Tiffany Girl (56 page)

The only thing Flossie never could reconcile was that Marylee hadn’t been able to continue with the photography she’d loved. She’d been forced to choose between her passion and marriage. Shocking as it would have been, Flossie almost wished Marylee had chosen to marry and still maintain her photography business. It was fiction, after all. It would have done no harm.

But she’d never been able to ask Reeve about it, for she’d judged him and found him guilty when she was the one who owed the apology. Well, maybe not
the
apology, but certainly
an
apology, one that mirrored his. Only, he’d offered his the minute she’d thrown a book at his wall.

I can hear you and I’m sorry.

Shut up. Just shut up.

She’d offered an apology of sorts with the Christmas gifts and card. Hadn’t he seen that he was the snowman? That she was the cat, wanting to get close but was too skittish to make the first move?

Yet her apology had been returned with nothing but silence.

Shut up. Just shut up.

She’d thought he was flinging her words back at her, but now he’d offered yet another apology. Only, this time he’d laid it out in
print for her parents, her friends, her housemates, her workmates, and thousands of others to see.

Taking a handkerchief from inside the neckline of her chemise, she dabbed her nose, turned the page, and began chapter 1.

I love winter. Its desolate snowscape. Its absence of bird song. Its leafless trees coated with ice. Ice so heavy that the limbs bend down to the point of breaking.

At nine o’clock her stomach growled. She’d made it a third of the way through, but she didn’t want to stop and eat dinner. Opening a drawer, she fumbled around until she found a lemon candy stick, then continued to read.

Her Ohio buckeye had already begun to leaf, the foolish tree. It was much too early and was in danger of the frost damaging those virgin leaves. Yet Miss Cheery Cherie came down her walk, her step light, her smile intoxicating. “Look, Mr. Glumb! Spring is coming.”

I stood in solidarity beside my Kentucky coffee tree, confident it had nothing to fear. It would be the last tree in the neighborhood to leaf out. Always had been, always would be. No frost damage for it.

Miss Cherie opened her gate, a basket hooked on her elbow, her hat sporting the very songbirds she longed to hear. Only these had been snuffed out, never to whistle a merry tune again. I wondered if she saw the irony of it.

“Nice hat,” I said. “What kind of birds are those?”

“Chickadees. They’re my favorite.” She tilted her head. “Do you have a favorite?”

“The crow.”

Instead of believing me, she laughed, the sound so pure, the leaves on her buckeye produced more buds. She was halfway to the corner when I realized I was no longer standing beneath my coffee tree, but had ventured several steps away so that I might keep her in my sights. She laughed, waved, and called out greetings to those she passed, upending the entire neighborhood the way spring and songbirds upended the forest. The way she was upending me.

At midnight, Flossie undid her corset, took off her undergarments, and put on her nightdress. Crawling back under the covers, she continued to read, pulling one hairpin out at a time. For the next few hours she laughed, she sighed, she cried. But most of all, she fell in love with Reeve all over again. The entire book was a love letter, and if the dedication were to be believed, it was a love letter to her. The songbird who’d changed his winter to spring.

Her entire yard had come out in full glory. The cottonwoods, the spicebushes, the chokecherries, and her beloved Ohio buckeye, but it was the clove currants lining her house which produced a magnificent scent. Soon its fruit would ripen. I longed to taste it.

My coffee tree lay in the height of dormancy, as I knew it would. At that moment I decided to plant a new tree—maybe even two—just as soon as the weather permitted. Something that would fill out the yard a bit and bloom a little earlier. Maybe some cottonwoods. Of course, I’d need to get one male and one female or they’d both wither.

I stood at my gate staring at her yard, an unexpected longing filling me. I flicked the latch open and closed. Perhaps tomorrow I would venture forth and ask her for some cuttings.

At three in the morning, Flossie turned the final page.

Cheery and I sat on a swing suspended from our Kentucky coffee tree, its leaves full, its shade unsurpassed. Fifty years had come and gone since we’d said our vows from this very spot. Across the street, fast-growing trees had squeezed out and replaced the chokecherries and spicebushes of our youth, but the buckeye and cottonwoods still stood.

The cuttings we’d planted together in my yard gave us early blooms, late blooms, and fragrant blooms. But no matter what time of year we sat beneath our tree, be it dormant or thriving, we always found friendship and love within the shelter of each other’s arms.

Swiping her tears, Flossie slid down beneath the covers and hugged the book to her. If she’d interpreted the metaphors correctly, he wasn’t lonely. He’d learned to make friends. He’d made himself a home, and he’d extended her an invitation to be a part of it. All she needed to do was say yes.

But had he really changed so much? It was one thing to write all that into a piece of fiction. It was another thing altogether to put it into practice. Either way, it was as if she didn’t even know him anymore. The man who’d written this book was a far cry from the one who’d lived in this room, the one who’d written
The Merry Maid of Mumford Street
.

She closed her eyes and considered everything she’d just read. It was then she realized the question wasn’t how could she say yes, but how could she possibly say no?

She turned onto her side, confused, then hopeful, then confused again.

She fell into an exhausted sleep and dreamed of barren trees grabbing her, entangling her, and never letting her go, no matter how much she struggled and screamed.

CHAPTER

81

R
eeve’s hands shook as he opened the missive, the familiar handwriting telling him who it was from.

My dearest RW,

Thank you for the book. I stayed up half the night reading it and the other half thinking of you. It was beautiful, and the dedication moved me deeply.

Mr. Holliday is giving Mrs. Holliday a birthday party this Sunday after church. I know it would mean a lot to her if you came, too. Unfortunately, it is an ice-skating party, but I am not bringing my skates. I will be sitting on your bench drinking hot cocoa and, I hope, becoming reacquainted with you.

Very truly yours,

FRJ

Lowering the letter, he frowned. He’d spent months pouring himself out into that book, had agonized over the dedication, and the most she could say was that she wanted to get reacquainted?

Sighing, he took a piece of paper from his lap desk, dipped his pen into his inkwell, then gave his wrist a shake.

Dearest FRJ,

Bring your skates, for I am bringing mine. I will see you at our bench.

Yours,

RW

CHAPTER

82

R
eeve stood half hidden behind a cluster of trees several yards away from their bench. She wasn’t wearing the maroon gown she’d worn the last time they went skating. Was that a sign? Was she trying to tell him nothing would ever be the same again?

Or maybe she didn’t wear it because she didn’t want any more reminders of that skating debacle. Or perhaps her mother simply made her a new gown. All three were likely possibilities. He wished he knew which one it was. He’d have asked Maman, but she hadn’t come to the party. Said the cold was simply too much for her these days.

Lifting his hat, he ran a hand through his hair. He wanted to go over there, but had no idea what to say. Couldn’t decide where to start, which thing was the most important, which issue she wanted to hear about first.

Should he start by telling her that he hadn’t used any of the money he’d earned from the Marylee piece? At least, he’d not used it for himself, only for others. The financial gain from it continued to mount. Every time he turned around, another paper was running it. The blasted story simply would not die.

No, maybe he shouldn’t mention Marylee at all. But how could he not? That’s why he’d left Klausmeyer’s. That’s why she’d
never wanted to see him again. He’d pretended to be her friend while he’d used her to further his own purposes.

But that wasn’t true, either. He hadn’t pretended—at least not toward the end. He really had been her friend. He’d cared deeply for her then and cared deeply for her now. He blew out a breath, a puff of vapor forming. If he’d treated her like that when he cared for her, it wasn’t much of a recommendation.

A breeze ruffled his scarf, the cold air stinging his ears. He couldn’t stand there all day. It was time to pay the piper. He’d just say whatever happened to pop into his head. Taking a deep breath, he slung his skates over his shoulder and made his way toward the bench.