her long sleeves and the tiny flowers stitched into her gray stockings. She slipped her feet into black patent-leather high-heeled shoes and, as she buckled them, hoped that the day would prove to be more cold than wet.
With a tiny dab of pomade sleeking her hair to perfection, she applied her lipstick and lightly kohled her eyes, opening them wide in her best in-sincere-need expression, but the only coat that would do was the tailored knee-length gray wool with the wide mink collar. After all, like her mother always said, nobody wants to give money to someone who looks like they need it.
The question of whether or not to wear a hat was settled the minute she got a glimpse of her face framed in shining black—the mink collar pulled up to her ears, just meeting the matching sheen of her hair.
“Perfect,” she said to her reflection, pleased with her dramatic red pout.
It was half past nine by the time she reached the bank. Early, but not desperately so, and every head in there snapped to her attention when she walked through the door, even the addled Mr. Peel at the reception desk.
“Miss Monica Bisbaine here to see Mr. Bentworth.” She tried to appear aloof as she tugged each finger of her camel-colored kidskin gloves before taking up the pen to sign the register. “A matter of personal business.”
For the first time, Mr. Peel seemed to recognize her and was announcing Everett’s otherwise engagement when Monica stopped short, seeing the name written in the ledger just a few lines above her own. Maximilian Moore.
She glanced up and around, as if the man would materialize from the lobby’s rich paneling.
“Miss?” Mr. Peel was standing now, a long white envelope in his shaky hand. “Mr. Bentworth left this for you.”
Monica kept her own hands cool and controlled as she stepped away from the desk to peer inside the envelope. In it, a short note on a slip of Capitol Bank and Loan stationery.
Monkey—
Sorry for the ugly business in your office last week. If it helps at all, Mrs. B and I had an enchanted evening.
Uncle E
Besides the note, there was a draft for her one-hundred-dollar monthly allowance and a crisp portrait of Grover Cleveland on a twenty-dollar bill. She quickly closed the envelope and struggled to regain a look of composure. It was just a hundred and twenty bucks, for pete’s sake, not a bucket from King Solomon’s mines.
“Thank you, Mr. Peel.”
She glided across the lobby floor to the row of tellers at the back and endorsed the draft with the pen resting in the gilded pedestal at the window. When she slid it across to the anonymous, bespectacled man on the other side, saying, “I’d like to deposit this into my personal account,” she made sure to look up and away the moment the teller came into contact with her current balance.
“And if you could exchange this for its value in smaller denominations?”
“Certainly, ma’am,” the teller said with the professional disguise of his thin-lipped smirk.
With her cash safely tucked in her purse, Monica turned away, allotting herself a cleansing sigh of relief. What to do next? Pay off her laundry? A nice warm lunch? Perhaps she’d go shopping for a Valentine’s gift for Charlie. A tie clip or something. Better yet, something for her—for him. A new silk peignoir to wear with her perfume when he came to visit Friday night. Then to the butcher’s for a couple of steaks the landlady maybe would let her fry on the stove in the kitchen downstairs. And then to the bakery for a little cake—strawberry with a buttercream icing. Or chocolate . . .
“Miss Bisbaine?”
The voice cut through her reverie, and she turned midstep to see Max Moore emerging from Everett’s office.
“Monkey!” Everett said, leaving Max’s side to come offer her a peck on the cheek. “Did you get—everything?”
“I did.” She gave him a playful tap on his sleeve with the envelope and shot a glance up at Max. “How did you hear about our trouble at the paper?”
“We must never forget just how small this town is, darling. But it seems all is well?”
Monica couldn’t help noticing the look exchanged between the two men, but she chose to maintain her ignorance.
“You were more than generous, Uncle Ev.”
“Stay warm,” he said with an affectionate tone that surprised her, considering this stranger to them stood so nearby, “and if you need anything, you know where to find me.”
“Of course.” She stood to her toes, reaching up to plant her own kiss on his smooth-shaven cheek.
He turned to Max and offered his hand. “Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Moore?”
Max, who had watched the entire exchange with a bemused expression on his face, told Everett that no, thank you, he’d be fine from here, at which point Everett disappeared back into his office, leaving the two of them in a state of awkward togetherness. At least it was awkward for Monica, because she’d barely had a chance to breathe between her thoughts of a new peignoir for Charlie and a confrontation with the man who may or may not be her boss in the next couple of days.
She cocked her head toward Everett’s closed office door. “Business?”
“Personal, actually.”
“Oh.”
She waited for him to inquire as to her reason for being at the bank that morning, but he simply stood, calm as water, as if he could stay right there all day.
“He’s not really my uncle,” she blurted out, not nearly as comfortable in the silence as he. “Everett’s an old family friend. Closest I have to family these days, I guess.”
“My uncle did his business here,” Max said. “He had a safety-deposit box. I just got the key.”
“What do you think is in it?” Her mind swam with possibilities.
“I have no idea.”
And what was more maddening, he didn’t seem in any hurry to find out.
“By all means, Mr. Moore, don’t let me keep you.”
She backed one step away, surprised at just how reluctantly she did so, and even more surprised at the little leap of joy when he said, “Why don’t you come in with me? We’ll have a look together,” even though his invitation carried with it the same enthusiasm as if he’d offered her half a sandwich.
“Is that allowed?”
“It’s my box. I get to say who’s allowed.”
She didn’t know if she should legitimize his invitation by taking his arm, but then he didn’t offer it, so she simply walked beside him as they approached the vault. When they arrived at the outer room, however, the portly keeper looked at Max over the thin spectacles perched on his nose.
“Quite sorry, sir. But all of the rooms are occupied now. Perhaps you could return in, say, half an hour? Ten o’clock?”
“Of course.”
It was the same response she’d had for Everett, but lacking in conviction. If Max’s disappointment was anywhere near Monica’s, it was some kind of fight to hide it, and the slight hitch in his breath was the only betrayal that he felt any frustration at all.
He turned to Monica. “I’m sure you have other things to do.”
“What would I have to do?”
“I don’t know. Buy some diamonds? Fund an orp
hanage?”
“What?” His comments were funny, but not in a way that made her want to laugh. Instead, she studied his face, trying to discern if he seriously believed what he said. “Why would you think such a thing?”
He reached out and ran the back of his fingers along the mink collar on her coat. “This. It makes you look like some millionaire maven. I guess Uncle Edward was paying you more than I thought.”
“I have bad habits and expensive taste. It can be a deadly combination.”
He gave her collar a tug. “It was certainly deadly for this little guy.”
This time she did laugh and swatted his hand away. “Leave him alone; he’s precious. Ten more payments and he’s mine.”
“Congratulations.”
The word carried just enough irony not to be insulting, and the lilting humor in his voice made her feel that she’d been scooped up and taken away to some amusing new dimension.
“So,” she said, knowing her thin, arched brow was quirked most becomingly, “if I’m still invited to tag along into the vault, I know a charming little place where we can have a cup of coffee while we wait. Not far from here.”
It was a bold thing to do, even for her, but her skin was crawling with the scent of another woman’s perfume, something that could only be soothed by the company of another man. This man, though, was taking a lifetime to decide, making her work very hard not to push the offer.
He leaned in, close, giving her a whiff of his shaving soap. “Will I have to know a password?”
“Yeah. ‘Cream and sugar.’”
“Well, then.” He opened the door to the street. “Lead on.”
Beauty made you love, and love made you beautiful.
ELIZABETH VON ARNIM, THE ENCHANTED APRIL
MAX FELT like he was chasing a raven. Monica kept a good few steps ahead of him as they maneuvered through the streets and sidewalks after leaving the bank, walking with a kind of nervous energy that propelled her at a sprinter’s pace through clumps of businessmen who never failed to tip their hats and follow through with an admiring glance. Whether or not she’d done anything to warrant such attention he didn’t know, as her face was hidden from his view, surrounded on all sides by the black fur collar she’d pulled up around her ears.
All for a Story Page 8
