I glare at her. “You're going out with him, aren't you?”
“With Raf? What gave you that idea?”
“The phone call? Remember? I was there when he called. I saw his number on your phone when I handed it to you.”
“Yeah, I remember—he did call me, but I'm not going out with him. He called me for his friend Sean. I met him at the dance last week, and I guess he's kinda shy, so he got Rafael to call and ask me out for him.”
Waves of about eight different emotions swell up and crash on the beach of my feeble brain. Rebecca thwumps me with her sketchbook. Margaret shakes her head and waggles her eyebrows at me.
“What is going on?” Leigh Ann asks, looking at us one by one.
“Sophie was mad at you,” Margaret starts, “because she likes Raf, and she thought you were going out with him. Which is crazy, because even if you were, I practically heard her give you permission.”
“Wait a second. This was all about Raf?” Leigh Ann tries to piece it together in her mind. “You know, I thought you were being kind of mean to me. If you like him, why didn't you just say something?”
“Because I'm a moron. God, I am so embarrassed.”
“You should be,” Rebecca says. “Who else thinks Sophie should buy the first round?”
The girl behind the counter raises her hand along with Rebecca, Margaret, and Leigh Ann, and then says, “How 'bout four of my specialty—a mocha float. It's got coffee, chocolate, and ice cream. I'll give 'em to you for half price.”
“Leigh Ann, I am so sorry. It's just that, well, you guys would make like the perfect couple.”
“Except he likes you, and you like him, and I don't like him. Not like that.”
“He doesn't like me.”
“You'll never convince her, Leigh Ann,” says Margaret.
“Am I interrupting something?” Malcolm suddenly materializes next to our table.
Margaret spins in her seat to face him.
Malcolm points to his shoes. “Soft soles. Better for sneaking about.” That sly, sly smile. But no smirk in sight.
I take a whiff; he is using the same stuff on his hair, and I'm still not sure I want my fate in hands that smell like the locker room after gym class.
Margaret points him to the empty chair. “Thanks for coming. Especially on such short notice.”
I check the door again. “Are you sure nobody followed you?”
This makes him chuckle, and for the first time, I see a twinkle in his eye—a twinkle that says: I'm not quite the bad guy you think I am.
Could I have been wrong? Again!
“My, my. Should I have been expecting someone to follow me? I had no idea I had wandered into such a shady underworld.”
“She's just a little nervous,” Margaret says. “There's really just one person in particular that we would rather not know about this meeting. Sophie had kind of a bad experience this morning with someone from last night.”
“Let me guess: Gordon Winterbottom.”
“How did you know?” Maybe he can help me.
Malcolm chuckles again. “Well, of all the people present last night, he's the one I wouldn't want following me. I don't blame you for being concerned about Mr. Winterbottom. As a matter of fact, I'm very concerned about him myself, for reasons I needn't go into right now. But tell me—what kind of bad experience are we talking about?”
Margaret takes a deep breath. “Okay, we're going to tell you something, because we need your help, but I don't know if we have anything to offer you in return—so we're just going to have to take a chance that you'll do the right thing.”
Malcolm calmly folds his hands on the table in front of us. “Before you start, are you sure it is the right thing that you want me to do? Or is it merely the thing you want me to do? Are you sure they are one and the same?”
Oy. If he calls us young grasshoppers, I'm leaving.
Zen Master Margaret states her case: “Let me put it this way. To the best of my knowledge, it is the right thing. However, if my understanding of the facts is flawed, it is entirely possible that what truly is right and what we want, based on the information we now have, are not the same.”
“Fair enough. Girls, I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that this has something to do with the item we discussed last Saturday at the Met. An object aptly described by your young male friend as ‘the stuff that dreams are made of.’ Am I right?” We nod, and he continues. “And I'm going to climb a bit further out on that same limb by suggesting that our mutual friend Mr. Winterbottom has developed a keen interest in said item.”
“Did he say something to you about it?”
“Oh, no. Gordon's much too clever for that. You see, there's something about him that you don't know. From the moment I met you girls in Elizabeth's foyer and got wind of what you were up to, I feared that this very situation would result.”
“But why?”
“Because every time you visited Elizabeth, he knew exactly what was said.”
“How? Does he have the place bugged or something?”
“Nothing that sophisticated. What he has is a spy. Someone ‘on the inside,’ as you spy types say. Elizabeth's housekeeper, Winifred—”
“I knew it!” I shout.
“She is Gordon's wife.”
“His wife?” Margaret says. “We thought she was working with you. Isn't she a lot younger than he is?”
“Gordon is younger than he looks.”
Margaret looks concerned. “So he isn't bluffing. He really does know.”
“What, exactly, does he know?”
“That we found the ring.”
Malcolm straightens up, eyes wide. “You found it? How? Where? Where is it? Can I see it?”
Margaret tells him the greatly abridged version and then has me give him the details of my private meeting with Winterrump.
“We need access to the church when we can be absolutely certain that no one will be around,” Margaret says. “That's where you come in.”
“I see. Ah, and am I correct in deducing that the ‘right thing’ that you want me to do is to let you recover the ring and return it to my ex-wife.”
“Something like that.”
Malcolm rubs his chin, moving his gaze around the table at the four of us. “What if I told you that I have an even better, more equitable solution? Why not give the ring directly to Caroline? After all, from what you have told me, it was intended as her birthday present. I can tell you that she will be eternally grateful to have this last gift from her grandfather.”
“I don't know,” said Margaret. “We kind of promised Elizabeth. I'm not sure we can—”
“Leave that part to me. In fact, this meeting helps me better understand the conversation I had with Elizabeth just this morning. It seems that, after fifteen years, she has a sudden urge to speak to our daughter again. Actually, we had quite a lovely talk, the most civil discussion we've had in many years. In addition to finding the ring, you girls may be responsible for getting a family back on speaking terms.”
Margaret and I share a quick look at each other, fighting back smiles. Malcolm has played the “family card” for us. “If it is okay with Ms. Harriman, it is okay with us.”
Our business complete, Becca and Leigh Ann go up to the counter to order a second mocha float, and Margaret wanders off to the bathroom, leaving me alone with Malcolm.
He leans over, talking softly. “I have an idea, Miss St. Pierre. A way to bring this episode to a close with a little panache. I have in mind a particularly inspired piece of theater—but I need you to play the lead. Are your acting skills up to snuff?”
I lean in, nodding enthusiastically, and smile as he reveals the details of his plan, which we agree to keep between the two of us.
When the others return to the table, Malcolm gives me a quick wink and then tells us all to go home, relax for a couple of hours, and wait for his e-mail. We shake hands with our surprising new co-conspirator, who then does something really nice�
��he picks up the check!
In which I learn that gold houses,
superpowers, and Maseratis are
nothing compared to good friends
When we leave Perkatory a little after five, we are in much better spirits, but most importantly, we are a team again, even though Rebecca refuses to wear her blazer outside the walls of the school. As un artiste, she feels compelled to demonstrate her individuality by wearing a faded, stained denim jacket.
I am surprised and somewhat concerned that both of my parents are home. Dad is usually only home on Sunday and Monday nights, and a Thursday is practically unheard of.
“Dad? What are you doing home?” As soon as I say it, I realize how it must sound.
“What kind of greeting is that for someone who has kindly brought you and your friends these delectable pastries? Maybe your mother and I will just eat them all instead.”
“Èclairs? Really? Papa, tu es le meilleur.”
“How was your day?” Mom asks.
“Well, it started off a little rough, but it just keeps getting better and better. Mom, I have the best friends ever. And, um, I think I forgot to tell you, but these guys are gonna stay here tonight. Remember, the banquet thing is tomorrow, and we're still working on our skit. You're coming, right?”
“Absolutely. And your dad is going to try to make it, if he's not too busy at the restaurant.”
I have no idea how we are going to sneak out past both of them tonight—especially since Dad is likely to be up reading or watching TV in the living room until all hours. Turns out, though, that it is movie night at the St. Pierre house. My parents go out to the movies maybe once or twice a year—and this is one of those nights. It is Dad's turn to pick the movie, and because he's French, it is certain to be something dark, depressing, and foreign—which means they are heading downtown, where all the “artsy” theaters are, which in turn means that we have a window of at least three hours to do everything we need to do. Plenty of time—as long as Malcolm comes through at a reasonable hour.
As soon as we pile into my bedroom, Margaret goes online to check her e-mail, and sure enough, there it is:
Dear Girls-in-Red-Blazers,
Liftoff! Red door, 8:45 PM—sharp! Await further instructions inside.
MC
Not a wasted syllable.
Margaret turns to me, smiling. “We're going to do it, Soph.”
“I want to believe, Margaret.”
“‘Great deeds are usually wrought at great risks.’ Herodotus.” She can't resist.
If I were really clever, or read the kind of books Margaret reads, I would have a snappy comeback for that line. Why didn't Elmer Fudd or Daffy Duck ever say anything profound?
Mom sticks her head in my room. “Is everything all right in here? If you girls are hungry, Sophie's dad made his famous macaroni and cheese; it's in the oven, and the èclairs are in the fridge. Our show doesn't start until nine-fifteen, so we won't be back till after midnight. Don't stay up too late, okay? You all have a big day tomorrow. Margaret, you're sensible; make sure Sophie gets some sleep, okay? We don't want her dozing onstage.”
“No problem, Kate.”
I kiss Mom on the cheek. “Bye, Kate. Have fun at the depressing movie.”
“You know, Sophie, not all French films are depressing,” she says, loud enough for Dad to hear. Then she whispers, “But this one sounds like a real doozy. I have extra tissues, just in case.”
The second they are out the door, we ransack the kitchen, polishing off a huge dish of macaroni and cheese, which Leigh Ann declares is the best thing she has ever eaten. “Holy cannoli, Sophie. Can I just move in with you? Your parents can adopt me and in exchange I'll clean the kitchen like nobody's business. We can be sisters. I can't believe your dad made that. My dad can't even make toast.”
It is the first time I have heard Leigh Ann mention her dad. “Are your parents, um, together?”
“No, they got divorced when I was in third grade, but it's okay, because I still see him a lot. He lives a few blocks away from us in Astoria.”
“Hey, I have a question for all of you,” Margaret announces as we spread out in my room. “You know the legend of the ring, right? How if you wear the ring, St. Veronica appears in your dreams and answers your prayers. Think about this—we are going to have that ring in a couple of hours. So, my question is: what would you ask for? And it has to be something possible, something good. No superpowers or a house made out of gold or things like that.”
“What if I use the superpowers to fight crime?” Rebecca asks. “That would be good, wouldn't it? And if the people I save want to thank me with a house of gold …”
“I'd like for my parents to get back together,” says Leigh Ann. “I know it's kind of a cliché, but with my parents, at least it seems possible. When they were together, everything was so much … easier. Not just for me, but for my mom, too. And my dad seemed happier then, too. Is that a stupid thing to hope for?”
I reach over and pat her on the shoulder. “I think it's totally sweet. I can't even imagine what it would be like if my parents got divorced. Becca, what about you? Seriously.”
“Well, I was going to say I wanna be able to fly, but I guess that's no good, and the whole ‘world peace’ thing has been done to death, so I guess I'll go with something simple. I want to see my dad again, even if it's just in my dreams. You know, maybe just to live one day over again with him. I was only seven when he died, so I hardly remember him, and I never dream about him anymore. It's funny, I remember how he smelled—like the ink from his print shop—more than how he looked. That's what I'd like. That, and a house made of gold. And a Maserati. They're cool. And if I had either one of those, I wouldn't mind not being able to fly.”
“That's like Emily,” Margaret says. “You know, from Our Town. The first part, not the gold house and the Maserati. Only in her case, it's after she dies that she gets to relive one day of her life.”
Rebecca looks a little confused. “Isn't it kinda too late by then?”
“I think that was the point,” I say.
Leigh Ann nudges me. “Okay Sophie. Your turn.”
“Oh, I think we all know what she wants,” Rebecca teases.
“Shut up, Rebecca. I'm still thinking, but not about what you think. Margaret, you go ahead of me.”
“Well, if I had to decide right this second, I would copy Rebecca. I want to live my eighth birthday over again. That was the last time I saw my grandfather. We moved to America a couple of months later, and he died about a year after that. I had so much fun that day. He played the piano and we all sang and danced, and the food—oh my gosh. It was the perfect day.”
Sometimes it's kind of intimidating having friends like mine. “Wow. Yours are all so … nice. I don't know.”
“Don't try to weasel out of this, Zoltan,” Rebecca says.
“There must be something you want,” Leigh Ann adds.
I think about the dream I had about Raf driving me home in his convertible, but then I look around the room at my three best friends. And I know exactly what I want more than anything else in the world.
“I want us to stay friends forever. I don't want anything to come between us. Not boys or other friends. Not moving away because of our parents' jobs. Not college or careers.”
I am a sap. And a dork. I'm a sork.
Group hug.
Before we know it, it is eight o'clock. Time to rock.
Field Marshall Margaret assumes command of her troops. “Sophie, do you have a flashlight? The church is going to be really dark.”
I rummage through a kitchen drawer until I find a cheap flashlight. I hold it up triumphantly, clicking it on and off.
“Good. Now, is everyone wearing sneakers?”
“We could all wear black slacks and turtlenecks, and darken our faces. Or is that overkill?” Rebecca asks.
“Our regular clothes are fine,” Margaret says. “And I think I have all the tools we'll need in my bag.”
“I'm a little confused,” says Leigh Ann. “If this Malcolm guy is going to help us, then why do we have to sneak around? Why can't we just get the ring and leave?”
Rebecca agrees. “Yeah, that's a good point. Why do we even need to worry about Winterbooty? I mean, what can he do if our new best buddy Malcolm is there with us?”
I smile to myself. I know exactly why, but I'm not letting on—at least not yet. “I'm sure he has his reasons. He's probably afraid ol' Winterbutt will call the cops or something. Let's just get moving.”
We ring the doorbell at precisely eight-forty-five, and Ms. Harriman answers the door herself, wearing an orangey floral-print skirt that clashes hard with her red blazer and talking a mile a minute.
“Hello, girls! My, isn't this exciting? I feel like I'm in the middle of a spy novel. I wore my red blazer for good luck. Malcolm explained what is going to happen. I don't know what I'll do about Winnie when this is all over. To tell you the truth, I was never crazy about the way she cleaned anyway. She never once moved the furniture to vacuum underneath. Not once! Come in, have a seat, and I'll get us all some tea.”
Margaret follows her to the kitchen. “Malcolm, er, Dr. Chance said that we should wait here for further instructions. Is he coming?”
“Oh, I'm sure—”
She is interrupted by a knock at the upstairs door.
“Oh, that must be him now! Sophie, would you mind answering the door?”
“Sure.” I bound up the steps. A moment of panic follows; what if it is Winterbottom?
I open the door, holding my breath, eyes barely open. It is Father Julian, grinning and looking weirdly young in jeans and a Fordham sweatshirt.
“We meet again, Miss St. Pierre.”
“Father Julian. I wasn't expecting—well, I don't know what I was expecting, but I don't think you were even on the list. Come on in; everyone else is downstairs.”
He takes a seat in the living room. “First, let me just say: wow! This really has been some adventure for you girls. Dr. Chance brought me up to speed this afternoon and asked me to give you a hand. He'll be at the Parish Council meeting, which starts in a few minutes, which will also tie up Mr. Winterbottom for at least an hour. Dr. Chance intends to involve him in a lengthy discussion about the importance of maintaining the church's treasures. My instructions are to take you girls downstairs and into the church at exactly nine o'clock. Once we get there, you will have to work fast; he can't guarantee how long he can keep Mr. Winterbottom occupied. Sophie, I heard about the conversation you had with Mr. Winterbottom this morning, and I can't tell you how sorry I am that you had to go through that. Rest assured, we will deal with him.”
D. Michael Beil Page 16
