All for a Story (31 page)

She waited for an answer, and every part of him vied for the privilege of responding. His eyes wanted nothing more than to gaze upon her. His mouth begged to kiss her. His arms wanted to scoop her up; his legs, to carry the both of them to another room entirely. That’s what she wanted to hear. That was the reaction and reassurance she sought.

But she deserved better.

“You, Monica,” he said, stepping away, “make me want to do crazy things.” Using her coat to protect his touch, he turned her around, facing her away from him so she could slip her arms into the sleeves.

She looked back over her shoulder. “Crazy, like what?”

“Like sending a beautiful woman out into a cold winter night.” He reached for his coat. “After I walk you to the bus stop.”

“Always the gentleman.”

He could see that she was fighting a losing battle to keep the
sadness from her smile, but there was a certain risk to offering reassurance —one that might topple his last stance of resistance.

“What is it you flapper girls say? ‘Cash or check?’”

She pursed her lips. “I’m no flapper.”

“Even so.” His hand safely ensconced in a glove, he touched her face. “I’ll take a check.”

He opened the door for them both, welcoming the rush of the winter night’s air. The walk to the bus stop was silent and quick, and a simple “Good night” ended the evening.

Back home, he took the opportunity to stand outside and study the little house with the lights glowing through the windows. The curtain rustled from within, and Paolo leapt up to the sill and sat, waiting. He couldn’t remember the last time any living soul waited for him on the other side of a door.

“Monkey Culpa”

For those of you not up on your Latin, “Monkey culpa” is a ten-dollar way of saying that this little Monkey might have to take back some of her screech and chatter. Maybe because I’ve had a few days away from the zoo, but I’ve had a chance to step out of the monkey house and walk upright among the people. Mr. Darwin says that’s what happened to all of us. We grew bigger brains and stood up straight. I happen to think that is a bunch of bananas, but there’s more than one kind of evolution. For instance, this little Monkey might be ready to evolve into a new woman.

Want to know how your favorite Monkey has been keeping herself busy? She did some dancing cheek-to-cheek at a certain spot better known for its Nubian clientele. She had a late supper in a certain little diner and had quite a time watching a couple of gents duke it out for her honor. She even got a quiet dinner for two in the home of a regular Keeper.

Oh, there was one more escapade, when she grabbed a vine and swung back to visit her anti-flirting sisters. Yes, my monkey girls, I went back. (I’m waving at you RIGHT NOW from a very specific perch.) Furthermore, ladies —for that is what Miss Alice Reighly would call you —I’m taking the challenge. In my evolutionary endeavor, I think I’m going to stick it out. Going to try to stay and learn and grow.

From this column to the next, No Flirting. No winks, no grins, no swish, no sashay. No more pets and pats and whistles. No more dates with apes,
and no more dancing near the wolf traps. I’ll be the little dark cloud home all alone, leaving the sheiks to the rest of you shebas. Don’t gobble them all up at once!

I have a gift for enraging people, but if I ever bore you, it will be with a knife.

LOUISE BROOKS

THE SPECIAL DELIVERY ARRIVED at nine o’clock Tuesday morning, announced by Mrs. Kinship with a vigorous knocking on Monica’s door. The strength of the knock was tempered by the hesitant, muffled question, “Are you in there?”

Little doubt why Mrs. Kinship would wonder. Monica had gone straight up to her room after the humiliating dismissal from Max’s house on Saturday night, and with the exception of a foray to Sobek’s for soup, coffee, and rolls, hadn’t made her presence known. Her only communication with her housemates was a brief nod in the hallway while on her way to the washroom and a formally scripted note from Mr. Davenport stating that a Mr. Moore had telephoned and requested that she return the communication.

Sunday was, after all, the first official day of Alice Reighly’s Anti-Flirting Week. What better way to comply than to lounge alone on her rumpled bed leafing through old editions of the
Saturday Evening Post
? More than once she’d longed for the company of Paolo, even considered making the trek to reclaim him. But that would bring her face-to-face with Max, and her eyes were still a little too puffy for any such encounter.

Not that he’d been anything but a gentleman. Which was perfect, because she’d been trying so hard to be a lady.

The long stretch of Monday afternoon was given to the writing of her column, and she allowed a brief glimpse at the paper still rolled into the typewriter as she shuffled to her door, drawing her silk kimono around her shoulders.

“Mrs. Kinship?”

“There is a special delivery for you.”

Monica slowed her pace at the announcement, unused to the trilling, songlike quality in Mrs. Kinship’s voice. The woman sounded like she wanted a tip, and Monica wasn’t in the mood to fork over a nickel.

“Can you slide it under the door? I’m not quite dressed.”

“Oh no. Not these.”

The woman sounded so pleased with herself that Monica’s curiosity broke free of her muddled malaise. She slipped her arms through the robe’s sleeves and was loosely tying the sash as she opened the door.

“For you,” Mrs. Kinship said. “Delivered just now.”

The box was long and flat with the florist’s imprint stamped in gold. Monica ran her finger along the thick, burgundy-colored ribbon, thinking she could make something out of that —a headband or a sash.

“I think it’s roses,” Mrs. Kinship said, her nose close to the lid. “And expensive ones, too, from this place. Not from any street market.”

“Thanks.” Monica had to tug more than once to get the box
out of Mrs. Kinship’s grip. Once she did, she thanked her again and used her shoulder to quietly, yet firmly, close the door between them.

She cleared the clutter of magazines and half-read novels to the floor and set the box on her tiny table. This wasn’t the first time she’d received flowers —quite a few former suitors had plied her with such a gift. But as Mrs. Kinship had observed, those had been cheap, bedraggled bouquets often delivered in the sweaty clutch of the man himself. This? This was the gesture of a gentleman, a gentleman willing to spend at least five bucks on a lady.

“Aw, Max. You shouldn’t have.”

She carefully untied the ribbon, looking for a card before sliding it off the box.
Anonymous?
Leave it to Max’s sweet, shy nature to have such a gift delivered with intrigue. Perhaps he wanted to follow in the footsteps of Edward and Mrs. Ovenoff, keeping a courtship shrouded in secrecy. Not that there was a courtship —not yet. She’d known enough men, however, to recognize a desire for something more in a man’s eyes. Max might have turned her away and put her on a bus, but he’d done so reluctantly. Perhaps these flowers were an apology? Or a belated invitation?

Eager now to see the contents, she lifted the lid and let it drop to the floor. Large sheets of thin tissue paper rustled as they were folded away to reveal five blood-red roses nestled within. Monica exhaled, finding a tiny wedge of disappointment at the bottom of her breath, and counted again.
Five? That’s not even half a dozen.
Though they were beautiful —deep in their color and full in bloom —it seemed an odd gesture.

“Don’t send a lot of flowers, do you, Max?”

She lifted out a bloom to inhale its heady fragrance. This was a far cry from the modest bouquet that had adorned his dinner table, and wisely so, for no food could have successfully competed
with this scent. Already the stale odor of old coffee and dirty stockings was bowing to its beauty. First thing, Monica would peek through the cabinets of the common kitchen downstairs and find a perfect narrow vase to house the long, thornless stems.

Returning the rose to the box, she found the tiny envelope. There
was
a note after all, addressed to her by the single initial
M
. Positively cloak-and-dagger, without the dagger. Hastily, she turned the envelope over and took out the card within. She didn’t even have to read the message before her hand dropped away in disappointment brought on by the familiar ill-executed penmanship. And when, after summoning a deep breath of courage, she read the note, it did little to restore her joy.

I miss you, my little Mousie. One more chance? JJ’s tonight.

She could feel every inch of the silk robe touching her skin, grating against it like sand. Charlie, as if she hadn’t just seen him with another woman on his arm. As if he didn’t have a wife somewhere. That explained the odd number of roses —probably all he could get with whatever cash he had on hand. Or maybe he’d bought the whole dozen: six to the wife, five to her, and the last one left on the pillow of that floozy in the diner. Suddenly the scent was cloyingly sweet, and Monica slammed the lid back on in an attempt to trap it.

She opened the door, unsurprised to find Mrs. Kinship lurking about, a faraway, romantic expression on her plain gray face. “A new admirer?”

“No.” Monica squared her shoulders and gave her head a little toss, hoping to exude more swagger than she felt. “An old one, actually, giving me the brush-off.”

“Really?”

There was no mistaking the thread of smug victory, but Monica chose to ignore it, knowing the older woman had been ignored far more than rejected.

“Why don’t you take them downstairs, put them in a vase with some water. Brighten up the parlor.”

“I’ll do just that,” Mrs. Kinship said, taking the box as though it were some kind of treasure. “And then I’m off to bed, if you wouldn’t mind keeping the noise down.”

She said this nearly every day; you’d think her fellow residents conducted parades up and down the hallways.

“I’ll be out. All afternoon, once I get dressed.”

“Well, don’t you let this one worry your day,” Mrs. Kinship said, hefting the florist’s box as if it represented the man himself. “There’s bigger and better fish out there.”

“Yeah? Well, there’s plenty of sharks, too.”

Mrs. Kinship sniffed. “I can’t imagine any of them would bother you too much.”

“Only if you let them.”

An hour later, Monica walked as if facing a bitter headwind, even though the morning —well, midmorning —was clear and still. Head down, seeing only her favorite sturdy-heeled shoes poking out and back from under the hem of her sage-green wool coat. She kept her hands plunged deep within her pockets while relying on the confines of her pumpkin-colored cloche to hide her face.

Don’t look up. Don’t look up. Don’t look up.

It seemed the best way to adhere to the tenets of the club, especially given Saturday night’s disaster.

She’d tried. Honestly, really, and truly tried to be her best. Saturday night at Max’s house, she’d used her eyes to ogle only his books. Not his jaw with its charm of soft stubble, or the breadth of his shoulders hunched over the stove, or even the way he touched his nose to Paolo’s in sweet greeting. She didn’t wink or giggle or pounce on that final unguarded moment when he was obviously ready to be a willing participant. There was a moment, right before the first bite of dinner, when she felt like she’d known him all her life. But maybe she just had her time all mixed up. Maybe she’d just been looking. Waiting.