Astor Place Vintage: A Novel (46 page)

“FORGOT SOMETHING,” I
said, entering the now familiar lobby without slowing down. The doorman nodded to me without bothering to call up. The elevator doors slid open as if waiting for my return and took me straight to Jane Kelly’s floor. I rang the doorbell. Rang again. A short woman in a white nurse’s outfit opened the door, and I asked to speak with Mrs. Kelly.

“She’s sleeping,” the nurse said.

“Then is her grandson here?”

“Mr. Kelly? He just left for the airport.”

“Oh, right.” The reality of “Mr. Kelly’s” absence hit me. Our promising relationship already seemed, in retrospect, to end up being a long-distance lack of relationship. “I should’ve called ahead, but I really do need to see her.”

“Well . . . let me check.”

The nurse didn’t ask me in, but she did leave the door open. I took the liberty of following her to the living room. Mrs. Kelly sat on the couch with her eyes closed and her head tilted back.

“She’s sleeping,” I said with disappointment.

The nurse turned, surprised to find me right behind her. “Maybe you would like to leave a note?”

“I don’t think so. I have a situation—”

Mrs. Kelly’s voice cut me off. “What situation?”

I silently cheered. “Sorry if I woke you.”

“I wasn’t asleep,” she said, though her eyes were still closed. “What situation?”

I took a step closer. “I have a problem, and I think you might be part of the solution. It’s hard to explain.” I paused, unsure where to begin. “You see, I found a journal among your things in the trunk.”

Her eyes opened a crack. “You woke me for that?”

“It was sewn inside a fur muff. Did you know it was there?”

“Why, is it worth something?”

“Moneywise? Maybe a hundred dollars; that’s not why I’m here. I’ve been reading it.”

“If that’s the reason you barged in—”

“Please, Mrs. Kelly. This could be very important.”

“I think you should come back later,” the nurse said. “Mrs. Kelly needs her rest.”

“Weren’t you going to make me something to eat?” Mrs. Kelly snapped.

As the nurse left the room, I gave her a nod of sympathy. Then I sat on the chair next to the couch. “So I’m guessing you never read the journal. It was written in 1907 and 1908.”

Mrs. Kelly didn’t react. Her mind seemed to be somewhere else. It was odd to think this was the same person whose birth I’d just read about in Olive’s last entries. Loose skin sagged under her cheekbones and jaw. Red-rimmed, glassy eyes sank deep in the sockets. What was it like to look at yourself in the mirror every day and see you’d turned into an old lady? Not that it happened overnight, but still. I couldn’t imagine getting used to it. “I’d been
assuming the woman who wrote it was your mother. Olive Westcott. Then I realized she wasn’t.”

“Look, young lady, I’m not interested in going down memory lane.”

My cell phone signaled a text. Bettina? Jeff? I didn’t bother to look. “I’m sorry if I’m raising an uncomfortable subject. Trust me, there’s a good reason why I need to talk with you. Do you know why the journal was sewn inside the muff?”

“I don’t see how it’s any of your business.”

“Actually, it is my business. That’s exactly why I need to talk to you, Mrs. Kelly. My business. Today your grandson told me you once lived in my building. At first it seemed like a pretty big coincidence.”

“Why? I was searching online for a place to sell my clothes. When I saw the address, I chose your store.”

“I know, Rob explained that, but what really surprised me was finding out you once lived in the apartment above the store. I suspect you were born there. Would I be right?”

She scowled with impatience. “Will you get to the damn point?”

That wasn’t a denial, so I went on. “Maybe you don’t realize I also happen to live there.” That didn’t get a response, either. “After reading the last entry of the journal, I found out the building was owned by a man named Mr. Vogel. That was when everything fell into place. Olive sewed the journal inside the muff, and no one was supposed to take it out unless there was a fight over Mr. Vogel’s will. Since it was still inside the muff when I found it, I’m guessing the will was never contested. Mr. Vogel’s daughter—you—stood to inherit some of his real estate. So I’m thinking he might have left my building to you. Would I be right?”

“Why does it matter?”

“You don’t know?”

“I’m not a mind reader.”

“But you do own the building.”

“You should moonlight as a detective.”

“So you’re my landlord—lady.”

“If you’ve come to complain about your apartment, you can forget about it. Take it to Chuck. That’s why I hired him, so I wouldn’t have tenants barging into my living room complaining. I got fed up dealing with you people decades ago. Roaches. Plumbing problems. Noisy neighbors. It’s an old building! No one expected those tenements to last ten years, much less a hundred. You want new plumbing? Move to Trump Tower.”

“That’s not why I—”

“I don’t care! Now I’m tired,” she said, closing her eyes again. “Would you get my nurse? I need to lie down.”

“I spoke with Chuck. He was no help. And if I have to give up that retail space, I could very well lose my business.”

“So don’t give it up.”

“But I have to. You’re evicting me! I have thirty days to get out.”

“Didn’t you pay your rent?”

“Of course I did. My rent is always on time for both the store and the apartment. I’m a great tenant. I’ve never complained about anything. And it’s going to be impossible to find something in the same area for what I’m paying.”

“Then you must not be paying enough.”

“Mrs. Kelly, the East Village isn’t SoHo or the West Village. I see empty storefronts around. Plus, I should mention, I won’t be able to sell your things if I go out of business.”

That announcement motivated her to look straight at me for the first time since I’d entered the room. That was when the shiny gold heart dangling from my neck caught her attention.

“What are you wearing?” She sat up straight as her frail little skeleton would allow and put on a thick pair of reading glasses.

“I found it. In a hatbox. In your storage room.”

“I’ve been looking for that locket for years.”

I undid the clasp and handed Mrs. Kelly the necklace. Her trembling fingers had some trouble opening the heart. I offered to
help. She ignored me and eventually got it open. When Mrs. Kelly looked at the photographs, her eyes glistened, and I thought she might even shed a tear. “If you don’t mind,” she said in a gentle soft voice I didn’t know she had, “this is something I’d like to keep.”

“Of course,” I said. “It’s yours.”

“Olive gave it to me. I used to bother her all the time because I wanted it for myself. She liked to tease me that I’d have to wait until she died.” Jane Kelly smiled at the memory. “I didn’t have to, though. She gave it to me as a wedding present, so I could wear it the day I married. She even replaced the picture of her own mother and put in the only picture she had of . . .”

She actually choked up. I waited to see if she would cry, but no tears emerged. One or two trickled down my cheek, though, sentimental fool that I am. I wiped them away and made myself press for more details while I had the chance. “Can you tell me how it was that Angelina . . . your mother . . . how she died?”

“Influenza. 1918.”

“The epidemic. It must’ve been devastating. I’m sorry.”

“What’s it matter now? I’m almost dead myself!” She clicked the locket shut.

I leaned forward and spoke gently. “And I suppose your father . . . he didn’t step forward? So Olive took care of you?”

She sighed as if answering me were a defeat. “I was ten. Olive was like a mother to me. Never had her own children.”

“I imagine she was focused on her career.”

“Oh, yes. She was a buyer at Lord and Taylor for years. Suits, coats, dresses, gowns . . .” Mrs. Kelly stared ahead while rubbing the smooth gold heart with her thumb. “I was always afraid of losing this locket, and then it disappeared. Never thought I’d see it again.”

“I’m glad I found it,” I said quietly.

Mrs. Kelly put the locket on the coffee table. Then she looked at me like she didn’t know who I was. “What is it you want from me?”

“We were talking about the apartment. My eviction.” The subject seemed so crass.

“I’m an old lady. An old lady shouldn’t have to think about these things.”

“I’m sorry.”

She took off her glasses, rubbed her eyes, hesitated, put the glasses back on, and then said in a grudging tone: “Get me the phone.”

I sprang up and looked around the room but didn’t see one.

“Over there, on my desk.”

While crossing the room I took in the view and saw the Flatiron standing there like an old friend. I grabbed the phone, a black push-button from the eighties with an extension cord that reached across the room, and placed it on the coffee table next to the necklace.

She punched in a number while muttering something about not being dead yet. Sitting back down on the edge of my seat, I tried to calm myself as the ringing continued. I feared the call would end up in voice mail. Then I heard a voice answer.

“Chuck?” she barked. “East Fourth Street. What’s happening with that ground-floor retail space?”

I could hear him talking but couldn’t make out what he said.

“Right . . . okay . . . and . . . ? I’m not so sure I like that idea. Because restaurants are a fire hazard, that’s why. So who is it? What? Why? You’re being greedy. Then why thirty days? Find someone!”

I heard Chuck arguing on the other end.

“Fine, so when you have someone, let me know. In the meantime, renew it for one year at seven percent. What? Look, Chuck, I have another call coming in, gotta go. Just handle it!” She slammed down the receiver. “If it’s not one problem, it’s another.”

My heart pounded as I waited for her to tell me what I was pretty sure I’d heard.

“He wants you out,” she said. “Thinks we can get considerably
more, especially if we rent to a restaurant, and he’s probably right. Lucky for you, he hasn’t lined up another tenant yet. The economy isn’t exactly roaring back to life, so why should I let the space go empty? I’m raising your rent seven percent and giving you another year.”

“Thank you,” I said. “You’re saving my life, really. This is a huge relief.”

She waved away my gratitude. “Lots of restaurants moving into the neighborhood, driving up the rents. A bar wouldn’t be so bad . . . those college kids like to drink. You should open a bar.”

“I don’t know anything about running a bar.”

“Times are always changing,” she said. “You gotta keep up or you’ll fall behind.”

“You’re right. It’s true.” What I really needed to do was get over my revulsion of polyester. Stock up on punk, grunge, one-piece jumpsuits, Joan Collins power dresses with oversize shoulder pads. Whether I liked that clothing or not, eighties fashions qualified as vintage for twenty-year-olds, and twenty-year-olds made up the biggest demographic in the neighborhood. I’d probably been fighting the truth because it made me feel old, as if my stubbornness would keep time from moving forward.

“And no promises for next year when that lease comes up, young lady. Don’t think you’ll be able to sweet-talk my grandson. His sister’s a lawyer, and she’ll be taking charge of this headache.”

“I wouldn’t think of asking any more favors.” I’d been there, done that with Jeff. “I just want a fair deal. And a year gives me a fighting chance.”

I’d put more pieces on eBay. Blog and tweet and get a damn Facebook page if it would help drive those online sales. And maybe I should look into Brooklyn. Stop being such a snob about it. Didn’t Olive learn to adjust to her new circumstances?

“And while you’re at it,” Mrs. Kelly said, “make sure you get a good price on my clothes.”

“I will, don’t worry.”

I wanted to hug her but didn’t take her for the hugging type. I wanted to hug Angelina and Olive, too, but that wasn’t going to happen. Maybe I’d at least get to hug Rob at some future date. After all, she’d noticed something going on between us—enough to think he’d be vulnerable to sweet talk.

“Oh, one other thing,” I said, taking the journal from my hobo bag. “I was going to hand this over to Rob, but I think you’d find it really interesting.”

“Please don’t,” she snapped as I was about to set it on the coffee table. “I’m trying to get rid of things, not take them back.”

“But this is Olive’s account of her first year in New York. There’s a lot about Angelina, too, and how they became friends. I think you’d be fascinated—and it would warm your heart.”

“Who ever gave you permission to read that, anyway?”

Our bonding time was obviously over. Time to make a gracious exit. “I should probably get to the store.”

“One more thing.”

“Yes?” I hoped she’d have something to tell me about Olive or Angelina. Like some gossip about Olive’s love life, perhaps a trip to San Francisco to see Joe.

“Will you get that nurse in here?”

“Of course.” I hadn’t thought to ask if she ever met her Italian grandparents. And what about the hat shop? Did that ever happen? Maybe I’d be able to find out more another day. Or maybe those details would remain among the many mysteries of the past. I entered the kitchen, where the nurse was emptying a package of frozen peas into boiling water. “Mrs. Kelly needs you,” I said.