All for a Story (36 page)

“I’m just beginning to think she’s not the right girl for me.”

“And that is just the important word.
Girl.
She may be twenty years old, but she is, in so many ways, still a child.”

And in so many ways a woman.

“Maybe I’m the childish one,” he said. “I should know better.”

“Love knows nothing but moment to moment. Be honest and true in each one, and expect nothing more from her.”

“Is that how it was with you and Uncle Edward?”

She closed her eyes for a moment before responding. “Yes. And we had our measure of happiness.”

He didn’t believe her and said so. “If you loved each other and you were both alone, why didn’t you —?”

“Marry? It is sometimes more complicated. Edward had been alone for so long. A bachelor. And I think he was set in his ways. Not willing, I think, to give up those quiet moments of his life.”

“But did you ever ask him?”

She looked shocked. “To marry me?”

“Not exactly, but hint. That you wanted more.”

“My life, all I have wanted was my own home, with my own
man. Always I lived on the edge of somebody else’s family. And here I had this little bit. I was afraid if I asked for more, I would lose what little I had. It had to be enough for me.”

“So, regrets?”

“We were patient with each other. Like the Good Book says. Love is patient. And love is kind. That’s what we were to each other. We didn’t know he had so little time. Maybe we should have. We were old. Not so old, but not young like you two.”

The weight of her wisdom wrapped around him, anchored by God’s Word. Patience. Kindness. Both thrown away on that train-station bench.

Zelda’s hand was covering his again, this time warm from her coffee cup. “You have time. To wait, until each of you can fully be what the other needs. And right now there is time for you to make right whatever it is you think you have done wrong.”

“Right now? I don’t think she wants to talk to me.”

“She wants to. I know this more than anything.”

Zelda lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it before standing to gather her purse and coat and hat.

“I will see you in the morning, Mr. Moore. Good luck.”

He didn’t need luck; he needed grace. From God for his behavior, from Monica for his judgment. Left alone after Zelda’s departure, he laid his glasses on the table and buried his face in his hands.

“Father —” He barely had the word out of his mouth before an overwhelming longing for his parents washed away the rest of his prayer. They’d both been gone for years, and he’d made several life decisions without their counsel, but something about this, the deep-down desire to create a new family with this woman, made him feel so utterly alone. He looked up, pressed his knuckles to his lips, and thought about Zelda’s final, loving gesture. Here he’d
been given the wisdom of a woman, spoken with the breath of a mother, and if he listened close enough, he would no doubt hear the words of his Father, too.

“Father, I love her.” Hadn’t he spoken these very words aloud just days before?
I love her, and I desire her, and even if she loves me, I don’t know that she is what you want for me. And I’ve tried, always, to do what you would have me do. You’ve taken my mother and my father and my home and my past. I want her. Give her to me. Let her love me, and I promise she’ll love you, too.

Selfish, he knew, but how wrong could it be to care about a woman?

And yet he’d hurt her with a single careless comment. How vain had he been to think his love alone could save her? That his forgiveness mattered, when it was God’s forgiveness she should be seeking?

Combing through their conversations, he tried to remember a single time he’d made it clear to her how the grace of God could bring the peace she must be seeking. They shared the orphan’s plight, but Max had the constant presence of a heavenly Father to turn to. Did she? He was fairly certain she did not, and it tore at him with an urgency beyond his own reconciliation with her. God had taken her father, her mother, her home, and her memories too. And he, Max, had fallen so short in showing her how God’s love —not his own —could take the place of all she’d lost.

If nothing else, he had to make that right. He had to talk to her tonight.

Nothing is a waste of time if you use the experience wisely.

AUGUSTE RODIN

DUSK LURKED by the time she walked into the common parlor, given three line changes taking the streetcar home from the train station. Whether or how Max got home, she didn’t know. Forget him if he hadn’t learned to always keep a stash of nickels for the car. Big romantic gesture, buying that ratty old chair. Foolish, stupid if it kept him stranded. Even more if he thought it was going to get him permanently hitched to her. She knew her value; she had a lot of things given to her by a lot of great guys. And he was ready to spend nine dollars on a piece of trash.

Then again, there was that moment, there on the bench in the train station after her little joke, when he’d looked at her like
she
was the piece of trash. Since when did a kiss mean you were ready to fall in love? Because if she knew nothing else about Max Moore, she knew he wasn’t one to toss that word around lightly. What would he have done if she’d said it back, if she’d thrown her arms around him like Mary Pickford in a final scene? Would
they be on a honeymoon before the week’s end? The thought was terrifying. Or at least it should be.

The parlor felt blessedly warm and welcoming the minute she walked in. Mr. Davenport had taken up residence in his favorite chair but had not yet begun playing his records. Instead, he sat reading a magazine and looked up with an air of relief when she walked through the door.

“Evening, Mr. D.”

“Ah, what a welcome sight you are, young lady.”

“Really?” He’d never made her feel welcome a moment in her life.

“Perhaps now, if the telephone rings, you can take the call.”

As if on cue, the phone jangled, and at his stern direction, Monica lifted the earpiece from its cradle. “Hello?”

“There’s my Mousie.”

Charlie, and from the richness of his speech, he’d been drunk for a while.

“What are you calling me for?”

“I can’t . . . since seein’ you that night. Did you get my flowers?”

Monica glanced in at the dining room table where Mrs. Kinship had added some greenery to the meager bouquet, creating quite a pleasing centerpiece.

“Yeah. Five roses. What a Rockefeller.”

“Come have a drink with me.”

“No.”

“Come dance with me.”

“Good-bye, Charlie.”

She hung up the phone and took off her hat and coat, hanging both on empty wooden hooks in the entryway. The flat, narrow box of her stories sat deep in one of the pockets, and there it would stay for now. She was exhausted, and the sofa in front of
the window loomed far more inviting than a trek to her room. The scent of Mrs. Kinship’s beef stew wafted from the kitchen, igniting her hunger. Twenty minutes until six meant so many minutes until supper. Until then she would collapse, her head on one of the embroidered pillows, her eyes closed, with Mr. Davenport reading aloud at her invitation.

Just as she sat, the phone jangled again. She and Mr. Davenport exchanged a commiserative look, and she dragged herself across the room to answer it, again.

“Mousie! Come dance with me.”

She could hear the music playing in the background, loud and lively. A familiar place to become lost. She should go. What else would be expected? Max’s words nibbled at her resolve, but not enough.

“Find another girl, Charlie.”

“C’mon, baby. You know there’s no one else even comes close.”

“And quit calling.”

“Then how ’bout I come over, huh? Like old times, sneakin’ up real quiet.”

“Not on your life.” But the line had gone dead.

Mrs. Kinship came out from the kitchen, brandishing a wooden spoon. “Is that fool calling again?”

“I’m sorry,” Monica said. “I’m sure he’ll get the message soon.”

“Well, I hope to goodness. What he’s doing to Mr. Davenport’s nerves.” She clucked her tongue. “Supper’s up in a few minutes, if you care to join us this evening.”

“Yes, thank you. I’m starved.”

“Well, it’s a good, hearty stew. Looks like you can use it.”

“Sister, you’ve no idea.”

“Why don’t you go on up to your room? I’ll bring you a tray.”

“Would you?” The offer alone lifted the weight of the day,
and the unprecedented friendliness warmed her as much as the food would.

“Let that phone ring itself silly. Never cared for them things anyway.”

As if on cue, the telephone answered the insult, jangling unapologetically.

Mrs. Kinship lunged for it. “Let me at that thing.”

“No,” Monica intervened. “He’s my problem.”

Determined to put Charlie off once and for all, she took a deep breath before answering with all the hostility she could muster.

“Monica?” The soft surprise in Max’s voice caught her off guard, and she grabbed the edge of the telephone table to keep herself steady.

“Oh, it’s you.”

“Is everything all right? You sound upset.”

“Of course. It’s just that we’re about to sit down to supper here.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t like the way we left things today.”

“Exactly what does that mean?”

“It means —” a long, crackling pause —“can I see you again tonight? Maybe you could save me a bowl of stew? Or we could meet each other somewhere?”

Monica twisted the telephone cord around her finger and gazed around the room. There was Mr. Davenport trying to appear absorbed in his magazine, even though his reading glasses hung from his vest pocket, and Mrs. Kinship tapping her spoon against her hip in a rhythm just short of menacing. Every inch of space was stuffed with furniture and carpets and knickknacks and rubber plants. It was soft and home, and she wanted him here, but not tonight. Not with the risk of Charlie making good
on his threat to come for a visit. It certainly wouldn’t do to have the two of them colliding on the front porch.

“I don’t think so,” she said finally. “It’s nothing to do with you. I’m just beat is all. It was quite a day.”

“That it was.” Though he spoke over the phone, she could picture him and knew a quick smile had punctuated the sentence. “But I don’t want to wait until tomorrow.”

“It’s already so late.”

“It’s not quite six o’clock. Even I’ve been known to stay up past suppertime. I’ll see you at eight.”

“They don’t like me to have —”

“I’ll bring dessert.”

For the second time in just a few minutes, she heard the phone line go dead in her ear.

She smiled weakly at Mrs. Kinship. “That was the nice one.”

Mrs. Kinship expressed a host of opinions in a single sniff before turning on her heel and walking back into the kitchen. Without a doubt, Monica knew she’d lost her chance at a cozy, comfortable supper upstairs. Sighing, she followed with Mr. Davenport on her heels into the kitchen, where they gathered around the small table. Mr. and Mrs. Grayson, the landlords, were apparently dining with friends, but Anna arrived as Mrs. Kinship set the steaming pot of stew in the middle of the table.

“Well,” she said, singling out Monica, “look who’s joining us this evening.”

“Exciting day at the library?” Immediately, Monica regretted the mocking tone in her voice. In many ways, she envied Anna’s job.

“Oh, you know,” Anna said. “Shelve one, shelved them all.” It was a joke Monica had coined not long after joining the household, and not a particularly funny one at that, yet Anna brought
it out regularly and still delivered it with a deep-set giggle. It was a great irony that Anna worked in the library without having a particular love of books. It was the quiet she sought, the peace and quiet. Monica often thought it was a waste.

Had the Graysons been home, they’d be eating in the dining room, but given their absence, supper was served in the kitchen, where they each took their familiar seats. Dinner was a silent affair, as most of them were whenever the elderly couple was not there to, if nothing else, speak with each other. Not an uncomfortable silence, though. Rather a familiar one, with compliments to the chef and observations of the weather bobbing to the surface.

What thoughts could possibly be roaming through the minds of these people, Monica could hardly imagine. She kept her demeanor calm, alternating bites of savory beef with those of softened potatoes or flavorful carrots. Each bite ushered in a different thought about a different man. Max was wonderful. Charlie could ruin everything. Kissing Max. Fending off Charlie. Kissing Max again. And again, maybe here in their very parlor, after everyone departed to their solitude. Unless Charlie showed up.

Occasionally the telephone would ring, setting everybody on edge but sending nobody to answer. If it was Max on the other end, perhaps he would become discouraged with his plan to visit. If it was Charlie? Well, at least he wasn’t on his way over yet.

“I’m afraid I need to run out for just a minute.” Monica patted her lips and chin with her napkin and set it on the table beside her.

“I thought you had company coming over,” Mrs. Kinship said as she began to clear the table.