All for a Story (23 page)

Monica sucked in her breath and grasped the now-empty glass, fully prepared to throw it should Max Moore happen to pop his head into the pharmacy. She settled for closing the paper and slamming the glass onto his picture.

In one swift move, she swirled off the stool, rolling and stuffing the paper into the pocket in the lining of her coat. She grabbed her purse, tugged on her gloves, and pulled her hat down low, preparing for battle as much as for cold. Once on the street, she walked with long, purposeful strides, careening through her fellow pedestrians. More than one gentleman brushed her shoulder, saying, “Hey, sister. What’s your hurry?” But she didn’t come close to breaking stride. Alice Reighly would be proud, and the thought of that made her walk even faster.

By the time she burst through the doors of the
Capitol Chatter
offices, she knew her nose must have been cherry red. Her intended diatribe, so carefully and silently rehearsed for the whole
two blocks, would have to wait until she could take a generous breath. In the meantime, she stood and panted, perusing her colleagues, who seemed to be purposefully gathered around the shabby conference table. At least she thought these were her colleagues, given the dramatic changes each had undergone. Tony, for one, was wearing a new hat —black, unstained, and unrumpled. A small leather-bound journal sat open in front of him, and he was too absorbed in whatever he was writing in it to notice Monica’s open stare. Next to him, Thomas Harper was making notations in his ledger. That in itself was a familiar sight, but this morning he was smiling.

But the biggest transformation of all was to be seen when the only woman at the table turned around at the shutting of the office door.

“Zelda?”

She’d cut her hair, and in doing so, lost the cloudy mass of gray, revealing instead a pale cap of curls the color of weak tea laced with cream. A pale touch of pink colored her cheeks, and even a bit on her lips, making them appear far less thin and pinched. Small, dark-rimmed spectacles sat atop her nose, and for the first time in memory, she did not immediately offer to take Monica’s coat. Or make coffee. Instead, she simply said, “Good morning, Monica,” while looking extremely pleased with herself.

“You —you look wonderful.”

“As do you,” Zelda returned without a hint of malice or, for that matter, humility.

The shock of it was almost enough to diffuse Monica’s anger, and indeed it abated as she shrugged off her coat and hat and gloves. But then she heard his voice saying, “There’s our little Monkey.”

Max had walked out of his office, rubbing his hands together
like some bachelor uncle heading for the Thanksgiving feast. His grin was more lopsided and goofy than usual, prompting Monica to reach for the rolled-up paper in her coat pocket and take a swing at it.

“You’ve got some nerve, Maximilian Moore.”

Max took a deft step back, lifting his arms in not-so-mock defense. “What’s with you? The rest of us are celebrating. Look, there’s cake.”

“I don’t want cake,” she said, though she did take her eyes off of her target for just a second to verify that his statement wasn’t a mere tactical distraction. “This is a newspaper office, you know. Not some grandmother’s dining room. We got along just fine without this monstrous table, and we never needed cake before.”

“Monica —”

But she barreled on like a Keystone Cop. “And I don’t want to be told exactly how many stories I’ll write about what, and when I do write, I don’t need some big, bold disclaimer at the top telling everyone how I’m not really a part of this, this little good and pure and lovely
family
.”

And to her own horror, she felt her throat close up against any more words and tears pool in her carefully kohled eyes. He was looking down at her, his grin not diminished one whit. No compassion, no pity, just patient, befuddled amusement.

“Shall we go and talk in my office?”

“No.” The only force keeping her tears at bay was pride. She couldn’t bear to cry in front of Tony Manarola, Esquire, and Mademoiselle Zelda. She could feel their eyes on the back of her neck. The only sound was the scratch of Harper’s pen.

“I think we should.”

He laid a shepherding arm across her shoulders and shielded her from the prying eyes of the others as he led her in. Once inside,
he shut the door and stood, leaning back against his desk, staring her down like the new owner of a lost dog.

“Now,” he said, “first of all, this is a business. Not a family. Second of all, what makes you think you’re not a part of it?”

“You didn’t invite me to the party.”

“It’s not a party. It’s called work. Some people, believe it or not, go to work every day.”

“But there’s cake.”

“Because Zelda took it upon herself to bring it. If it would make you feel better, feel free to bring a sack of those delicious
kolache
next time you come in.”

“And you called out my story. You told everybody that it didn’t fit in with the rest of the paper.”

“I’m an editor, Monica. I’m
your
editor. Right now I’m willing to give you some latitude, but I do have a vision for this paper. A very certain and specific tone I want to maintain. At some point you’re going to have to comply with that.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then stay true to yourself and write for someone else.” He said so without a hint of threat. Just a fact, an option, as if doing so would be as easy as picking out a new hat.

“Maybe I’ll go and do that right now,” she said, hoping his statement was as much of a bluff as hers. “How would that make you look, telling everybody I was writing a series and then leaving them out to dry?”

“I’d manage. I’d tell them the truth, something you can surely appreciate.”

“You’d expose me?”

“No. I’d just say that our Monkey found her Tarzan and swung away.”

“You could do that?” And in that question, she wasn’t
talking about her column anymore, and by the subtle shift in his posture —his shoulders sloped, his head bowed toward her —she knew he wasn’t either.

“I wouldn’t want to. But you have to understand. This paper, everything I’m trying to accomplish here —it’s an extension of myself.
My
values.
My
vision. For the first time in my life, I have the opportunity to do what God has called me to do. I can’t compromise on any level. It’s hard enough facing what happens whenever you and I are . . . alone, together.”

She stepped closer, her tears long gone, and lifted her gaze straight up into his. She dropped her voice to its lowest timbre. “What happens when we’re together, Max?”

“You know. You were there.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“That first time, at the bank. Uncle Edward’s whiskey. And then the other night. A speakeasy?”

She shrank away, deflated, and forced a joke into her voice. “Are you saying I drive you to drink?”

“I’m saying that it’s becoming increasingly clear that spending time with you can be a dangerous thing.”

“Dangerous for who?” She left her lips puckered around the word.

“For
whom
. And ‘whom’ is me.”

“Well,” she said, stepping back, “far be it from me to corrupt a choirboy. Anyway, you’ll be happy to know that I am more firmly ensconced in the bosom of Miss Reighly’s little club. There’s another meeting tomorrow night. I was actually dropping by to see if you wanted me to keep up this little ruse, but that was before I saw your note.”

“So you’re going?”

“Of course. I’m writing a series, remember?”

“As a reporter?”

“As Maxine, secret Monkey spy.”

“You shouldn’t lie to them, Monica. They’re nice girls, doing a nice thing.”

“I have to write what I see, Max. You’re the editor —publish what you want, or don’t. Now, since this little group of saintly sisters seems to have captured your heart, tell me, how do I look?” She took yet another step back, struck a pose, and did a slow turn. “Will I pass?”

He was studying her, one eyebrow raised. “For what?”

“For one of
them
. They’re taking a picture later this afternoon, and I fully intend to be a part of it. My haircut’s a little too provocative, but I figure I’ll wear a hat —”

“Wait a minute. A photograph?”

“For all those other newspapers.”

He slowly shook his head, wearing an expression of reluctant admiration. “Do you have any shame?”

“Not so much. Not for this, anyway.” She glanced at the clock. “I’m supposed to be there in less than an hour. Hopefully none of them have had a chance to read the column yet. Might make for some awfully sour pusses in the picture.”

“Just keep talking. Distract them.”

Slowly, an idea dawned. “Or maybe
you
could.”

“Me?”

“Want to come with me?”

“Why would I?”

“As Maxine’s older brother, of course. Protective and all that. And for something else.”

“To keep you from saying something stupid?”

She made a face. “No. To flirt.”

“But you’re supposed to be my sister.”

“Not with me, silly. With the other girls. You saw how they looked at you the other night. Like a big stick of candy in a kindergarten. One smile from you, and those girls will forget all of Miss Reighly’s rules, right under her pinched little nose.”

“Trust me, Miss Bisbaine, the world is full of women immune to my charm.”

“I’m not asking you to seduce them. Just smile, be friendly, and see if they aren’t
friendly
back.”

“Remember just a few minutes ago, when I said that time spent with you could be a dangerous thing? Case in point.”

“Please? And after, we can do whatever you want. You can even take me to church.”

“It’s Thursday.”

“So take me to the front steps. I don’t know if there’s one that would let me in anyway.”

He glanced at the clock. “Think there’s time for cake first? I’d hate to disappoint Zelda.”

“There’s always time for cake.” Monica moved aside to allow him to open the door. “You don’t think she’s too modernized to make coffee, too, do you?”

The question answered itself when they walked out of Max’s office to see the big table set with slices of cake on small plates and steaming mugs of coffee at each place. At some point the rest of the staff had arrived, and someone —undoubtedly Zelda —had thought to give Trevor a double portion, which he eyed with the insatiable hunger of youth.

Monica moved to what she regarded as “her” place, across from Zelda, who had procured a glass of milk from somewhere for Trevor.

“You really do look beautiful,” Monica said, hoping the change in her tone would suffice as an apology for her earlier abruptness.

“Thank you,” Zelda said. “I am a writer now. I should look like one. I wish I could stand to smoke cigarettes.”

Monica laughed. “I can’t stand to smoke cigarettes, and I’m a writer. So you’re in good company there. Then again, I can’t make cake, so you are now in a class all your own.”

Zelda laughed. “It’s good not to forget the old ways, even when new ones come along. Too much modern, and everybody would starve.”

Then Tony came to the table, and Trevor, and Harper even closed his ledger and slid it to the side. Monica picked up her slice of cake and was lifting it to her mouth when Max stood at his place and said, “Let’s take a minute, if you don’t mind, to say a prayer.”

His eyes searched the table for a volunteer as Monica slowly lowered her cake back down. Tony removed his hat and made the sign of the cross.

“I will pray,” Zelda said; then she, too, stood. “Our mighty Father God, for this life, we thank you. And these friends. And all that we have. For our strength, we want to give you glory. May we honor you always. In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

Each word was so carefully measured. Perfect and even, and the last of them chorused with Tony. He and Zelda both crossed themselves again, with Tony punctuating the ritual with a quick kiss to his fingers. It seemed quite a show for a slice of cake.

Don’t use your eyes for ogling —they were made for worthier purposes.

ANTI-FLIRT CLUB RULE #3

“ARE YOU SURE it doesn’t look doubly suspicious? The two of us showing up together?”

“Nah. I told them last time you were my brother and Ma doesn’t like me going around without a chaperone. Might seem suspicious if you
weren’t
here. Besides, I need somebody to hold my coat. If I’m going to have my picture in the paper, I want everybody to be able to see my figure.”

They’d just rounded the corner of Harvard Street, where already a modest crowd of women had gathered on Alice Reighly’s porch.

“You know, if they read that column, you might not be welcomed with open arms.”

“It’s early. Nobody starts their day with the
Chatter
.”

“I still think you could finish the assignment without appearing in the photograph.”

“Of course I could, but it wouldn’t be half the fun, now would
it? Besides, what better way to keep them in the dark? Who would be stupid enough to try to keep a secret with a photograph?”

“I don’t like lying.” It had been a familiar refrain for most of the twenty-minute walk.