Modern Wicked Fairy Tales: Complete Collection (34 page)

“Actually, I heard from the doctor
yesterday.” Rachel cleared her throat and spoke into the
microphone, wincing a little at the sudden feedback. Jake’s hand
tightened in hers and she glanced up at him, seeing the blindsided
look on his face. Her eyes filled with tears. “It seems this happy
ending thing must be catching because he told me my cancer is in
remission too.”

The crowd around them exploded with cheers
and applause—it was even louder than the first wave, when they’d
just come out of the courtroom. Jake pulled her into his arms and
kissed her so hard she could barely breathe.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered
harshly against her ear, hugging her tight.

“I just did,” she gasped as he held her at
arm’s length, his eyes drinking her in, looking at her as if she
might disappear at any moment. Emma and Liv were around them,
jumping up and down and hugging them both at turns. “Surprise.”

“Daddy’s got a surprise for you too,” Emma
whispered as her arms went around Rachel’s neck, but the teen spoke
too loudly. Jake heard and shot her a warning glance. “Oops.”

“Surprise? What surprise?” Rachel asked, not
realizing they were so close to the microphone.

The reporters heard the word and started
asking the same question. Soon the crowd caught on and started
chanting, “Sur-prise! Sur-prise! Sur-prise!” Jake flushed and
stammered into the microphone, but it was hard to resist pressure
like that.

“Okay, okay!” he relented, turning to Rachel
in front of the crowd. “Rachel, I have to ask you something.”

“What?” she asked, puzzled. She didn’t fully
understand, although she had hoped, had held fast to that hope for
months. They both had. “Jake? What are you doing?”

“Loving you,” he replied simply.

Then she did understand, and the hope that
had settled in her heart, right under the dove pendant Jake had
given her months ago, took flight in her chest as he reached into
his suit pocket and pulled out a blue
Tiffany’s
box.

Then, like a magician, he got down on one
knee and turned hope into something with wings.

RED

It was one of those weeks that tease you,
pretending spring was really here. Back in Nebraska, the tender
shoots of flowers might even be fooled into popping their buds up
through the soil, seeking warmth. They would be disappointed and
wither a week later, unable to turn back and now unable to go
forward, frozen in place, stunted. It made Mae think of home with a
painful twist in her belly, and she almost wished again for the
cold and damp.

But her body yearned for sun, betraying her
heart, and the warmth brightened her mood, in spite of herself. Mae
found herself humming as she spread the homemade rye bread with a
thick layer of mayonnaise and followed that with splotches of
mustard, upon which she stacked ham, bologna and salami so high
Dagwood himself would have been envious. Her one window was open
wide, and although the sound of the city eighteen stories below was
nothing like the soft bray of the horses or the bleating of the
young lambs at home, the air was a cool reminder of the real warmth
soon to come. Spring came, even here, in the concrete jungle of New
York City.

Sandwiches made, wrapped them in waxed paper
and slipped them into the basket at her feet. A glass-lined thermos
filled with lemonade, two ripe tomatoes for her, and a bag of those
yummy new Lay’s potato chips. She was practically addicted to them.
There were also two moist, chocolate cupcakes for dessert spread
with fluffy white cream, and two cloth napkins—white with an
embroidered monogram and delicate lace edges in which she’d carried
home pastries from her grandmother’s house.

She took a dizzying glance down at the
street before she reluctantly shut the window above the sofa. The
apartment was an L-shape with living room, dinette and kitchen, and
a small bedroom she barely fit a twin bed and dresser into. It had
a window, but she had discovered it painted shut. No amount of
complaint had motivated the landlord to action, however, and her
strength was no match for the stuck window.

The breeze as she slid the living room
window closed reminded her that while the air might promise spring,
winter was still around the corner, and instead of going out in
just her skirt and a sweater, Mae plucked her coat off the chair
and slid her arms into the sleeves. For quite some time, she had
nothing but her old patchwork coat to wear against the elements. It
only took once of getting caught in a cold downpour though,
dragging into Grandmother’s like a drowned cat after running the
last few breathless blocks, before her grandmother had presented
her with a solution at their next weekly meeting—a brand new,
slick, red umbrella.

Of course, Mae just never remembered the
umbrella, but her grandmother had anticipated her granddaughter’s
absent-minded nature and accompanied her gift with a matching
thick, wool, hooded coat. She wore it with secret pride and a great
deal of satisfaction, the hood hiding her face from the crowds on
the street. And if it hadn’t been for her concealing red hood, she
never would have bumped into Griff in the first
place—literally.

Smiling at the memory, she buttoned her coat
and cinched the red, wool belt before slinging her basket over her
arm. She was almost to the door when she remembered the real reason
she was taking this trip in the first place, still sitting in a
white bag on the table.

“Stupid girl,” she murmured, doubling back
to pack the crinkly white bag into her basket. There was a mirror
at the entryway and she paused to check herself over. Her long dark
hair had been one of the first things to go, now cut short and
fashionably, little curls pasted to the sides of her cheeks. She
had spent hours in her bathroom learning how to use the make-up her
grandmother insisted on, painting her lips a bright, luscious red,
as if she’d been picking raspberries all afternoon and eating half
of what she’d gathered. Grandmother didn’t like untidiness and she
was careful to groom herself appropriately before she left.

There was just enough room left on top for
the white bag, but the lid didn’t want to latch and she had to
force it, glancing at the clock, anxious to be gone now. There was
no spoken time between them, no said arrangement, but the
assumption was noon. He was always there at noon, looking surprised
to see her every single time, and yet she knew he really
wasn’t.

He couldn’t be.

Could he?

* * * *

He was waiting for her, watching. Following
someone in the crowded streets of New York was easier than anywhere
else in the world. He was a magician, fading into the crowd,
ducking under an awning if she happened to look his way. If she saw
him too soon, it wouldn’t be the end of the world, but he was a
careful predator, his tracking sense honed and sharp. There was no
sense alerting the prey before you were ready to pounce.

So he sat where he had every day, waiting
with an open paper in front of him, the news more crushing today in
1933 than it had been years ago, when the depression had officially
started and investors had reportedly taken nosedives from the high
windows of New York skyscrapers.

He glanced up, wondering what it had been
like. He almost wished he’d been here then, but the grift hadn’t
brought him this far, not yet. Back then, he’d been running
small-time in podunk towns in the Midwest, little mom and pop cons
that left him with some food in his belly and some money in his
pocket, but not much else.

Now he was in the big time, and the girl
he’d followed was his ticket to milk and honey. His mouth watered
at the thought, his nostrils flaring almost as if he’d caught her
scent, although the only thing he could smell was the overripe
apple cart and the oppressing weight of exhaust fumes. There were
far too many autos in the city, although the mayor claimed they
would have better public transit than the elevated train lines they
had now, promising Roosevelt’s New Deal would help them finish the
underground subway, making it the largest mass transit system in
the world.

I’ll believe it when I see it.
He
wasn’t cynical—just realistic. The world didn’t hand things to you,
after all. You had to go and out and take them. By force, if
necessary. And unfortunately, he’d found it necessary far too often
in his life. But a man had to eat, didn’t he? He didn’t necessarily
believe in Roosevelt’s New Deal—but he damned well knew he could
make his own new deal, and that’s just what he intended to do.

He caught a flash of red out of the corner
of his eye, his heart thudding in his chest, although he showed no
outward sign of excitement. Instead, he folded his paper slowly and
neatly, tucking it into his pocket as the girl swept out of the
tenement looking as fresh as a ripe strawberry, ready for plucking.
He couldn’t believe his luck when she’d started to wear the red
cape, making it ridiculously easy to spot her, but while sometimes
there were little hiccups in his plans, just stumbling blocks or
speed bumps in the road, most of the time the world seemed to
conspire to give him just what he needed or wanted. Almost as if it
had been meant to be.

He let himself smile, trying the expression
on, his muscles flexed and ready. The time was now.

* * * *

Mae felt her stomach drop when she got to
the corner and didn’t see Griff. It was a little after noon, but
not by much. Where could he be? She stood there, watching the cars
go by, wondering what to do.

She knew, of course, what she
should
do—go on to her grandmother’s, as she had planned, and drop off the
medicine she’d picked up at the pharmacy. She’d taken the phone
call from the pharmacist that morning, knowing it meant a trip
across town, and had been secretly thrilled. The telephone in her
apartment was one of the things her grandmother had insisted on and
had even paid for, renting the model from the phone company, and
while it was a luxury Mae wouldn’t have even considered if she’d
been on her own entirely, it had served to be quite an amazing
convenience.

Of course, there was no way to call Griff.
He was just here every day, waiting for her—somehow she was sure he
was waiting just for her, even if he looked busy every time she
arrived. She didn’t even know where the man might reside. Did he
live anywhere? Maybe in one of the shanty towns by the river? She
shuddered at the thought.

No, Griff was clean, respectable, if a
little rough around the edges sometimes. He had a job—had made one
for himself right there on the New York street corner, selling
apples out of his cart. He was a survivor with an entrepreneurial
spirit she admired. He reminded her a little of her father.

But your father wasn’t the man you thought
he was, now was he?

That thought made her swallow hard and blink
fast and look for something to distract herself. The cars had
stopped now—the traffic officer high up in his tower had changed
the light—and she could go, but she didn’t. She didn’t trust
herself to make it across, even following amidst the crowd, with
the sudden rise of tears stinging her eyes. Instead, the horde
parted around her, jostling to get to the other side of the busy
street before the light changed again.

Mae backed away from the intersection
clutching her basket, letting the people pass her by. She probably
would have just run home and called her grandmother to tell her she
wasn’t feeling well, that she’d come by tomorrow instead, if he
hadn’t run into her like a brick wall coming around the corner,
making her drop her basket, the already-straining latch popping
open and spilling the contents onto the concrete.

“Excuse me!” she exclaimed, trying to catch
her breath, wondering if the glass in the thermos was broken as she
stopped its roll with a swipe of her hand, kneeling gracefully on
the sidewalk to try and replace the basket’s contents.

She didn’t realize it was him until he was
squatting down beside her, helping her put things back, and she saw
the deft movements of his hands. She knew those hands.

“Griff!”’

“Hey, Red.” He grinned, giving her a wink.
“We really have to stop meeting like this.” He sounded breathless,
like he’d been running when he’d literally run into her—again.

She giggled, remembering the first time
she’d met him, on her way to grandmother’s, a farm girl in a big
city hurrying through the streets in her new red wool cape, her
hood so low she could barely see anything at all. She certainly
hadn’t seen him, stepping out from behind his apple cart, and he
hadn’t been looking her way—instead he’d been focused on the four
apples he’d been juggling to the delight of a small crowd. She had
hit him square in his very solid chest with her pert little nose,
surprising them both. He’d done the very same thing that day, she
remembered, as apples rained down onto the concrete—that sly smile
and the greeting he now used every time they met, “Hey, Red!”

She smiled and held up one of the
sandwiches. “I made your favorite.”

“You are an angel.” He snatched at it,
already unwrapping the waxed paper to get to the bread and meat
before he’d even fully stood, holding his other hand out to help
her up. “I’m starving.”

“Where were you?” She knew her voice sounded
accusatory, and she didn’t want him to know how worried she’d been.
“I thought you’d been kidnapped.”

He shrugged. “I thought I saw someone I
knew.” He talked with his mouth half-full of sandwich, nodding
toward the corner he’d come sailing around and swallowing. “But I
never caught up.”

She pursed her lips, eyes narrowing. “Oh. I
see.”

“It wasn’t a dame,” he assured her, giving a
lopsided smile.

“No?”

“No, Red.” He took her by the elbow,
steering her toward his apple cart. “Besides, with a doll like you
around, what man could look at anything else?”