All for a Story (32 page)

What was rule number 7? “Don’t annex all the men you can get —by flirting with many, you may lose out on the one.”

Maybe he was the one, and that lunk Charlie almost messed it all up.

She kept her head low and plowed through her fellow pedestrians, stepping through this sea of strangers. At one point, while rounding a corner, her shoulder solidly collided with that of a stout older gentleman, who gave her an appreciative perusal as she staggered back.

“Might wanna watch your step, toots,” he said with a tip of his hat. “An’ if not, I’ll watch it for ya.”

“Sorry, mister,” she said, and no great loss. Her first opportunity for sweet, constrained sincerity met an easy mark. Had he been young and handsome, she might have fallen into old habits —swished her hips and offered him something to follow. She might have even given this guy a jolt to the old heart, just for the giggle of it. Instead, she barely met his eye, didn’t smile at all, and never thought twice about turning around to see if he was, indeed, watching.

Her strength stirred her confidence, and she kept her head a little higher, her eyes perfectly forward, paying no attention
to whether or not any other man took notice. She heard more than one car horn honk from the street but resolutely refused to see if she was its target. By the time she arrived at the office, her shoulders had relaxed, the bounce had returned to her step, and when the handsome fellow from the property management office two floors below
Capitol Chatter
held the door open, she offered a measured “Thank you” and breezed right past him as if she hadn’t spent a solid year wishing he’d ask her out on a date.

“You here to apply for the job?” he asked her midbreeze.

“What job?”

Still holding the door, he took the small cardboard sign that had been placed in one of its window squares and showed it to her.

Wanted for Hire:

Receptionist

Applicants proceed to the third-floor offices

Third floor? That was her floor —
Capitol Chatter
hiring a receptionist? When she’d be getting paid two cents a word for the heart and soul poured onto the page in her pocket?

“No,” she said, handing back the sign. “I already have a job in the third-floor offices, in fact.”

“That so?” He returned the sign to the window and smoothed the sticky gum back in place. “You’re not the receptionist, are you? ’Cause if you are, looks like you’re getting canned.”

For the moment, irritation overtook any hurt feelings from the fact that he apparently had never seen her before. “I’m a writer. For
Capitol Chatter
? It’s a newspaper.”

By now he seemed impatient with the conversation and, without actually touching her, nudged her along. “Never heard of it.”

“Well, you will. It’s very up-and-coming.”

Pleased that she sounded more haughty than coy, she continued past him without looking back. Two tests down for the week of not flirting. One old man and one young. She was ready for all the in-betweens.

As she rounded the final flight of stairs, the sound of hushed, excited female conversation wafted from above, growing louder with each step. Reaching the third floor, she turned the corner to find their usually low-lit, empty hallway lined with at least a dozen girls —nice girls with clean-scrubbed faces, hair coiled and pinned beneath plain brown hats. They spoke in hushed, sweet tones and fell into silence when the door to the
Capitol Chatter
offices opened, revealing the broad figure of Max framed within. A young woman scooted out from behind him. He thanked her, wished her well, consulted the paper on the clipboard he held, and said, “Mary Alice Murray?”

A fair-haired girl with freckled skin leapt to her feet, saying, “Here, sir,” as she made her way up the corridor of applicants.

“Miss Murray,” Max said, shaking her hand. Monica could feel the pressure on her own. “Do you have a letter of reference?”

“Three of them, sir.”

Max cocked a brow. “Three?”

From her vantage at the corner by the stairs, Monica stifled a giggle. The girl couldn’t have been more than nineteen and already had three jobs behind her. Max chose that very moment to look up and catch her eye from the other end of the hall. They shared a commiserating look before he ushered Mary Alice in for her interview.

Once the door closed, the gathering of girls erupted in a barely contained rush of giggling sighs.

“He could play Tarzan,” effused the girl closest to Monica.

“Nah, too handsome,” her companion said.

“The second one was handsome —what was his name? Something Polish.”

“Gene Pollar,” Monica said, butting in. “And I don’t think a nearsighted Tarzan would have a lot of luck swinging through the jungle.”

“Still,” said the first girl, “what I wouldn’t give to see that one in a loincloth.”

The corridor erupted in giggles as Monica wished them good luck with that and strode straight for the door.

“Hey!” Tarzan girl called after her. “You can’t just walk right in there. You gotta wait ’til he comes out again and gives your name for the list.”

“Relax, sweetie. I already work here.”

“You’re a secretary?”

The question shouldn’t have annoyed her as much as it did, but she spun on her heel to stare down the girl who’d posed it. She was a sweet-looking thing, frumpy and pale with the kind of gray, watery eyes that gave the impression that she was secretly ill or prematurely old.

“This is a newspaper, right? Well, I’m a writer, and chances are if any of you girls get the job, you’ll be working for me just as much as for him, so don’t waste your time thinking you can flirt your way to the position.”

She felt like a crumb even as she spoke. After all, the girls were engaging in a little harmless bantering —something she herself was known to do. It was a far cry from jealousy, but she couldn’t deny the territorial swell of protection she felt, no matter how rooted in hypocrisy it might be.

She grabbed the door handle with an air of privilege and was just about to slam it behind her when one final exchange of conversation caught her ear.

“You think she writes Monkey Business?”

“Nah. Monkey has a sense of humor.”

To confront the error would expose her persona. Tempting as it may be to set the girl straight, she shrugged off her coat and took off her hat, hanging both on the brass tree. Harper’s office door was closed, but Max’s was open, and she could see the legs of Mary Alice Murray —modestly covered —as she sat for her interview.

Curious, Monica sidled over to see how they were progressing, but a chastising
“hssst!”
from Zelda Ovenoff at the conference table stopped her.

“Do not eavesdrop. Is rude.”

“Who’s eavesdropping?” Monica pulled a folded paper from her purse. “I have a column to turn in.”

“Later. When she is done.” Zelda summoned her closer and dropped her voice to a whisper. “And it will not be too long. That girl does not have a chance. Three jobs in less than a year. Always as waitress.”

“That’s a lot of dropped dishes.”

The two women shared a soft giggle, and Monica was just about to point out that they’d managed this long without a receptionist when the telephone rang.

Zelda rolled her eyes and exhaled big enough to puff the soft clump of hair in front of her eye.

“Again, the phone. Always ringing.” She walked over to the little desk at the front of the office that, as far as Monica could remember, had never been occupied, and took the earpiece from the stick. “
Capitol Chatter
. What may I help you?” A pause. “Stay, please, on the line.”

She hung up the phone and walked to Harper’s office, knocked twice on the door, and said, “Phone for you. Advertising,” before sitting back at the table. “It is this all day.”

“I still don’t see why we need to hire anyone new. You’re perfectly capable of answering a telephone, obviously.”

“It is not good for a newspaper to have a telephone answered by a woman who does not speak English so good.” Zelda’s downcast eyes spoke more to modesty than shame; surely Max hadn’t made such an observation.

“Even I could, I suppose, in a pinch.”

Zelda looked up, a sly smile tugging at her lip. “I think maybe you do not want another young girl working here at the office. Most specially not all day, every day.”

Monica steeled herself from squirming. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I don’t think so ridiculous. I know you had dinner together a few nights ago.”

“And it was delicious, by the way.”

“Is this week’s recipe. And I may just be a nosy old woman, but I hope the rest of the evening was just as good?” She waggled her eyebrows like some character from a comedy short.

“It was a nice evening.” Monica shifted her eyes to Max’s office, looking for any sign that Mary Alice was on her way out. She felt Zelda patting her hand.

“I am glad. He is a nice man, Miss Monica. You could use a few more nice men in your life.”

A wave of defensiveness came and went as Monica let the comment pass.

She heard the scrape of Max’s chair, and seconds later Mary Alice Murray, looking both hopeful and bemused, emerged from his office. Had Mary Alice been privy to the expression on Max’s face behind her, she might have skimped on the hopeful.

“We’ll let you know as soon as we have made a decision,” he said, his voice on the kind side of a promise. “Look for a letter by the end of the week.”

“Thank you, sir,” Mary Alice said, turning to face him as she reached the door. “I’m a hard worker, just a little clumsy.”

“We wish you all the best.” Max held the door open for her, and the same rush of hushing came from the girls in the hall. He poked his head out the door saying, “Wait a few minutes, ladies,” before closing it on Mary Alice’s exiting form.

“Sweet girl,” he said, turning around.

“She seemed so,” Zelda said.

“Too thin,” Monica said, capturing a skeptical response from both Max and Zelda. “I mean, she looks too much like a little girl. People will think she’s Harper’s daughter playing grown-up.”

“I’ll be sure to write as much on her rejection letter,” Max said. “Better yet, I’ll let
you
write the letter, since you’re so gifted with a turn of phrase.”

“I have other writing to do.” Monica stood, holding out her column. “You might want to read it first and decide if it needs a fatherly disclaimer or not.”

In response, Max gestured toward his open office door, following Monica inside and closing it behind her.

“I’m glad to see you made it home safely the other night.” His voice took on a quality more suited to their privacy, though he came nowhere close to touching her as she sat down.

“I do know my way around this city,” she said, scooting to the edge of the seat in order to keep her feet flat on the floor. “It’s not the first time I’ve had to get myself home.”

“I telephoned Sunday afternoon to check. I spoke with a Mr. —”

“Davenport? He delivered your message.”

“Did he really? Because I asked you to telephone me.”

“He’s old. Forgetful.”

“I was hoping to see you yesterday.”

“My column wasn’t due until today.”

“I needed to see you.”

She felt a twist, then a flutter at the thought of Max pining away these past days. Not enough to send her flowers, or even make a second phone call, but needing nonetheless.

“I’m here now,” she said in a perfectly modulated way that would have made Alice Reighly proud.

Max leaned against his desk, and she watched, breathless, as he took off his suit jacket. In the outer office, the telephone was once again ringing, and Monica hoped against everything the call wouldn’t be for Max. He extended his hand, and she inched farther up on her seat, stopping only when he hitched up his sleeve, revealing a series of long, raw scratches covering most of his forearm.

She exhaled. “Are you and Paolo not getting along?”

“Does it look like we’re getting along? He hates me.”

“That can’t be. He’s the sweetest cat in the world.”

“Who doesn’t like to be moved. Or touched. At all.”

She dreaded his answer to the next question. “Do I need to take him back? Maybe he’s better suited to roaming the streets than settling down in a nice home. Some cats are like that.”

“No,” Max said, and she tried to mask her relief. “I’m learning to let him stay wherever he plants himself, and if I do need him to move, I can lure him away with a toy rather than picking him up.”

“A toy?”

He looked sheepish, embarrassed, like a little boy. “A wad of yarn tied to the end of a pencil. Endlessly entertaining. That’s what Chaplin should use in his next movie.”

“I’d love to see that.” The minute she said it, Monica regretted
having done so, especially given how the self-invitation fell between them like a brick.

Max rolled down his sleeve but left his jacket on the desk. “You have your column?”

“Yes.” She handed it to him as he made his way around to his chair, then swung her feet nervously as he read it, brow furrowed.

“A change of heart?”

“Somewhat.”

“You’re taking on the challenge?”

“Full steam,” she said with a plucky gesture.

“No flirting.” He took off his glasses. “At all?”

She glued her feet to the floor once again. Resolved. Outside, the phone rang again, but this time she hoped it would bring Zelda to the door, knocking for Max’s attention. The way he was looking at her fell short of being a leer but was clearly one of heightened interest, even if humorously so.

“Nope.”

“Not even with some slick, dandified cake eater?”

She held a straight face. “I see you read the rules. And it’s a good thing, too, because I think most of the girls waiting in the hallway haven’t. You might have a hard time maintaining your sense of propriety with them. One of them thinks you look like Tarzan.”

“Really?” He puffed up his chest. “What do you think?”

She bit the inside of her cheek, not willing to give him the satisfaction of knocking her off the flirting wagon.

“I’ll tell you next week.”

“Fair enough,” he said, the spell broken. He stood in a clear gesture of dismissal, and she followed suit. “By the way, I think the column’s good. Maybe we should move it? Might get lost in some of the new advertising.”