Timepiece (5 page)

“Why didn't you sell it?”

Lawrence shook his head. “Don't need nuthin'.” “Nuthin' you can buy.” He tapped his pipe against the table, looking suddenly thoughtful. “Way I figgur, black man got no r'spect in this life. So I was thinkin' when I die, they put this angel here on my grave. Somebody walks by, even white folks, see that fine angel. ‘Looks like real Italian marble,' they say. ‘Mighty fine. Mus' be someone real important has that kinda monument. Mus' be a rich man or a military officer,' and they
go on like that.” Lawrence's eyes reflected red from the smoldering pipe, but seemed to glow beneath their own power. “Black man don' get much r'spect in this life.”

David looked at Lawrence and nodded slowly as the night's silence filled the humble shack.

 

“MaryAnne came into the office today. I was surprised to see her, as it was her Sabbath. I was much too forward and I fear I have frightened her. I am clumsy with romance.”

David Parkin's Diary. May 13, 1908

David disliked suits and never wore them on Sunday when he came in to the office to work alone. He was intent over a stack of papers on his desk when MaryAnne's presence startled him.

“Miss Chandler. What brings you here?”

“I did not finish my letters.”

David stood. “Monday is soon enough.”

“I did not want to fall behind. You have been so very busy.”

David smiled, pleased for her concern.

“I think I would be worried if you could keep up.” He walked over to her. “Thank you, Miss Chandler, but go on home and rest. We have a full week ahead.”

She put her hands in her coat pockets.

“Yes, sir.”

Just then, a Westminster chime denoted a quarter of one. Both looked at the clock.

“I have not had supper, Miss Chandler. Would you care to join me? Perhaps at the Alta Club?”

MaryAnne smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Parkin, but if I am not needed, I should be off to church.”

David nodded. “Yes. Of course. I suppose that I should go on home as well. Catherine is expecting me.”

MaryAnne looked at him as if she had just been informed of some terrible news. She knew of no women in David's life. She tried to dismiss the thought and turned to leave, then paused at the doorway.

“May I ask you something, Mr. Parkin?”

“Of course.”

“Who is Catherine?”

“Catherine is my housekeeper.”

MaryAnne appeared relieved and turned to go, but David stopped her.

“Any other inquiries, Miss Chandler?”

She smiled playfully. “Now that you ask, I have wondered what makes a man collect clocks? And so many of them at that.”

David studied her face, then leaned forward as if to reveal some great secret.

“It is because I need more time.”

MaryAnne met his eyes and, for the first time in David's presence, laughed. It was a beautiful, warm laugh and David
found it nourishing and laughed in turn.

“You have a wonderful laugh, Miss Chandler.”

“Thank you.”

“The truth is, I have wondered the same.” He walked over to a cuckoo clock and lifted a brass pine-cone-shaped weight. “I am sure there are those who think me mad. As a boy, I had a penchant for collecting things. When I turned twenty-one, I received the first clock of my collection. It was my father's pocket watch.” He suddenly stopped. “May I get you some tea? Peppermint?”

“Yes. Thank you.” She started to rise. “I shall get it.”

“Miss Chandler, please, sit down. I can manage.” He brought the tea service over to his desk, poured two cups of tea, handed one to MaryAnne, then sat down on the arm of a nearby chair.

“I only drink peppermint tea. It's the
one habit I borrowed from the English.”

“Peppermint tea is an American concoction.”

“Oh. Then I must just like it.”

MaryAnne laughed again.

“I lived in Santa Rosa, California, at the time—when I turned twenty-one,” he clarified. “It was the year my father died. It was also the same year that I first donned a pair of eyeglasses and acknowledged the creeping vines of age that entwine our lives.”

MaryAnne nodded.

David looked back at a row of clocks. “I have wondered if I am deluding myself with these, that I am buying time—surrounding myself with man-made implements of immortality.” He looked back at MaryAnne. “Whatever the reason, my fascination has grown into a full-blown obsession. My home is besieged with them.”

“I would like to see—” MaryAnne
stopped herself midsentence at the realization that she had just invited herself to a man's home.

“I would like to show you,” David answered. He sat back in his chair and slowly sipped his tea. “I am curious, Miss Chandler. Do you like it here?”

“Here?”

“At my company.”

“Very much, I think. More so than my other employment.”

“You do not seem to socialize much with the other secretaries on the floor.”

“You do not employ me to socialize.”

David smiled. “The proper answer,” he replied. “You work hard for nobility.”

MaryAnne gazed at him. “Are you teasing me?”

He quickly set down his cup, anxious that he might have offended her again. “No. Not at all.”

She took a sip of tea to hide her smile, then cradled the cup in her hands.

“I have always had to work hard, Mr. Parkin. My father left England because he had been disinherited for marrying my mother—a common woman of whom my grandparents disapproved. We had little when we arrived in America and less when my father passed away. As soon as I was able, I had to assist in my family's support. My mother passed on two years ago. So I am alone now.”

“Have you any siblings?”

“I have a brother. But he returned to England more than six years ago. He sent money for a while—when times were better.”

David quietly digested the information, then rested his chin on the back of his clasped hands. “May I ask you something of a personal nature?”

She hesitated. “. . . Yes.”

“Are there men in your life?”

“Men?”

“Suitors.”

She hesitated again, embarrassed. “There are a few I cannot seem to discourage.”

“That is your goal? With men?”

“With these men. I know them too well to marry them, Mr. Parkin.”

David nodded, then set down his tea. “Miss Chandler, I would prefer that you not call me Mr. Parkin.”

“What would you have me call you?”

“David. Please call me David.”

She considered the request. “I do not think I would feel comfortable in front of my coworkers.”

David sighed. “I would not want you to feel uncomfortable, Miss Parkin.”

“Miss Parkin?”

His face turned bright crimson as he suddenly realized his slip. “Miss Chandler,” he stammered.

Suddenly the amusement faded from MaryAnne's eyes. She turned from him and stood.

“I must go.”

“Must you?”

“It would be best.”

There was an uncomfortable lull.

“I am sorry, MaryAnne. Perhaps I seem like your last supervisor who wanted you to sit on his lap.”

“No, I did not mean . . .”

“My intentions are honorable. I would never seek to take advantage. . . . It is just . . .”

MaryAnne stared at him with anticipation. He turned away from her gaze.

“I have never met anyone quite like you. I am nearly thirty-four and have no real lady friends. Not that there are not interested females. Unfortunately, there are too many.” He frowned. “They are attracted to money and status and cannot see my faults for my wealth. Though I have no doubt that marriage would open their eyes. His voice softened. “I feel very comfortable in your presence.”

MaryAnne glanced briefly into his eyes, but said nothing.

“I am very sorry, Miss Chandler, I have made you uncomfortable. Forgive me. I shall not broach the subject again.”

MaryAnne looked down. “Mr. Parkin, there are just things that—” She stopped herself midphrase. “I think that I must go now.”

She slowly walked over to the doorway, followed by David's sad stare. She stopped and looked back at him.

“Good day, Mr. Parkin.”

“Good day, Miss Chandler.”

Catherine pushed the drawing room door open with her shoulder and entered carrying a silver tray with a sterling tea service. The drapes were drawn tight and David sat on a haircloth love seat, staring into the crackling fire that provided the room's only illumination.

For Catherine bringing tea to the drawing
room was a familiar ritual, established years before David had purchased the house; in a sense, Catherine had come with the house. Her former employer, the mansion's previous owner, fleeing the cold Salt Lake City winters for the refuge of the southern Utah sun, had left behind Catherine, his young housemaid, and Mark, his footman, to consummate the sale of the property, then seek employment elsewhere. When David arrived, he found the house larger than he imagined and emptier than he expected. As he was now alone, he entreated the two to remain. They gladly accepted and quickly became part of his family. The first year, David had tried to persuade Catherine to call him by his first name, without success, and he eventually abandoned the undertaking.

“Excuse me, Mr. Parkin, I brought some tea.”

David turned, his trance seemingly broken. “Oh. Thank you.”

She left the service on a bird's-eye-maple parlor table next to his chair.

“Mr. Flake brought the French clock. I had him leave it in the parlor.” She turned to leave, then stopped. “Are you well, sir?”

He sighed. “I am well enough, I suppose. Thank you for asking.”

She turned again to leave.

“Catherine.”

“Yes, sir.”

“May I ask you something?”

“Certainly.”

“As a woman . . . you being a woman . . .”

Catherine looked at him blankly.

“I meant . . . Oh, I sound foolish. How shall I ask this?” He appeared flustered with his inability to communicate his question. “What kind of man am I?”

Catherine looked confused. “I do not know how to answer that.”

“I mean . . . do women, would a woman, find me attractive?”

“You are very handsome.”

“I do not mean quite that. I mean . . . am I the kind of man a woman would want to marry? Or am I too long alone? Am I too rough? Do I say the wrong things?” His brow furled. “I need not ask that.” David looked down. “I suppose it is no secret that I am fond of MaryAnne. Everyone seems to know it but her. Or perhaps she does not wish to know. Have you met MaryAnne?”

Catherine tilted her head thoughtfully. “I have only seen her from a distance, though Mark tells me she is very pleasant.”

“Yes. She is very pleasant. She always says the right thing—has the proper answer.” He took a sip of tea. “A skill I obviously lack.”

Catherine smiled kindly. “Mr. Parkin, you are a very good and kind man. Any woman would be fortunate to have you.”

David looked up. “Thank you, Catherine.”

“Good night, sir.”

“Good night, Catherine.”

She stopped at the threshold. “I spoke forthright, sir. Any woman would consider herself fortunate.”

“Thank you,” he repeated softly, then turned back toward the fire and lost himself in his thoughts.