All for a Story (28 page)

Whatever Alice Reighly said for the rest of her speech was drowned out by a rushing sound in Monica’s ears. She smiled when the others laughed, nodded along with the woman in front of her, and even unclenched her fists to participate in a smattering of applause. All the while, a single phrase hid in the crevices of her mind, whispering a haunting refrain.

They hate me.

As far as she knew, she’d never been hated before.

On the first day they met, Max had commented that she was the girl everybody loved but nobody knew. Now she was living the opposite truth. And here she’d never cared much about being loved or hated. She wrote what she wanted to, regardless of the consequences. She lapped up the praise and let the criticisms roll off her back, always distanced from it all by the force of anonymity.

She studied Alice Reighly. Meek, homely, soft-spoken Alice Reighly, able to stand under her own power, speaking her mind, championing her vision. She spoke her words. She
lived
her words in a way Monica never could —free of fear. Noble. This was not a woman suffering from a lack of self-respect.

Of everything, that assessment took root in her very soul.

What would that feel like? To stand up in the middle of this sea of women and say,
“It was me! I wrote it! Lighten up, ladies, it’s a joke!”
Or maybe she should confront Alice privately, apologize for the snide tone if not the thesis. Perhaps Emma Sue beside her could be an experimental confidante; she could practice her confession in the guise of friendship.

Max would be pleased. He’d distanced himself and all of
Capitol Chatter
from her words —no reason she couldn’t distance herself, too.

“Monkey’s not real,”
she’d say with a shrug.
“Just a figment of my imagination. Sometimes she talks too much. I’ll keep her on a shorter leash next time.”

Next time.

She was expected to turn in another column after the weekend, a continuation of her experimental study, and here she sat, hearing nothing, feeling nothing but regret for most of what she’d written so far. Maybe not regret so much as chagrin, like seeing her words in a new light that banished her wit into shadow. Then it came clear. If Monica could not make amends at the risk of exposing Monkey, Monkey would just have to apologize for herself.

Eyes closed, she tried to recall what Alice had said at the beginning of her speech. That she wanted the authoress to stay and learn and grow. She crossed her fingers and repeated the phrase three times.

Stay and learn and grow.

No reason next week’s column couldn’t open with a mea culpa.

Once the meeting ended with great enthusiasm for the upcoming Anti-Flirting Week, Monica managed to squirm away, avoiding interaction with the other girls. She suppressed the paranoid assumption that
they
were avoiding
her
as she slipped into her coat and out the door before she could fall victim to any of their disgruntled barbs.

Outside, she had the street to herself, and there the first tear sprang cold upon her cheek. She bit her lip, hoping to distract herself and stem those that would follow, but soon they were flowing faster than she could wipe them away. She doubled her pace to distance herself from any of the girls who might have followed.

“Monica?”

No! No!
She quickened her pace yet again and turned a blind corner, not to get away from him but to lead him away from
them
.

“Monica!”

She ducked into a doorway —a stationer’s shop closed for the night —and next she knew he filled it, shielding her from the street and any of the prying eyes that might have followed.

“Oh, Max.” She grabbed two handfuls of his coat and drew herself up against him. “It was terrible, the things they said about me. You should have heard . . .”

He placed his hands on her shoulders in an embrace meant to keep her distant and stooped to look into her eyes.

“So they know it’s you? That you wrote the column?”

She shook her head. “Not exactly. Not that I could tell. But she read the column out loud, and it was awful.”

“Oh, darling.” He drew her close, and she felt his hand on top of her head. “I think what you’re feeling here is what some would call an attack of conscience.” And then, to her utter horror, she felt him chuckle.

She would have swatted him away, but his embrace was becoming a familiar place of refuge.

“They think I’m a monster,” she said. “Or that
she
is.”

“Shall I be on the lookout for pitchforks?”

She lifted her face, then twisted it. “Sanctuary . . .”

He laughed again and gave her a good-natured push away. “Oh no. I told you not to go back.”

“Technically, you said you didn’t know if it would be a good idea for me to go back.”

“And was it?”

“No. Is that why you’re here? To rescue me?”

“Only from hunger. I’ve been meaning to repay you for the
kolache
. In fact, I was planning to take you to dinner yesterday, after our visit to the cathedral, but you didn’t seem in the right humor.”

“Unlike the fountain of joy you see before you now?”

“I’ll try to work up a few jokes between here and there.”

There
turned out to be a twenty-top diner just two blocks away. Light glowed warm from within, softened by steam on the windows. Inside, they were led to a high-back booth where Monica immediately drew her signature monkey in the steam.

“Brazen,” he said.

“I’ve always been the wild child.”

They spent a few moments looking around at their fellow late diners —not that nine o’clock was an unreasonable hour for supper. Several of their companions were older couples who sat in a silence equal to their own, yet comfortable. Giggles bubbled over from a tableful of shopgirls, no doubt to attract the attention of one or more of the young men at the counter.

She ordered a hearty meal of shepherd’s pie, he a chopped steak with potatoes, and they settled in with cups of steaming tea to wait for their food.

“I’ve never been to this place before,” Monica said. Looking around, she wished she had. It felt cozy. There was, however, a sweet little club about ten doors down from that stationer’s shop, and upstairs. No music, just drinks —more like a parlor with a Victrola. She wondered if Max knew about that, decided he didn’t, and kept her own mouth shut about it.

“My house is just a few blocks that way. I’m fast becoming a regular here.”

The fact was evident in the familiar way the waitress had taken their order and attended to their —at least, his —needs. Not exactly flirting, but definitely special.

She calculated what she knew of the city. “That’s quite a hike for you, then, isn’t it? Into the office?”

“I guess Edward liked to keep his distance.”

“I’m guessing it’s about time for you to break down and buy a car.”

Their food arrived, giving the waitress a chance to bestow a lingering touch on Max’s sleeve as she promised to be right back with ketchup.

“I can see why you’re a regular,” Monica said, teasing.

“Take a bite, and
then
you’ll see.”

She obeyed, and he was right. The food was warm and comforting. The hurtful words of Alice Reighly and the self-loathing those words created melted away in the bits of seasoned diced meat and potato crust.

“Delicious?” he asked.

“Amazing.” She stilled her conversation for three more bites. “I guess living near this place is worth the walk.”

“Indeed. And, yes, it’s a bit far, but not far enough to justify a car. I’m thinking it will be a little more pleasant in the spring.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “So you’re planning to be here in the spring?”

“So far, yes. No sense investing my money in the paper if I don’t intend to invest myself, too.”

“Well, if it gives you any hope at all, I had a sign today that spring is on its way.”

“Your cat?”

He remembered.
“Right outside my window. I fixed him a snack and he fell asleep on the end of my bed. I didn’t have the heart to kick him out into the cold before I left. If he wakes up and starts howling, I might be kicked right out on the street with him.”

“Landlord doesn’t approve?”

“Claims they’re filthy beasts that steal babies’ breath. Not that we have any babies in the house.”

“That’s too bad. I’ve always had a fondness for cats myself.”

Monica only allowed the next thought as much time to form as it took for her to eat the next forkful of pie. “You should take my Paolo.”

“Paolo?”

“He’s exotic. And it’s still too cold for him to be homeless.”

“For all you know, he lives in a senator’s house during the winter.”

“All the more reason to rescue the poor thing, don’t you think?”

Max lifted his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, but only for the rest of winter. I’d hate to steal away your closest friend. When shall I pick him up?”

“Not tonight. It’s too late for me to have a visitor.” Never mind that she’d had plenty of guests who arrived at this hour and stayed on until morning. Why not take a shot at establishing a little propriety? “Maybe I can bring him to your place? I can return your book.”

He looked uncomfortable. “It’s a little late for me to have a visitor too.”

“You live alone.”

“But I have my own sense of —”

“Propriety?”

“Respect. For you. I wouldn’t want anybody to get the wrong idea.”

“How kind of you.” But a bit of coolness had crept up from her supper and into her voice. “Some other time, then?”

“Tomorrow night,” he said, surprising her with his insistence. “Seven o’clock. That will give me time to tidy up and get a few groceries.”

A bit of warmth came back. “Dinner, too?”

“To be honest, I was thinking of the cat. But of course, dinner, too.”

She had a split second to collect herself and decide whether to be embarrassed at her gaffe or to laugh it off with something clever like
“Good. We both like ham.”
But she waited too long, and before she could say a thing, the door to the diner opened and in walked a very loud, very inebriated couple, one of whom was all too familiar.

Charlie.

He looked oddly more squat and square than she remembered, but maybe that was due to his flattened hat and a coat that looked ready to burst its buttons. His companion was a good three inches taller than he, with hair the distinctive shade of blonde that implicated a bottle in its creation. They were wrapped around each other as if joined in some invisible, slow-moving potato-sack stagger.

Luckily the booths were tall and she was short. Instinctively she slouched down in her seat and grabbed a menu to hide her face.

“Hey, relax,” Max said. “For a bachelor, I’m not that bad of a cook.”

“Sorry,” she said, keeping her voice low. “Bad penny just turned up.”

He swiveled in his seat, easily looking over the back of the booth. “Which one? Him or her?”

“Both. But I can only vouch for one.”

“Would you like to wear my hat? Can I get you a fake moustache?”

“Just act natural.”

He slumped. “I shall follow your example.” He proceeded to cut into his steak with such exaggerated furtiveness that she
couldn’t stifle her giggle. One peek around the edge of the menu showed that Charlie heard the familiar sound, and she could only sit, a helpless target, as they veered unsteadily toward her.

“There’s my little Mousie.” Charlie’s words were thick and slurred. He took the menu away from Monica and trapped it on the table under his wide, soft palm. “Fancy running into you here. Must be some kind of fate or somethin’. Right, baby?” This he directed at the blonde. “Some kind of fate.”

“Yeah, some kind,” the blonde repeated. She openly stared at Max with black-smeared eyes. “Maybe you should introduce us.”

“Yes,” Monica said, tight-lipped. “Please do. I take it this isn’t your wife, either?”

“Wife?”
The woman seemed offended enough to fall off her shoes.

“Ah, now, Mousie. Why you gotta be like that?”

“You’re right, Charlie,” Monica said. “If this were your wife, you never would have come over here, would you? So let’s just pretend —you’re good at that —and you can go away.”

“You always had a whole lotta mean in that little body. You broke my heart.”

“Obviously.”

“I think it’s best that you go,” Max said. He slid out from the booth and stood, towering over them both. “Or if it’s easier, we will.” He glanced down at Monica. “Are you finished?”

If anything could make this meal too undesirable to finish, it was the presence of Charlie and this woman. She pushed her plate away and would have stood, too, if Charlie weren’t lurking just at the edge of her seat.

“This the guy you threw me over for?”

She didn’t answer. Or move.

“Hey, buddy,” Max said, “I don’t think that’s the way you want to talk to the lady.”

Charlie spun in an unsteady circle, saying, “Lady?
Lady?
Any of you guys see a lady in here?”

This sent the blonde into a fit of giggles, and Charlie might have kept spinning indefinitely if Max hadn’t done him the kindness of grasping his arm and bringing him to a stumbling stop, saying, “That’s enough.”