All for a Story (5 page)

She risked opening one eye to find him shifting his hat from hand to hand, rocking on his heels, looking for all the world like a little boy faced with his first school recitation. His eyes were not closed, either, and he’d lifted his face to the sky, as if God himself would drop the words down to him. Initially amused, she felt a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. After all, in the year she’d known Edward Moore, there’d been very little about the man to be extolled in prayer. But then, after a deep sigh, Max moved his hat to cover his heart and looked down, catching her eye in the process. The sadness on his face reached out to her —silently imploring for rescue. Since one eye remained closed, she went ahead and twitched it in a wink before closing the other and offered a line.

“Amen.”

Her voice rang out clear, inviting the others to echo, and when she looked at him again, the sadness had turned to relief.

“Uncle Edward,” he began, sounding instantly at ease, “was . . . born July 2, 1863, not too far away from here.” His brows hovered expectantly. “For those who aren’t familiar, that was the Battle of Gettysburg, and our family has always joked that he was born under cannon fire, which accounts for his explosive personality.”

They rewarded him with a round of warm chuckles, as Moore’s temper was indeed legendary.

“But I think that also made him fearless. You worked with him; you know. He never backed down from a fight, not in all his days as a reporter or an editor. Publishing was his world, and you —well, you all were his family. And me, of course . . .”

The nervous discomfort had returned, but he avoided Monica’s gaze, opting instead to glance to some invisible attendant to her left, then down at his feet until a deep breath revived him.

“I admired him —for his courage, if not his character. And I might have even loved the man, had he ever given me the chance.”

It had never crossed Monica’s mind that she would be moved to tears at Edward Moore’s funeral; they’d been sparse enough at her own mother’s, and those that appeared were born more of guilt than grief. But when Max’s eyes took on a glinting sheen, she herself welled up, and the chorus of sniffles around her brought her to an unforeseen, heartbreaking camaraderie.

He smiled then, broadly enough to engulf them all, and if they hadn’t assembled at the graveside as family, they certainly felt so now. At least Monica did. Through Max’s words, Edward Moore had been transformed from intolerable tyrant to heroic old crank, and the scars from his predictable tirades took on certain nobility. Even Trevor, who’d always turned a shade of sickly green whenever Moore spoke to him directly, stood with a distant smile under his sparse growth of moustache while Zelda Ovenoff, who had arguably treated him with the most kindness, openly and loudly wept.

“Obviously we can’t go back to Uncle Edward’s for a meal,” Max said, holding his gloved hands out in apology, “but there’s a deli not far from here that Mr. Harper tells me was one of his favorites, and they’ve assured me that we are all due a complimentary lunch in his honor. Will you join me?”

Of course they would, and Monica’s mouth began to water at
the thought of the warm pastrami and tart potato salad waiting at the District Deli —a haunt familiar to them all.

Max took three purposeful steps (in the wrong direction, before being corrected by Harper) and the mischief of mourners followed. Monica held back, keeping a pinch of Tony Manarola’s coat sleeve between her fingers until the others were several steps ahead. Then, linking her arm conspiratorially through his, followed. Tony was one of the few men near her own height, and her whispered words drifted just under the brim of his hat.

“What do you know about him?”

Tony had hoped to be a Pinkerton when he came to America, only to find that his stature would keep him from joining the elite detectives. His investigative prowess, however, had served him well as a journalist. In fact, it was Tony who’d broken the news to her that Charlie had a wife in a modest three-bedroom home and that his small string of automobile repair shops generated enough income to keep her quite content there.

“Ed was his father’s uncle. Family in Philadelphia at least two generations before him, so good American stock.”

“He
does
look a little like a farm boy.”

“And you was wrong to flirt like that, circumstances being what they are.”

“I flirt with everybody.”

“The man’s in mourning for his last living relative, God rest his soul.”

Monica wasn’t in the mood for a lecture, so she conceded the point with a sigh. “What else?”

“Well, you’re wrong about the farm boy, anyway. Grandfather a professor, father a lawyer. Both parents died in a house fire —God rest their souls —seven years ago. No brothers, no sisters.”

“So he really is all alone,” she mused. So rare to find another
who shared her fate. “What do you think he’s going to do with all of us?”

She felt Tony shrug against her. “I’m your man for diggin’ around in the past. Leave the soothsayin’ to someone else, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah. I know what you mean.”

By now they’d left the little churchyard far behind and were walking along a busy street thick with afternoon traffic. Sleek, expensive automobiles jockeyed for position alongside older models, making it impossible to imagine that little more than a decade had passed since the same streets teemed with horses and buggies and wagons. On the sidewalk pedestrians fought a similar battle, not having the benefit of a designated direction. Luckily, when it came time to cross the street, a police officer stationed in the middle of the intersection blew a shrill whistle, bringing the traffic to a stop for safe passage.

Max and Harper led the way, followed by Trevor, who —quite the gentleman —took Mrs. Ovenoff’s arm. Monica and Tony followed and were nearly to the opposite side when the
ah-oogah
sound of a honking horn startled her so, she dropped his arm, stopping dead in her tracks. The hearty sound of a man’s laughter came from the car nearest the curb.

“I thought that would get you to drop the geezer’s arm!”

Monica stared down the shining blue hood of the car to where a rakishly handsome face smiled at her through the windshield. The top was down despite the cold, and the driver leaned out to get a better look at her.

“Give a girl a heart attack, why don’t you?” But she smiled wide so he’d know there weren’t any hard feelings, really.

“Baby, I’d give your heart anything it needs. Ditch your daddy and come play with me for a while.”

“Hey, come on, fella,” Tony said, bristling beside her. “Leave her alone.”

“And if I don’t?” the man shot back.

Before Tony could say another word, the impressive figure of Max Moore appeared. He stood in front of her, blocking the entire view of the automobile, and said, “The lady is not welcoming your attentions, sir.” Then, without another word, he turned and draped a shepherding arm across her shoulders.

“You heard the man,” Tony said. “G’on.”

If the driver had any reply, it was lost in the rev of his engine. Monica hurried for the last few steps until she was safely on the sidewalk.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve,” she said, ducking herself out from under his arm.

“I’m sorry?”

“Beefing on that fellow like that.”

“Oh.” Max looked over to the intersection, as if expecting to see the fellow still waiting. “I thought he might be bothering you.”

“Just some harmless flirting. Right, Tony?”

“You kids. Nothin’ but sex, sex, sex. It’s broad daylight, for pete’s sake.”

Monica felt her cheeks flush despite the cold and found a rush of words to defend her honor.

“Why are you making such a federal case out of it? A little honk, a little wink. No harm done.”

“I think perhaps you might want to be more cautious in your response to a man who is so publicly brazen in his behavior,” Max said. They’d arrived at the deli, where he opened the door and held it for her.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Monica said, her voice thick with sarcasm.
“I mean, here you are so
brazenly
holding that door for me. What kind of a girl would I be if I just walked right inside? I mean, we’ve barely been introduced. Right, Tony?”

“Six-dash-six-four-seven,” Tony said, glancing at his ever-present little notebook. “That’s the license number of the fella’s car if you want I should track him down for you. In case it’s a matter of true love or something.”

He took the responsibility of holding the door, and Monica scooted past, returning a scowl for his smirk. Once inside, the din of conversation made further discussion impossible, at least for as long as it would take to shoulder through the crowd of regulars to the assembly of small tables at the back of the room. Three open seats remained —one in the center by the window, and two crammed into the corner at the head. Tony’s determined step from behind knocked her flat into Max’s back, and before she could ask what all the rush was about, he’d claimed the center seat, leaving her to be squished in the corner at Max’s right hand.

Clearly their arrival had been greatly anticipated, for they’d barely settled in before Harper lifted his hand in a signal, and a trio of red-moustachioed deli men, each wearing a meat-stained apron, descended on their table. They were led by Peter MacDougal, as famous for his unpredictable Irish temperament as he was for the generous portions of delicious food. With them came a steaming platter of corned beef along with a pyramid of sliced rolls, a bowl of warm cooked cabbage, another of potato salad, and finally a double-decker cake iced white and festooned with garlands and blue roses.

“To honor Edward Moore,” MacDougal said. “Three, four, maybe five times a week did he come here. Always the same thing, corned beef on a white roll, cake, and coffee. Sat on that stool right there, he did.” He pointed to a raised seat along the counter that sat empty, draped in black wool. “When I told him that my
mother, God rest her soul, was longin’ to come here from the old country, he asked me flat out, ‘Peter?’ he said. ‘Is it your mother that taught you to make such a fine corned beef?’

“I told him, yes, sir, ’twas indeed, and the good man came back the next day with a check. Bought her a first-class passage on the next ship out of Dublin.”

MacDougal wiped an unchecked tear with the back of his wrist. “I tell you, there’s nothing I’d like better than to raise a glass to the man. Cursed law it is that a friend can’t have a drink to honor the life of another. But I trust you’ll eat hearty, the way he’d want you to, God bless him.”

“We will,” Max said, standing to offer his hand.

“You’re the family?”

“I am. His nephew —” But the final syllable came out as little more than a puff of air as Max was crushed in the embrace of a man who spent his days working a meat slicer.

“I always told your uncle,” MacDougal said once he’d released Max to an arm’s-length grip, “he was more of a man than anybody knew. Get it?
Moore
of a man?”

Everyone around the table laughed at the cue, including Monica, though she was more amused by the dazed look on Max’s face than by MacDougal’s pun.

“I look for you to be the same, young man. The very same.” By now tears flowed freely down MacDougal’s red face, disappearing into his generous moustache. He wished them all a good lunch as a start to a long life of good health, then took his men back behind the counter to meet the needs of the growing line of customers.

“Everybody, please,” Max said, holding his hands out toward the tableful of food. “Enjoy.”

They immediately tucked in to obey, passing platters and bowls and filling their plates. In the midst of the activity, Max
leaned in close, the timbre of his voice low enough to be heard under the chatter around them. “Did you know that? About the check and the old country?”

“Nope,” Monica said, buttering her roll. “I was half expecting the man to come up with a bill for a lifelong tab. I always figured Edward to be the guy to take a sack of pennies to the five-and-dime.”

She immediately wished she’d had a bit more tact than to insult the memory of this newly discovered generosity, but Max’s smile eased her conscience.

“It was good to hear. And by the way, I think we can all rest assured that Mr. MacDougal has had plenty of opportunity to raise a glass to his friend.”

“Really?” As if such a thing were unheard of.

She piled her roll high with corned beef and added the warm, peppery cabbage before pressing the top of the roll down on the overflowing sandwich. In retrospect, she should have given more thought to her lipstick than her appetite, as there was no way to continue without making a complete mess of her makeup. Still, she opened her mouth wide to take a bite and felt completely vindicated by the deliciousness of the combination.

“And about all that business with that fellow in the car.” Max was talking to her again. “I do apologize if I insulted you, Miss . . . Miss —”

“Bisbaine,” she said, or something like that.

“Bisbaine,” he said, as if tasting the sound of it along with the warm potato salad. “Bisbaine. You know, I looked through several issues of
Capitol Chatter
this morning, but I don’t recall your name in a byline. Are you an editor? Copy editor?”

“No,” she said, swallowing.

“Secretary?”

“Ha!” A crumb of something flew past her lips, but she caught it in time with the back of her hand. “Fine day it’ll be when I’m a secretary. No, Mr. Moore, I’m a writer. I simply choose to publish anonymously.”

Tony made a monkey sound from down the table. Max’s eyebrows rose at its shrieking apex.

“That’s you? Monkey girl?”

“Monkey
Business
. And yes, that’s me.” She leaned forward, elbow planted on the table, her sandwich dangling over his plate. “Are you scandalized?”

He shook his head. “Nope. Should I be?”

“It’s a very popular column, you know. People write letters, wanting to know where I’m going next and where I buy my clothes. Even though they can’t see them. I write about what I’m wearing, and they want to know where they can buy the same thing. They love me.”