All for a Story
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All for a Story
Copyright © 2013 by Allison Pittman. All rights reserved.
All cover photographs and illustrations are the property of their respective copyright holders and all rights are reserved. Vintage woman © peter zelei/iStockphoto; US Capitol © Uschools University Images/iStockphoto; bench © Cindy Singleton/iStockphoto; decorative motif © Jamie Farrant/iStockphoto; retro pattern © Kim Sohee/iStockphoto; retro hairstyle © Anna Bryukhanova/Istockphoto.
Designed by Ron Kaufmann
Edited by Kathryn S. Olson
Published in association with William K. Jensen Literary Agency, 119 Bampton Court, Eugene, Oregon 97404.
Scripture quotations are taken from the
Holy Bible
, King James Version.
All for a Story
is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Pittman, Allison.
All for a story / Allison Pittman.
page cm
ISBN 978-1-4143-6681-4 (sc)
1. Women journalists —Washington (DC) —Fiction. 2. Women journalists —History —20th century —Fiction. 3. Newspapers —History —20th century —Fiction. I. Title.
PS3616.I885A793 2013
813'.6 —dc23 2013019648
ISBN 978-1-4143-8903-5 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-4143-8433-7 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-4143-8904-2 (Apple)
Build: 2013-09-13 09:00:09
Love knows nothing but moment to moment.
Be honest and true in each one.
ZELDA OVENOFF
CONTENTS
Monkey Business: “Hop On Over, Friends”
Monkey Business: “A Monkey in Mourning”
Monkey Business: “All the Dirt on Anti-Flirt”
Monkey Business: “Monkey Culpa”
An exciting preview of Allison Pittman’s next book,
All for a Sister
Many, many thanks go to . . .
Mikey and boys, for being such a wonderfully self-reliant family
My Monday night group, for your unfailing support and prayers and love
Bill, for having the best ideas
My Tyndale family, for making me feel so safe, always
The PITT crew, for answering ridiculous questions and keeping secrets
Beth and Matt, for lending me the essence of your polydactyl cat
Rachel, my Canadatwin, for your awesomeness in general
Above all, thank you, Jesus, my Savior and Friend, for bringing all of these wonderful people into my life. Because of you, I am never alone.
“Hop On Over, Friends”
A funny thing happened the other day when this little Monkey was making her way down a certain street. Seems the heel of my shoe was broken clean off. And I was proudly sporting my brand-new pair of vermilion patent-leather pumps. Cost me more than a month’s rent, these shoes did, and here I was having to hobble. (What does the wounded turkey do? Hobble, hobble!)
Now, some monkeys might do fine in the trees, but I prefer the dance floor of a hot jazz jungle. So, lucky for me, I found the perfect little place to make everything better. Sure, I had to make it past a couple of gorillas, but what do you expect? When paradise is waiting in the treetops, it’s worth a little bit of a pat-down in the lower regions.
But let me tell you this: be sure to bring your bananas. Bunches of them. You know the old saying about how the cobbler’s children have no shoes? Well, yours might not either after a trip to this little shop. Whatever they’re using to tan the leather is quality stuff, but you’ll need the kind of scratch that doesn’t jingle. Of course that means you’ll be toe-to-toe with the king of the jungle, sharing a watering hole with a few elected big cats. Maybe even a few donkeys and elephants.
With water this cool and jazz this hot, it’s a sure bet this little Monkey will be swinging through the jungle vines and landing in this tree house again.
I am really only myself when I’m somebody else whom I have endowed with these wonderful qualities from my imagination.
ZELDA FITZGERALD
WASHINGTON, DC, 1923
IT WAS JUST PAST DAWN when she hammered the final key on her portable typewriter, finishing up that week’s installment of Monkey Business. Good thing, too, because the next sound to be heard above her percolating coffee was the familiar, timid knock followed by “Miss Bisbaine?” spoken in a voice not quite conquered by puberty.
Monica cinched the silk belt of her robe, not wanting to send the poor kid into some kind of preadolescent stroke, and opened the thin door of her small apartment to reveal Trevor Kelly shifting nervously from foot to foot.
“Perfect timing, as always,” Monica said, stepping back to allow the boy ample space to walk in without touching her.
“Really?” Trevor looked around the room, obviously trying to avoid seeing both the unmade bed and the undressed tenant. “Because I thought I was running late.”
“That’s why you’re perfect, love. I’ve just now finished. Coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
The boy had just turned fifteen and no doubt had been given the tale that the stuff would stunt his growth. She wanted to tell him his fears were unfounded; after all, he loomed a full head above her, but his bony shoulders and scrawny neck testified to a weight that barely topped a hundred pounds.
“Milk, then?” The moment she offered, she realized the chances of finding a clean glass in which to serve it were slim at best.
“Like I said, I’m running late. . . .”
“All right, all right.” He was a good kid, this one, but no sense of life. She shuffled over to her typewriter and lifted the foot to release the single sheet on the roller. “Let me give it one last read.”
She pulled up the window shade just enough to illuminate the page and let her eyes —still stinging from a late night of smoke and booze —skim the column, making sure she’d given enough clues to attract interested parties but not enough to expose them outright. Satisfied, she gave the piece over to her first reader.
“My guess is upstairs from some shoe repair shop?” Trevor’s wide eyes awaited her confirmation.
“Too easy?”
The kid scrunched his face, thinking. “Maybe instead of saying your shoe broke, something like, ‘I had a bit of a problem with my walking paws.’ Same number of letters.”
“Do monkeys have paws?”
“Do you pay for hooch with bananas?”
“You have a point.”
She grabbed a blue wax pencil from the cup on the table, drew a line through the sentence, and wrote Trevor’s suggestion in the margin, initialing the page with a flourish before handing it back. “Good job. We wouldn’t want anyone getting undue attention.”
“No, ma’am.” Trevor took the paper and placed it in a cardboard folder which he then tucked into the canvas messenger bag slung around his neck.
Meanwhile, Monica tried to look nonchalant as she riffled through her purse, then the little velvet drawstring bag on her bureau, and finally the preserves jar on her top kitchen shelf in a fruitless search for a nickel. Finding none, she offered a smile instead. “Sorry, kid. Double it next time?”
He shrugged. “That’s okay.”
“Just look extra puppy-dog pathetic when you hand it over to Mr. Moore.”
Trevor snorted, and Monica understood. He’d have as much chance getting a nickel from Mr. Moore as finding a cherry blossom in November.
Once he left, she shuffled down the hall to the common bathroom that served the tenants in the four single-room apartments on her floor. One benefit of keeping irregular hours came in having the place to herself at these crucial times. Mr. Davenport, a high school math teacher, had probably left before Trevor took the first step in the stairwell. Mrs. Kinship worked overnight as a janitress and was already tucked in bed. Finally, a girl named Anna.
Girl
might not be the best word, since she had to be nearly thirty, but she was soft and pale and quiet, eking out a modest living from her job in the back room of the public library. She kept precise hours, leaving the house at seven thirty every morning and returning at six fifteen every evening, Monday through Saturday. When she spoke, she spoke in whispers, and she scowled at those who didn’t follow suit.
Monica closed herself inside and sent a silent apology to Mrs. Kinship as the pipes groaned before the onslaught of water. She added a generous amount of sweet-scented bath salts before
climbing into the tub, where she ducked her head under the spigot, hoping to wash away the pounding in her head.
When she got back to her room, she set a new pot of coffee to percolate on the electric hot plate and rummaged through her wardrobe and select piles of clothing on the floor to put together an outfit appropriate for the day, finding a relatively clean pair of thick cotton stockings, a long wool skirt, and an argyle sweater. With a pair of sturdy brown shoes she could pass as a college girl, maybe, albeit without the usual accompanying vivacity.
