He scanned the same lines leading to the same spots on the plan until he suddenly thought, what about the doors? Beginning at the top floor he counted them off and kept track of them on a piece of scrap paper. He thought if the doors in the building as it stood then didn’t match with what the old plan showed, maybe that was a clue to how and where the building had changed since it was built.
He started the tapping in his own apartment. Tap-tap-tapping from wall to wall with the knuckle of his right index finger. When his apartment walls all sounded alike, he moved out to the hall. He repeated this on all the walls on his small landing and then took the stairs slowly, one step at a time, until he reached the second floor landing. He tapped his way around that landing until just before he reached Foxy’s door. Suddenly she flung it open and stood in the doorway.
“Mr. Standlish,” she was surprised to see Myron standing almost next to her door. “What are you doing? And what is all that knocking?”
His hand was raised, knuckle ready to tap again. He was equally surprised by Foxy’s appearance. He did a little hop backward, away from her door.
“Oh,” he muttered with a little gasp. “I was not meaning to disturb. Only, just maybe this house is not what it seems to be.”
“Mr. Standlish, really, I’m going to have to insist that you refrain from wandering around the building. This is not part of your rental agreement.” Foxy sighed. She wanted to finish her packing. Or, more precisely, going through her entire wardrobe and trying on every stitch she owned. She was in the middle of a gigantic closet purge. Now that she – or rather Knot – was selling so well, she was flush with cash. And what could be a better use of that windfall, from Foxy’s perspective, than new clothes? Which meant new shoes, bags, scarves, jewelry, hair styling, lingerie, negligees, make up, facials, and anything else she could think of to enhance her natural beauty. And keep it intact for as long as possible.
“Besides,” Foxy added, “this house is precisely what it seems to be, and there’s nothing more I want to know about it. And that is that. Now please stop knocking.”
She stood there until she saw Myron’s head droop and he retreated up the stairs with his shoulders slumped like a scolded child. At the top landing, he looked back down at Foxy, who was still standing in her doorway.
“Please forgive the interruption,” he said slowly while nervously wringing his hands. “Your building here. Maybe it has . . .” he snapped his fingers and looked into the air as if he’d find the right word hanging there. “What is this word Americans use . . . values of history?”
Foxy blinked. “Historic value?”
“This is the words!” Myron’s face lit up momentarily, then he got serious again. “Historic values possibly you did not know about. This is what I was thinking. Sorry again to disturb.” He bowed his head and darted into his apartment shutting the door behind him. He waited. And waited. And waited. He was not sure this would work until he heard a knock just a few moments later. When he opened it, Foxy was standing there.
“What kind of value, do you think?” She asked. And even as the question was forming out loud, at the back of her mind she was wondering why she should be concerned with anything this odd little man suggested.
“Vell,” he answered her, “you never know. I got a look-see at old plans for this building and I have suspicious only. If you really vahnt me to look, I could do that for you, because you have been so kind to me. Could be something big. Could be something or nothing.”
Foxy shrugged. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt anything to let you poke around. But I have to pack now, so you can do it tomorrow after I leave. I’ll tell Kuh-not – Mr. Kuh-nudsen – that I gave you permission.” She closed the door as Myron stood there with his laptop open behind him on the counter and the calendar hanging next to the wall clock that tick-tick-ticked the time away.
Downstairs, at the front door, Amanda struggled with her key. It was dark by then. Not nighttime dark, but the days were getting shorter and even the dusk seemed darker. She couldn’t wait to get upstairs, hoped Foxy didn’t bother her today, that Foxy was out shopping. As she walked past the store, she saw Knot in there alone rearranging things. He was always doing that. The man couldn’t seem to leave anything the way he had it the day before. She ran up the stairs and opened her front door to see Foxy standing in the living room in a new skirt and blouse.
“Oh, Manda Bear, I’m so glad you’re home, honey. Tell me what you think of these shoes with this skirt. I think they’re just a tad too bright – the green you know. But maybe I’m wrong and the skirt needs a bright green to set it off. And if I can find a little bag to go with them it may be just right. But I don’t know. This color skirt is hard to . . .”
Amanda brushed past her without a word.
“What’s that, little girl?” Foxy called out. “I need an opinion on this.”
“Not now, Foxy,” Amanda said as she started up the steps to her room. “I don’t have time for shoes and matching skirts.” She shut her door and locked it, dropped her backpack, popped open her laptop, and plunked down on the bed. She leaned forward and held her head in her hands as if she had a terrible headache. After a few minutes she picked up her cell phone and stared at it. Part of her desperately wanted to call Nick; the other part thought that would be the stupidest thing ever.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Amanda’s Life in Hell (Amanda wrote) A Day in the Park (she wrote a title for this post)
Are all guys so hard to read? Why can’t they just say what’s on their mind? I don’t get it. It’s so weird. I wish I could help him, but I can’t figure out how.
I really wish I could talk to somebody about it. But Foxy? Hahaha. That would be like taking a knife and slitting my throat and hoping I didn’t bleed. Oh oh, here she comes now.
“Amanda,” Foxy’s voice came through the door, “unlock this door. What are you doing in there?”
Amanda sighed and logged off. “Nothing, Foxy. Your shoes look divine. Perfect. Lime green is my absolute second favorite color. Right after hot pink.” She unlocked the door and Foxy pushed it open.
“I decided to take an earlier flight,” Foxy said. “And you need to clean up this mess.”
“Foxy, don’t go all mama lioness on me right before you leave. I might faint and then you’d have to take me to the doctor or the emergency room or do something else motherly, and you’d miss your plane and everything would go all to hell. Oh, wait a minute. It already did go all to hell didn’t it?”
Foxy sat on the corner of Amanda’s bed and studied her nails. “Why do you always accuse me of being a bad mother?” she asked in a plaintive voice. “You turned out all right, didn’t you? If I was such a bad mother, how did that happen? And just to be clear, we’re doing okay now. I mean, it was a shock. The divorce and everything else. But we’re okay now, aren’t we?”
“Sure, Foxy. We’re just great. Couldn’t be better. Now would you get out of here so I can do my homework.?” She reached down to pull Foxy off the bed but instead Foxy stood and placed her hands on Amanda’s shoulders and looked her in the eyes. She stared at her for a long moment.
“Is everything okay with you, honey?” Foxy asked.
Amanda hesitated, badly wanting to talk to someone. She wished she could unburden herself to her mother. Wished she had a mother she could trust, rely on, confide in. She started to say something but then shut her lips tight and shook her head. “I’m fine. Just have a history test tomorrow. Have to study.”
“I don’t believe you. I know you think I’m not aware of what’s going on, but I do have feelings. And a mother senses when her child is unhappy. Or in pain. And something is weighing on you.” She let go of Amanda’s shoulders and sat back down.
Amanda stood there not knowing what to say. This was a first for Foxy. To tell her anything at all would be to open a floodgate. What good would it do? Foxy couldn’t fix any of this. She was clueless about normal things like her husband having a blatant affair �
� probably many of them over the years. If she was so lame about that, how could Amanda tell her about Nick? No, it would be preposterous and idiotic to trust Foxy with this. Start small, Amanda told herself. Tell her about your painful periods. Or some other female thing Foxy could practice her mothering skills on.
“Nothing is wrong, Foxy. Now go finish playing Cruise Wear Barbie and let me do my homework so I can get good grades, get into a good college, and be able to support myself one day.”
But Foxy didn’t move. She just stared out the window at the dark. Street lights were on now and there were little spots of white-yellow glowing far off toward DuPont Circle.
“You know, the funniest thing happened today,” Foxy mused.
“What, Neiman’s ran out of bright green pumps?” Amanda stared at the shoes Foxy was still sporting.
Foxy looked down at her perfect feet and smiled. She liked these shoes. She was going to keep them. And the skirt and blouse. This trip was going to be just great. Sun, a pool, the beach. Oh, and the show. She’d spend time at the show, too.
“That little man upstairs was tapping on the walls all over his apartment, and then he came down the stairs tap, tap, tapping the whole way. I thought he must be crazy.”
Amanda had thought all along that the whole house was crazy. Whatever Foxy might have told her about Myron couldn’t possibly have shocked her. So she said, “I wouldn’t worry about him, Foxy. He seems to think this house has some sort of secret past. I even asked my American history teacher about whether it could have been part of the Underground Railroad.”
Foxy turned the window. She wagged her finger at Amanda. “See, I knew you were hiding something. I knew something was bothering you.”
“Well, you found me out,” Amanda walked to the door. “And now will you let me get back to studying for my test? Please?”
“All right, but I told him it was all right with me to poke around the house while I’m gone. So don’t be surprised if he starts that crazy tapping again.” She left and Amanda sighed. At least she didn’t have to tell. It was better to keep some things bottled up with the stopper on tight.
She opened her laptop and clicked to her blog.
Amanda’s Life in Hell (she wrote for the second time that night)
I don’t know what to do.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Foxy departed for Palm Beach in a squall of bags, notes, and verbal reminders scattered like leaves in a December wind. With Knot’s help she loaded up the Escalade and pulled away from the house with one last wave out the car window. If the car had wings, her energy could almost have achieved liftoff right from her own street.
“If they let her on the plane with all that luggage, it will be a miracle if it even gets off the ground,” Knot muttered as he walked back to the store. Foxy had left Knot a long list of things to do and not do in her apartment. Number one was no men. Number two was no parties. Knot had taken to having guests in his own apartment every Friday night, and he was proud that they were often such spectacular parties that they had been known to continue into the next day. He smiled, thinking of his fun. And his new beau. Not much sleep happening these days – which reminded him to get more concealer at the store to hide those circles under his eyes.
He considered the list again. Except for the very last item – it was all right if Mr. Standlish poked around the store and the rest of the building looking for it was anyone’s guess what – the rest of the list seemed irrelevant to Knot, as it was no more than reminders to do things Foxy herself never did. He retreated to the back of the store and made his own list.
Wine for tonight’s party, an hors d’oevre platter he saw at Williams Sonoma, that pair of short leather boots at Nordstrom (and that cute blond salesman named Fritz who suggested them), and eggs, cream, chocolate and sugar for chocolate mousse he promised to teach Amanda how to make tomorrow. As he was sitting at Foxy’s desk, he heard a tapping sound behind the side wall of the store. To reach that wall he had to go outside into the chill and come back in through the door that led to the street-level hallway and the apartments upstairs. He decided to let the tapping go on without any investigation. After all, it could only be that strange man. It was what Foxy mentioned and what Knot thought, at the time, was nonsense. He still thought so. What could this old building be hiding that hadn’t been found in a hundred and fifty plus years? Still . . . Knot considered the alternative. Suppose there was something hidden away in the building? A virtual gold mine of history. Did he want to let that bumbling fool Standlish find it by himself? Now that he’d put so much effort into making a go of the antique store, he felt a proprietary interest in protecting Foxy’s investment. Well, protecting her investment protected him as well. As Knot listened to the tapping against the wall, he decided to make enough chocolate mousse for three Saturday night.
*****
The air in the jetway in Palm Beach was soft, warm, and mild, a balm after the bare trees and biting winds of November in Washington. No wonder it was called balmy, Foxy thought as she wheeled her small carry-on off the plane and into the terminal. Women were dressed in shorts and sandals, tube tops and short skirts, the men in bright golf shirts and salmon-colored pants, and Foxy was struck at the difference only two hours from D.C. She also noted that many of the deeply tanned men sported gold chains and V necks. A bit tacky for Foxy’s taste. She’d always thought that God created jewels for men to GIVE to women, not to wear themselves.
In the car rental bus, she watched out the window. They passed palm trees and hibiscus in full bloom. Egrets stood at the edge of a lake and pelicans flew overhead in a V. The sun was bright, the sky a deep blue. Puffy white clouds like bowls of whipped cream floated overhead. Foxy was intensely happy. She felt on the verge of something wonderful, and she hadn’t felt like that in a long, long time.
She’d booked at the Four Seasons on the island of Palm Beach. Although this was a pricey alternative to the more pedestrian but serviceable Marriott in West Palm Beach, the poor cousin of Palm Beach and closer to the show, she’d chosen this because she wanted the full experience. The lobby alone was enough to make her swoon. Gigantic vases of orchids on marble tables, exquisite antique velvet couches with enormous bronze and glass end tables, and a staff that seemed trained to serve up her every whim. And then there was the ocean. From her room she watched the waves roll in and out, white foam roiling with energy, the sea a deep blue. She unpacked and slipped on a pair of shorts, a ruffly T shirt, and a wide straw hat and headed off to walk the beach. Tomorrow she’d throw herself into that tempting surf, but now she longed to feel sand between her toes. It had been years since Foxy’d had a vacation like this. In fact, after her ex switched from football to broadcasting, they never went anywhere together. He was always on the road. And when he was home, he was tired of traveling and just sat in front of their large screen and drank scotch and watched more games.
She took a short elevator ride – the hotel had only three floors – down to a walkway that led to the top of a dune. On the way she passed the hotel spa, stopped in and booked a facial for the next morning. No sense attending the first day of the antique show looking weary, she told herself. The facial was a hundred and twenty-five dollars. But worth every cent she figured – not to mention a business expense. After all, a facial for a woman is like push ups for a man. One has to be in fabulous shape for the hunt.
On the beach, Foxy followed the path over the not-so-high dune. On the other side, the hotel lounges and umbrellas looked like a series of giant clamshells had been dumped in a long row sideways against the steady breeze coming off the ocean. Ahhh, the ocean. Just the sound of it made Foxy’s shoulders relax. She breathed in the salty air and felt the warm, afternoon sun on her face as she reached the packed sand where it was easier walking. The tide was halfway out or halfway in, she couldn’t tell which for sure, but she was a glass-half-full girl so she figured it was going out, leaving her plenty of time to walk the beach. She faced south. Only a few people dotted
the sand or frolicked in the waves. It was an off season. Not yet Thanksgiving. Not the holidays. And not the depth of winter, when flocks of snowbirds descended en masse from Chicago, Toronto, Boston, New York, and yes, even the nation’s capitol. Foxy walked briskly, looking straight ahead. Just a few hours ago she was in the cold city, surrounded by gray and brown, cars and trucks, people hurrying on grimy streets and sidewalks. It was as if she had sidestepped out of her life and into a dream.
She hadn’t walked very far when a wind gust clipped her straw hat, whisked it off her head, and tossed it along the beach and then up away from the surf. She chased after it as it bobbed and rolled along the sand until it blew right into one of the clamshell umbrellas and stopped behind a lounge chair where a deeply tanned man was stretched out at an angle that was just right for reading. He wore sun glasses, bright blue bathing trunks, and elaborately stitched leather sandals. Next to him sat a tall glass of something dark in an insulated plastic tumbler that kept the ice from melting.
Foxy ran up and then stopped at the clam shell, breathless and a little embarrassed. The man looked up over his glasses at her and when he saw long-legged, stylish Foxy, he took them off and smiled. Even white teeth, gray eyes, somewhere between forty and fifty (how could a girl tell these days, and who cared anyway), Foxy calculated right off, and must have been a guest or wouldn’t be lounging in a Four Seasons chair.
Foxy's Tale Page 11
