All for a Story (13 page)

His first reaction was one of confusion, but not Monica’s. Hard to believe this was the same woman who, just minutes ago, had offered to step away from the contents to let him discover them in private. Before he could say a word, she’d reached inside the box with an enthusiastic “ooooh” spilling from her pretty lips and pulled out one of three glass bottles, bringing with it a few stray sticks of straw.

“This is the real stuff,” she said, her voice filled with awe as if she held a brick of pure gold rather than a glass bottle filled with pale liquid. “I mean, I think it is. Why bother going to these extremes to hide a bunch of hooch?”

“It’s whiskey?”

“Better.” She was already working the cork. “Scotch.”

“Are you nuts?” He took the bottle from her hand and set it on the table beside the box.

She pouted for about half a second, then peered inside. “You’re right. There’s already an open bottle.” She pulled it out, revealing no more than three inches of liquid remaining.

“Isn’t this illegal?”

“This stuff was beginning its life in bonny Scotland when Volstead was in short pants. Look at this.
1898.
We could take this to Doc King and get a thousand bucks. Or . . .” She dug back into the box and emerged holding a shot glass. “We can drink a toast to the man who knew enough to ferret this away for better times.”

There was no stopping her. The glass was on the table, the cork out of the bottle, and two fingers of the drink poured out.

“To Edward Moore,” she said, offering the drink in salute. “May he rest in peace as his legacy lives.”

Then the same lips that had earlier thoughtfully sipped hot coffee, that had sent him smiles and puckered in a way that made him think of kisses, touched themselves to the rim of the glass and, with barely a tilt of her head, took a slow, satisfying swallow, leaving an imprint of her lipstick. The look she had on her face afterward was nothing short of rapturous, and he was seized with a sudden, illogical desire to find and do anything that would give her that look again. Something that didn’t involve his dead uncle’s liquor stash.

“Now you,” she said, poised to repeat the ritual of pouring.

“No, thank you.” His head was foggy enough.

She arched her brow in a way that was more enticing than anything in any bottle ever could be. “‘Lips that touch liquor will never touch mine’?”

“No,” he said, feeling hollowed out like a schoolboy. “It’s just —there’s more in here. Look, actual papers.”

With a rush of relief for the distraction, he lifted them from the box, brushing off the straw. The first item to draw his attention was a bundle of four —no, five —sheets of paper, carelessly folded. The first few pages were typed, but midway through the third page, the information was recorded in a harshly precise hand. Max’s eyes scanned the material quickly, recognizing right away its content.

Monica had moved around to peer at it alongside him. “What is it? Some kind of list?”

“These are his books. The titles of all the books in his house.”

“Oh my.” Her enthusiasm didn’t quite reach the level it had when she found the Scotch, but she seemed nonetheless appreciative.

He flipped to the last page and read aloud. “
Babbitt
and
The Enchanted April
. Probably the last books he bought. Or at least the last he recorded.”

She snatched the paper from his hand. “
The Enchanted April
? I’ve been dying to read that.”

“If I can find it, I’ll lend it to you.” He’d said it before thinking of the consequences. Loaning a book meant waiting around for its return. Otherwise, it was a gift, and he wasn’t ready to give Monica Bisbaine a gift. But she smiled, sealing the deal, and he knew right then he would spend his evening searching the disorganized shelves for the title.

“What else is there?” she prompted.

There was a brown envelope made of thin cardboard, bound with a winding string. Suddenly his fingers felt too clumsy to open it, and he wondered if maybe he should have had a shot of whiskey to calm his nerves. After a few bumbling attempts, he gratefully handed the whole thing over to Monica and watched her nimble hands make short work of it. Once the envelope was opened, she handed over the first photograph, never taking her eyes off of his, allowing him to be the first to see the image.

It was Uncle Edward and Max’s father when they were both young men. Probably younger than Max was now. They wore dark slacks and shirtsleeves, and they stood without any hint of motion or expression on the familiar front porch.

“1885.” She was reading from the back of the photograph. “Doesn’t that seem like forever ago?”

“It was.” He showed her the photograph.

She peered at it closely. “Your father?” Then looked up at him. “I can see you in this.”

Strengthened, he took the envelope away and reached in for the next picture, studied it briefly, and handed it to her. “My parents, their wedding.” And then a fat-cheeked baby surrounded by tapestry. “Me, I guess.” The familiar handwriting of his mother confirmed.

“Well, lookee lookee.” Her eyes lit up and danced between the photograph of the baby and the man in the room. “What a fat little snack you were.”

Again, that hollow feeling. There were more: himself at growing ages, culminating in the portrait taken for his high school graduation; various groupings of the brothers, his parents, him and his uncle, his solid three-person family; and Edward —alone, distinguished, aging.

“Why would he keep them here, locked away?” Monica
whispered, the atmosphere growing more reverent with each photograph.

“Because his family home —the house I grew up in —burned down. Destroyed everything. These are the only pictures of my family that exist.”

He spoke from a power outside of himself, because his gut and throat and head were too full of newly resurfaced grief to be of coherent thought, let alone conversation. Somewhere in between those photographs came the time when some rift had occurred, fueled by both selfishness and apathy, that caused his uncle to cut loose and drift away. The same four faces appeared over and over —his father, his mother, Uncle Edward, Max. They were all each other had, and now, after years of estrangement, only Max remained, sifting through the prized possessions of a man who died alone.

And then, a new image.

“What do you know?” He’d piqued Monica’s attention and savored the final moments of a secret.

“What is it?”

It was Zelda Ovenoff, an image from some years ago, but not many. Her hair was neatly arranged in a prewar coif, and she looked directly at the camera with a smile that rivaled that of Mona Lisa.

Speechless, he handed the image over. He had a feeling there wasn’t much in this world that would surprise Monica Bisbaine, but this sure seemed to do the trick. What a delight to watch understanding dawn.

“But why . . . ?”

“I think they loved each other. At least, he loved her —that’s clear.”

“I never knew. I don’t think anybody did.”

She handed the photographs back with a certain reverence, and he packaged them again in the envelope.

“He came here often,” Monica said with certainty.

“How do you know?”

“This.” She ran her finger along the spine of the envelope’s flap. “It’s worn, almost broken. I think he must have come here, looked at them, and drank a toast.”

As she spoke, the scene unfolded in front of him, so clear that he could almost smell Uncle Edward’s cigar. Perhaps she could be a top-notch reporter after all.

“I think we should do the same,” she said, pouring another drink.

“You already did.”

“It’s no fun to toast alone.”

“There’s only one glass,” he said, though his initial idea of protest had weakened.

“There’s a glass,” she said, handing it to him, “and a bottle. To Edward.”

She held up the bottle, and he touched the shot glass to it, the resulting clink sounding muffled in the small room. And then, just as Monica touched the bottle neck to her lips and tilted her head, he drank. He’d braced himself for burning, or bitter, but found neither. The taste was, instead, smooth, and even that small amount seemed to break up and wash away the final vestiges of anxiety.

“What’s next?” she asked, looking up at him as if ready to go along with anything he said.

“For starters, this —” he took the recorked bottle from her and placed it back in the box —“will stay safely here. And these —” he tucked the photographs under his arm —“are going home with me.”

“And the glass?”

“Why don’t you take it?”

“Thanks. I’m honored.” She took it from him and stashed it in her coat pocket. “One more thing before you walk out there.” She brought her thumb to her mouth, licked it, and reached up. He stood, frozen, as she grazed it across his lip. “I left a little smudge on the glass; you picked it up. Don’t want you walking around with a smear of Scarlet Passion on your mouth. People might wonder just what we were doing in here.”

“They might indeed.” In fact,
he
was beginning to wonder just what was happening between them, but knowing Monica, it was nothing more nor less than what it would be if she were locked in a small room with any other man and a bottle of liquor. He focused his attention on arranging the whiskey bottles back in the box, packing the straw around them —at her instruction —to keep them upright.

“Shall we do this again?” she said as they left. “Say, about a month from now? Celebrate my allowance?”

“It’s a date,” he said, fighting the urge to count the days.

Don’t ignore the man you are sure of while you flirt with another. When you return to the first one, you may find him gone.

ANTI-FLIRT CLUB RULE #10

THE FRONT PARLOR smelled heavily of cabbage, meaning Mrs. Kinship had custody of the kitchen for the evening. Mr. and Mrs. Grayson, the elderly couple who owned the house and occupied two rooms on the first floor, were quite generous with their tenants, allowing them to spend evenings in the comfortable furniture downstairs and cook as they pleased, provided they prepare enough for the entire household on occasion. Mrs. Kinship must have spent some time cooking for troops, because she always prepared mounds of food, enough to feed the landlords, herself, Mr. Davenport, Monica, and even Anna when she was home from the library at mealtime.

The old-fashioned, sour smell perfectly complemented the wailing of the opera spiraling from the Victrola. If Mrs. Kinship commanded the kitchen, Mr. Davenport dominated the gramophone, having a collection of records at least six inches high. He sat in the high-back chair, his head lolled to one side. His
fingers, tufted with long, white hair on the knuckles, accompanied the mournful aria, suspending themselves on the high, sustained notes.

Anna had draped herself across the back of the sofa, a forgotten mystery novel in her lap, and stared out the front window.

“Looks like it’s snowing again,” she said, her words dredged with malaise. “Nature’s blanket to protect the most tender of shoots.”

“Yeah?” Monica strode across the room to look for herself. “Well, it’s going to ruin my most expensive of shoes.”

“Hush,” said Mr. Davenport, who sometimes forgot that he wasn’t standing in his high school classroom.

Anna twisted to catch Monica’s eye. Her long hair had streaks of gold, and her eyelashes were a dark, almost copper color. Two enviable marks of beauty, yet she seemed to take no pride or purpose in them.

“Going out with your gentleman friend again? What is it you girls say? Your
daddy
?”

Her question was met with two angry glares —one from Monica for the ridiculous use of slang, and one from Mr. Davenport for speaking at all.

“Where to this evening? Something exciting, no doubt. That’s a very dramatic dress you’re wearing.”

“It’s new,” Monica said, holding her arms akimbo to show its full design. It was blood-red wool trimmed with black piping that gathered across her narrow hips.

“I could never get away with wearing such a thing,” Anna said, and it was true. Not because of her face or figure but her lackluster demeanor. Much as she spoke of her longing to go to Paris, Monica couldn’t imagine a less likely event.

“I decided to treat myself. A girl needs to do that every now and then. Lifts the spirit, you know?”

“Oh, I’m sure.” Anna smoothed her thin, blonde hair. “Just the other day I walked past a shop that had the most attractive hats, and —”

“Ladies, if you please.” Mr. Davenport’s eyes were still closed, and he had to raise his voice considerably to be heard above the competition between the conversation and the chorus.

It was as good an excuse to quit talking with Anna as any, so Monica resumed her methodical pacing of the room.

“You should wait up in your apartment,” Mrs. Kinship said, having come into the room wiping her hands on a comfortably stained apron, no doubt to announce that supper was ready for all who would partake. “So when he gets here, he has to wait. It’s better that way.”

“Not so
obvious
,” Anna said, whispering the last word.

“This is hardly the first time the gentleman has come calling,” Mr. Davenport intoned, one eye open. “No need to create a false sense of propriety now.”