All for a Story (14 page)

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.

Keeping stock-still, she shifted her eyes over to Charlie. He was staring straight ahead, giving her ample time to study his profile. Had his face always been so soft? So square? The night they’d met at a little underground club on K Street, he’d seemed different from the other guys. Rounded, affable, safe —and thus he’d remained all these months. He stayed with her for three solid days after her mother died; nights, too. Never so much as a whisper about his wife, or his home, or his family. He was a boon of her imagination, coming to life only when he drifted in line with her gaze. Existing nowhere but here, beside her. Disappearing into a dark void the minute he left her bed, moving with surprising silence for a man of his girth.

He called on that same stealth now, because the next thing she knew, his broad face filled the curve of her neck.

“I see you got your gift.”

“I did.” She stared at the back of the driver’s head, giving Charlie nothing. “What an unexpected surprise.”

“Well, I remembered what you said about me never giving you a bottle of perfume. So I thought I’d set that right.”

“It’s very nice. Usually the cheap stuff makes me break out in hives, so I’m keeping a watch. You’ll let me know if my neck turns red, won’t you?”

“Ah, Mousie, you know I do the best I can for you.”

“What I know is that you gave me the same scent your wife wears.”

An unmistakable snicker from the driver prompted Charlie to
nudge the back of the seat as he twisted his body in a protective shield around her. His face disappeared in and out of shadow, depending on the streetlight. Like a film projected in slow motion, she watched his face turn from confused to surprised to hurt at her accusation.

“Sweetheart, I don’t buy my wife perfume. She buys her own. I don’t pay any attention to that kind of stuff.”

“Well, it’s an amazing coincidence, don’t you think?” For her part, she kept her face the same. Cold.

“I told the lady it was for a beautiful girl, hair black as midnight. I said you looked like some beautiful Egyptian princess, only, you know, with this perfect white skin. And then she shows me this ad, and I could picture you in that silk robe you wear sometimes, and it seemed perfect.”

Her mind wandered through the fabric of his story, looking for tufts of truth. Maybe he really didn’t know the name of his wife’s perfume. He probably did have some conversation with a store clerk. He thought she was beautiful. Other men thought so too, given the way they flirted and carried on until Charlie became some big, fuzzy shield, staring them down and sending them away. He’d never let anybody hurt her. In fact,
he
would never hurt her. Not if he could help it. Unless she let him.

The lie he told tonight —and other, smaller ones she barely remembered —was meant to protect her. To keep her miles away from the tragedy of their truth, to make her feel like she was the only woman in his life. The only woman in the city worthy of Mavis perfume. It was just the kind of lie a girl needed every now and then.

“Oh, Charlie.” She kissed him before the driver’s doubts could worm their way into the backseat, and she didn’t stop until the car did.