“1885.” She was reading from the back of the photograph. “Doesn’t that seem like forever ago?”
“It was.” He showed her the photograph.
She peered at it closely. “Your father?” Then looked up at him. “I can see you in this.”
Strengthened, he took the envelope away and reached in for the next picture, studied it briefly, and handed it to her. “My parents, their wedding.” And then a fat-cheeked baby surrounded by tapestry. “Me, I guess.” The familiar handwriting of his mother confirmed.
“Well, lookee lookee.” Her eyes lit up and danced between the photograph of the baby and the man in the room. “What a fat little snack you were.”
Again, that hollow feeling. There were more: himself at growing ages, culminating in the portrait taken for his high school graduation; various groupings of the brothers, his parents, him and his uncle, his solid three-person family; and Edward—alone, distinguished, aging.
“Why would he keep them here, locked away?” Monica whispered, the atmosphere growing more reverent with each photograph.
“Because his family home—the house I grew up in—burned down. Destroyed everything. These are the only pictures of my family that exist.”
He spoke from a power outside of himself, because his gut and throat and head were too full of newly resurfaced grief to be of coherent thought, let alone conversation. Somewhere in between those photographs came the time when some rift had occurred, fueled by both selfishness and apathy, that caused his uncle to cut loose and drift away. The same four faces appeared over and over—his father, his mother, Uncle Edward, Max. They were all each other had, and now, after years of estrangement, only Max remained, sifting through the prized possessions of a man who died alone.
And then, a new image.
“What do you know?” He’d piqued Monica’s attention and savored the final moments of a secret.
“What is it?”
It was Zelda Ovenoff, an image from some years ago, but not many. Her hair was neatly arranged in a prewar coif, and she looked directly at the camera with a smile that rivaled that of Mona Lisa.
Speechless, he handed the image over. He had a feeling there wasn’t much in this world that would surprise Monica Bisbaine, but this sure seemed to do the trick. What a delight to watch understanding dawn.
“But why . . . ?”
“I think they loved each other. At least, he loved her—that’s clear.”
“I never knew. I don’t think anybody did.”
She handed the photographs back with a certain reverence, and he packaged them again in the envelope.
“He came here often,” Monica said with certainty.
“How do you know?”
“This.” She ran her finger along the spine of the envelope’s flap. “It’s worn, almost broken. I think he must have come here, looked at them, and drank a toast.”
As she spoke, the scene unfolded in front of him, so clear that he could almost smell Uncle Edward’s cigar. Perhaps she could be a top-notch reporter after all.
“I think we should do the same,” she said, pouring another drink.
“You already did.”
“It’s no fun to toast alone.”
“There’s only one glass,” he said, though his initial idea of protest had weakened.
“There’s a glass,” she said, handing it to him, “and a bottle. To Edward.”
She held up the bottle, and he touched the shot glass to it, the resulting clink sounding muffled in the small room. And then, just as Monica touched the bottle neck to her lips and tilted her head, he drank. He’d braced himself for burning, or bitter, but found neither. The taste was, instead, smooth, and even that small amount seemed to break up and wash away the final vestiges of anxiety.
“What’s next?” she asked, looking up at him as if ready to go along with anything he said.
“For starters, this—” he took the recorked bottle from her and placed it back in the box—“will stay safely here. And these—” he tucked the photographs under his arm—“are going home with me.”
“And the glass?”
“Why don’t you take it?”
“Thanks. I’m honored.” She took it from him and stashed it in her coat pocket. “One more thing before you walk out there.” She brought her thumb to her mouth, licked it, and reached up. He stood, frozen, as she grazed it across his lip. “I left a little smudge on the glass; you picked it up. Don’t want you walking around with a smear of Scarlet Passion on your mouth. People might wonder just what we were doing in here.”
“They might indeed.” In fact, he was beginning to wonder just what was happening between them, but knowing Monica, it was nothing more nor less than what it would be if she were locked in a small room with any other man and a bottle of liquor. He focused his attention on arranging the whiskey bottles back in the box, packing the straw around them—at her instruction—to keep them upright.
“Shall we do this again?” she said as they left. “Say, about a month from now? Celebrate my allowance?”
“It’s a date,” he said, fighting the urge to count the days.
Don’t ignore the man you are sure of while you flirt with another. When you return to the first one, you may find him gone.
ANTI-FLIRT CLUB RULE #10
THE FRONT PARLOR smelled heavily of cabbage, meaning Mrs. Kinship had custody of the kitchen for the evening. Mr. and Mrs. Grayson, the elderly couple who owned the house and occupied two rooms on the first floor, were quite generous with their tenants, allowing them to spend evenings in the comfortable furniture downstairs and cook as they pleased, provided they prepare enough for the entire household on occasion. Mrs. Kinship must have spent some time cooking for troops, because she always prepared mounds of food, enough to feed the landlords, herself, Mr. Davenport, Monica, and even Anna when she was home from the library at mealtime.
The old-fashioned, sour smell perfectly complemented the wailing of the opera spiraling from the Victrola. If Mrs. Kinship commanded the kitchen, Mr. Davenport dominated the gramophone, having a collection of records at least six inches high. He sat in the high-back chair, his head lolled to one side. His fingers, tufted with long, white hair on the knuckles, accompanied the mournful aria, suspending themselves on the high, sustained notes.
Anna had draped herself across the back of the sofa, a forgotten mystery novel in her lap, and stared out the front window.
“Looks like it’s snowing again,” she said, her words dredged with malaise. “Nature’s blanket to protect the most tender of shoots.”
“Yeah?” Monica strode across the room to look for herself. “Well, it’s going to ruin my most expensive of shoes.”
“Hush,” said Mr. Davenport, who sometimes forgot that he wasn’t standing in his high school classroom.
Anna twisted to catch Monica’s eye. Her long hair had streaks of gold, and her eyelashes were a dark, almost copper color. Two enviable marks of beauty, yet she seemed to take no pride or purpose in them.
“Going out with your gentleman friend again? What is it you girls say? Your daddy?”
Her question was met with two angry glares—one from Monica for the ridiculous use of slang, and one from Mr. Davenport for speaking at all.
“Where to this evening? Something exciting, no doubt. That’s a very dramatic dress you’re wearing.”
“It’s new,” Monica said, holding her arms akimbo to show its full design. It was blood-red wool trimmed with black piping that gathered across her narrow hips.
“I could never get away with wearing such a thing,” Anna said, and it was true. Not because of her face or figure but her lackluster demeanor. Much as she spoke of her longing to go to Paris, Monica couldn’t imagine a less likely event.
“I decided to treat myself. A girl needs to do that every now and then. Lifts the spirit, you know?”
“Oh, I’m sure.” Anna smoothed her thin, blonde hair. “Just the other day I walked past a shop that had the most
attractive hats, and—”
“Ladies, if you please.” Mr. Davenport’s eyes were still closed, and he had to raise his voice considerably to be heard above the competition between the conversation and the chorus.
It was as good an excuse to quit talking with Anna as any, so Monica resumed her methodical pacing of the room.
“You should wait up in your apartment,” Mrs. Kinship said, having come into the room wiping her hands on a comfortably stained apron, no doubt to announce that supper was ready for all who would partake. “So when he gets here, he has to wait. It’s better that way.”
“Not so obvious,” Anna said, whispering the last word.
“This is hardly the first time the gentleman has come calling,” Mr. Davenport intoned, one eye open. “No need to create a false sense of propriety now.”
The music came to an end, filling the room with silence buffered by the sound of the Victrola’s needle scratching into the endless vinyl of the record.
“Supper’s ready, anyway,” Mrs. Kinship said finally. “Stuffed cabbage, and plenty for everybody.”
“Not for me, thanks.” Monica sat on one of the more uncomfortable, rickety chairs and picked up a magazine. “I’m sure we’ll be going out for supper. Maybe for a steak somewhere. And then dancing. So, no, I won’t be having any stuffed cabbage.”
It was rude, she knew, and she’d well offended at least Mrs. Kinship by the time she thought to smile and say, “Thank you.” Anna maintained a bit of wistfulness on her pink face, and Mr. Davenport busied himself returning the record to its sleeve.
“Well, he’s welcome too, just so’s you know,” Mrs. Kinship said.
Monica took another stab at sincerity, saying, “Thank you” once again, knowing full well she’d never invite Charlie to a family dinner, no matter how patched-together the family might be. Table talk would mean lots of questions, some she’d never even had the nerve to ask. Like where did he live, and where was he from, and did he ever think of settling down?
Soon enough she was alone in the parlor, and she slammed the magazine down on the side table. What if Charlie didn’t get here before all of them were done stuffing themselves with Mrs. Kinship’s stuffed cabbage? They’d come strolling back in, and here she’d be, still waiting for her young man. Her daddy.
She peeked out the window again. It was still snowing—the wet and sticky kind that would make the thin leather of her black shoes feel like tissue paper. All the more reason to stay off them, she’d offer, practicing a wicked, seductive grin on her pale reflection. Dinner at a hotel, maybe, and then a room. Maybe out in Silver Spring. She might even pack a little bag to make it seem more legitimate.
Just as she was about to run upstairs for her train case to make good on her plans, the telephone jangled the house’s ring—two long, one short.
Her stomach dropped. She was practically the only one who ever got telephone calls, and those were mostly Charlie—either canceling plans, or postponing them, or whispering an address to meet him.
Reluctantly, she made her way to the telephone table and lifted the earpiece from its cradle, bringing the candlestick to her lips.
“Hello? Grayson residence.”
There was a pause on the other end before a familiar voice came through.
“Hello. Yes, I’m looking for Miss Bisbaine. Miss Monica Bisbaine.”
Max. Immediately, her mind filled with the memory of a small, warm room, good Scotch whiskey, and the feeling of being the only other person in the world.
“This is she, Mr. Moore. Whatever are you doing calling on a Friday night?”
She knew the question would take him off guard and bit her bottom lip, enjoying the audible sound of his squirming on the other end. Like a baby, this one was. She could knock him over with a bat of her eyes.
“I, um, I have your book.”
“What book?”
“Well, not exactly your book. It’s my uncle’s. Mine now, of course. The one you wanted?”
“Mr. Moore, I have no idea—”
“The Enchanted April. It was on his list, and you said you wanted to read it. I found it.”
“Oh,” she said, all traces of amusement gone. “How nice of you. I hadn’t given it another thought.”
“Oh,” he said, sounding just disappointed enough to make her feel guilty. “Well, I thought that maybe, if you’re not busy tomorrow, we could meet somewhere and I could lend it to you?”
“Why not Monday?” Before he could answer, the front door shuddered against an impatient knock, and she said, “Hold on a second,” before setting the phone down to answer it.
“There’s my Miss Mousie!” It was Charlie, his leather cap damp with snow. He wasted no time waiting for an invitation but leapt over the threshold, taking Monica in his arms and burying his cold nose in the warmth of her neck.
“Charlie!” She screeched at the cold but gave in to his embrace. In no time at all his hands traveled just about every bit of her north of her knees as she made giggling, halfhearted attempts to swat him away, saying, “Unhand me, you beast.”
He snarled one last time and then took a step away, devouring her with his eyes.
“Sweet grandma’s pudding,” he said, savoring the sight. “Look at you.”
“It’s new,” she said, feeling less inclined to show it off the way she had for Anna. “With tonight being a special occasion and all.”
“Special occasion?”
“Valentine’s Day? I mean, officially it was a couple of days ago, but tonight it’s ours.”
“Oh, sure, sure.” His eyes glanced over to the phone. “You talking to someone?”
She looked for the slightest hint of suspicion, but his question came off as one of pure curiosity.
“Yes. Just one minute, and I’ll be ready to go.” Once again she picked up the telephone, turning her back to Charlie as she did so and saying, “I’m sorry, I’ve just had a guest arrive.”
“What a relief,” Max said. “It sounded like you were under attack.”
“Oh no,” she said, choosing her next words carefully. “Just a date.”
“Is he wearing a straitjacket?”
“Don’t be silly—”
“Because those aren’t exactly ideal for a night on the town—”
“Max—”
“Let alone dancing—”
“You were saying something about a book?” Spoken with the urgency of smashing a brake. She could picture his smirky grin through the line and felt her own being tugged along.
“The Enchanted April.”
She glanced over her shoulder, pleased to see the interest Charlie had taken in the conversation.
“Yes,” she said, adopting a voice resplendent with breathless longing. “Of course, Max. I don’t know if I’ll be free tomorrow. I might be out of town.”
“Eloping?”
“Hardly. Just a little fun.”
“Then Monday it is.”
“Perfect.” She sent a wink over to Charlie. “I’ll see you then.”
He was behind her the second she placed the earpiece in its cradle, his arms wrapped around her, his lips against her ear.
“You have another fellow besides me?”
She twisted around and pulled him close for a kiss, letting him stew. When he pulled away, she said, “It’s nobody. Just my boss.”
“He’s takin’ over the paper?”
“I don’t want to talk about work.” She kissed him again to emphasize the point. She especially didn’t want to talk about Max. And she wanted even less to think about why.
“Okay, okay,” he said, drawing back and glancing at the staircase. “Want to try to sneak upstairs?”
“No.” She slapped his arm in disgust, not quite mock. “Look at me. Do I look like I want to sneak upstairs?”
“So we’re going out? You got a lead on a place?”
“Not tonight. Can’t we just go on a date? Like two normal people?”
“Sure we can, sweetheart. Go get
your coat. It’s some nasty weather outside.”
“All right. But I’ll need to change my shoes, too. Wait here.”
She ran upstairs, all wild ideas of taking a train to Silver Spring flown clear out of her head, replaced momentarily with the thought of a snowy-cold morning, occupying a table at Sobek’s, reading The Enchanted April. That, too, was shaken to the side as she opened the door to her room and crossed to the armoire, where her shoes lived in tumbled piles on the bottom shelf. In no time she’d found her black T-straps—less dramatic, but infinitely more practical given their thicker heels. She was sitting on the edge of her bed, fastening the buckle, when her eye caught the jewel-shaped lid of the Mavis perfume. She’d applied it faithfully as she dressed and now lifted her wrist to take in the scent.
And for the first time since the first time, she didn’t want to go back downstairs.
They sat in the back of a cab with an unaccustomed distance between them. Usually time alone was such a rare commodity, little of it was ever left to comfortable silence. Not that this silence was comfortable.
Monica stared out the window, lulled to listlessness by the hum of the engine. Occasionally the car would hit a bump or lurch for some other reason, and she’d steel against the impact, once even grabbing at the seat in front of her to keep balanced and upright.
“Shoulda stayed back at the house,” Charlie said at last. “Things was a lot warmer back there, if you know what I mean.”
She knew what he meant. When it came to that—or any topic, really—the man was about as subtle as a train at a racetrack. One deep breath was not enough to infuse her with the energy to agree, or disagree, or even care.
“Sheesh, if I wanted the silent treatment, I coulda stayed at home.”
She wanted to say that there were lots more things he could get at home, too, but that would start a fight, or as much of a fight as they ever got into, meaning he would pout his way through dinner and then drop her off alone. In some ways, tonight that didn’t seem like such a bad deal—maybe curling up in the parlor with a good book and a mug of that hot chocolate Anna made sometimes. There were worse ways to spend an evening.
All for a Story Page 10
