Authors: Cindy Davis
Final Masquerade (15 page)
In the intersection outside the park, a horn honked. She stiffened, clutched the van's door handle, and turned to look across the street. A gnarled elderly woman grasping a wooden cane was hobbling across the street. Traffic from five directions was at a standstill. One driver leaned out his window hollering for her to get her feeble ass out of the road. Paige shook her head, disgusted. Then she dropped her eyes, ashamed because she'd once been in the same situation, thumping her fist angrily on the steering wheel as an old woman had held up traffic in Santa Barbara.
Traffic resumed as the woman tottered onto the sidewalk in front of a shop called Maria's Emporium. Unable to control the compulsion, Paige crossed the street, stepped inside, and was immediately overwhelmed with the scents of potpourris and incense, a world with which she was earnestly familiar, a habit she'd been encouraged to stimulate nearly from birth. She roamed the aisles picking up items, smelling others, purchasing nothing but a handful of postcards, a rose air freshener, and a newspaper.
Her van stood alone, separated by several spaces from other vehicles, exactly the way she'd left it. Safely inside, Paige selected the colorful rose garden postcard and inserted its two bottom corners into a space between the rubber gasket and the glass at the lower edge of the window above her table. She set the air freshener inside the tiny sink and sat to read the
Kansas City Star
.
It was nearly noon before she closed the paper with a sigh of satisfaction, because she finally knew what to do: she'd stay here in this beautiful town with so many things to offer. She'd disappear into the landscape, become one of the residents, do things she'd always wanted, like ride on the Riverboat Casino, go to the Applefest and the Organic Market, maybe go back to school or, something she'd never done, get a job. Paige opened the paper again, to the “furnished apartments” ads.
Paige began the hunt for an apartment. During that time, she took a site at a campground on the outskirts of town. Camping was something Paige had done only once before, with the Girl Scouts at the age of twelve. Camp counselors had attempted to teach the girls about wilderness survival, but Paige had protested, much as she did whenever anyone tried to teach her anything. Besides, what good was wilderness living to girls from Beverly Hills and surrounding areas?
Paige spent the evenings beside a relaxing campfire that crackled happily, repelling mosquitoes and cooking her dinner. She read late into the nights—books on a wide variety of subjects: history, cooking, mystery, and adventure. Then she'd toss another log on the fire and stare into the lively yellow and orange flames, watching them spring into the air, then disappear, only to be replaced by others. The murmured sounds of her neighbors chatting around their own campfires, the smell of pine and hamburgers, and the taste of wood smoke made for a consummate thinking forum. She sat there long after everyone had gone into their campers, listening to the crickets and tree toads and something rustling in the bushes nearby. She sat quietly, waiting for her visitor to show himself. It wasn't long before a fat raccoon waddled from beneath a wild rhododendron. He poked and prodded, but finding nothing, drifted to another campsite.
She located a newly decorated studio apartment above a Chinese Restaurant at the intersection of W. 49th and Wornall Road. The smell of egg foo yung and fried rice permeated everything.
The neighborhood was perfect; a two-block walk to Loose Park to the south and a five-block walk northeast to another park called Southmoreland. It attracted a different, more sophisticated audience due to its proximity to the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art, and also featured summertime Shakespeare in the Park performances. Paige—now calling herself Ernestine Yates—was excited about the prospect of living in Kansas City.
From her apartment windows at the back of the building, she had a view of a small courtyard, littered with broken toys and rubbish. It held a network of clotheslines exactly like the one she'd stolen clothing back in Fort Smith. A narrow path used by the neighborhood kids meandered from her building and out between a pair at the opposite end.
She sighed and pulled down the shade. The view was the only negative thing here. The furnishings were simple but clean. The single bed with brass rails and creaky springs also served as a sofa. The dresser held a blue ceramic lamp and the collection of books she'd gathered on her trip. Paige's postcards were fanned out on the coffee table. A pair of tall stools tucked under a bar that stretched into the living area. The kitchen held a two burner stove, small refrigerator and tiled countertop between them, much like the interior of her van, which now sat collecting dust in a nearby parking lot with a ‘For Sale’ sign in its front window, and a price $2200 more than Crazy Ed had asked. Scrawled in the space where a telephone number would normally be was, ‘inquire 3657 W. 49th St. apartment 302'. Paige didn't see the need for a phone, not expecting or wanting, anyone to call.
More changes were in store. At a hairdresser two blocks south of her apartment she acquired a chic new style and color—her birth color, auburn—a far cry from the near-black Stefano had coerced her into because he insisted she look Italian.
From there, a lively step took her to the grocery store where she bought ingredients to make macaroni and cheese. Carrying several bags, Paige stepped into the bright sunshine feeling like a new woman. For a moment she stood on the sidewalk. People separated to go around her. She lifted her face to the wonderful afternoon air.
As it often did, the growl of a large motor downshifting at the intersection made her spin around. A bright yellow tractor-trailer was easing through the green light. Chris!
Run away!
Run to him!
While her emotions warred with each other, Paige did nothing, plastic grocery bags dangling like Christmas ornaments from her fingers. Was it him? It couldn't be. He couldn't miss her standing there like a statue.
The bags tumbled from her fingers to the sidewalk. Paige ran, vaguely hearing glass breaking behind her. She leaped off the sidewalk waving both arms in the air. “Chris! Stop!” The bumblebee yellow truck rumbled past.
A blue sedan gave a long beep. She glanced down at the bumper touching the backs of her knees. The driver pounded the windshield and waved for her to get out of the way.
As the yellow semi slowed and its right-turn blinker came on, she dropped her hands to her sides and shuffled back to the sidewalk, eyes still watching the truck, now two blocks away.
If it was Chris, why didn't he see her standing there? If he'd come to KC looking for her, surely he'd be scanning the sidewalks. Probably it wasn't him at all. She shook her head. The license plates had been the white and blue sported by the state of Texas. Weren't they?
A woman held out her bags. “You two have an argument, dear?"
Paige forced her glance to the present. She was unable to speak and merely shook her head and took the bags from the outstretched fingers.
The scent from the Chinese restaurant made her realize she'd walked all the way home. She laid her new books on the table and frowned thinking about the fifteen pounds she'd gained, but also liking the way she looked, so different from the spindly creature who wore string bikinis and strapless evening gowns. Nowadays, her lone evening gown, purchased at the Blue Sparrow Boutique four blocks away, was pale blue with a hint of a bustle and an empire waist. She wore it Friday night to a performance at the Starlight Theatre.
Les Miserables
, one of her—and Stefano's favorites.
During intermission, she'd gone outdoors to stretch her legs and get a drink of water. A tall, distinguished man with black hair going to gray at the temples stood on the sidewalk, raptly smoking a Turkish cigarette. He watched the passing traffic with an odd intensity.
When she stepped outside, he turned and began watching her with the same interested focus he gave the passing cars. He was at least ten years her senior and seemed to be alone. She found herself moving closer for a glance at his ring hand, but the bell sounded, beckoning them back inside the theater.
Paige reached her seat first. She slipped in as he passed, moving down the aisle to a seat near the front, not speaking to or acknowledging the people seated on either side.
After the performance, she waited on the sidewalk, but the crowd was too thick and she couldn't see him.
He remained at the forefront of her mind all week. Why, she didn't know. How often lately had she vowed to be through with men? It was at exactly that time that Chris’ face always popped into her head. His expression oscillated between smiling and angry, between tender and evil. Inevitably she ended up burying her head in her pillow and crying herself to sleep.
The following Friday evening, in spite of her inner warnings, Paige slipped into her gown and went to the theater. She was so intent locating the back of her mystery man's head in the audience that she missed most of the show. He didn't seem to be there, and didn't appear on the sidewalk during intermission either.
Stupid girl.
Sometimes Paige walked north along Pennsylvania Avenue. The smells of tobacco and newsprint assailed her nostrils on one corner; she stopped to buy a newspaper. The sweet aromas from the bakery on the corner drew her like a magnet. Most days she managed to pass by without going in.
Beside the bakery was Baxter's Book Shop. The double doors stood open, a pocked brick with mortar caked on two sides propped against the bottom of each. Paige went in and stopped, a five-foot square area was the only spot where a person didn't have to turn sideways to move. She stood absorbing the familiar ambrosia, the allure of other worlds, the taste of something woody and peaceful, drawing a nod of understanding from the shopkeeper, Shamus Baxter. The place attracted Paige almost as forcibly as the scent of sugar and cinnamon from next door.
"Mornin', missy.” Shamus gave his usual greeting. He was a dedicated book dealer, seventy-three and never married, at least not to a woman. Shamus admitted being wed to his books.
"Good morning, Mr. Baxter. What's new back there?” She leaned on her elbows and peered into the dimly lit space behind the counter. Entombed behind a mountainous stack of novels, it seemed as though he'd never paw his way through them all. She was certain he wouldn't because as fast as he examined, priced, and put them on the shelves, he purchased more.
"Here's a signed copy of
The Shining
, but look at what some idiot did, they dog-eared the corners of the pages. That simple act takes this from a
mint
Stephen King to merely a
good
one."
At one time Paige had believed books were valuable only if old and in pristine condition, but over the weeks Shamus had taught her that wasn't necessarily true. A first edition King brought as much or more than a Dashiel Hammett. “The book world is a wondrous and confusing entity,” Shamus was fond of saying.
"Hey, missy. How about doing an old man a favor?” He hobbled to his tall stool and wrestled his arthritic body onto it. “I have a customer coming in this afternoon for this book.” He opened a locked glass cabinet with purple veined hands, and withdrew a book wrapped in brown paper. Affixed to it was a yellow Post-It note and the boldly penned price of $125. “Problem is, I have to be at an estate sale at two. Old guy bought the farm and the wife is disposing of his library. I need someone to sit here and—"
"Say no more. I'll come back in time."
"I will pay you $8 an hour,” he offered, proudly.
Paige smiled.
She had little knowledge of the book world, not in the sense of valued first editions, although Shamus was gradually indoctrinating her. He spent hours showing her embossed endpapers, smudge marks, cut-ins, typos, and even more time explaining Huxfords Old Book Value Guide. “The Blue Book of the literary world,” he called it. It was prohibitively expensive and continually out of date, such was the demand for collectible books.
She'd developed a daughterly love for this wizened old man, a rapport she'd never felt with anyone before. Paige spent many hours here, talking, reading, and frequently buying something he promised would “gain in value through the years".
She'd agreed to watch the shop the following morning, glad Shamus felt comfortable leaving the place in her hands. He disentangled himself from the mountain of books and came around the counter. He rummaged under the register for his checkbook, which disappeared into the back pocket of his rumpled slacks. “See you in a few minutes,” he said, and was gone.
Between customers, she waved the feather duster around until she choked, then waited for it all to settle so she could sweep the warped hardwood floors. Finally she perched on the rickety stool with a book, but
A Girl's Guide to Hunting and Fishing
wasn't what she'd expected. Rather than an introduction to another sphere of life, it was a chronicle of a girl's coming of age. As Paige went to replace it on the shelf in the back of the room, the squeak of the door announced someone had come in. She took time to rearrange some titles, knowing that few people came into a bookstore expecting it to be a quick trip.
Stealthy footsteps moved down the aisle toward her. Paige's adrenaline erupted like a bonfire and rocketed into her limbs. She ducked between the
western
and
science fiction
shelves and peered across the top of a row of Zane Greys.
From her location she could see nothing. A tickle came to her nose. She pushed a palm against it but the sensation grew. She had to sneeze. The urge grew until she could hold it no longer.
"Are you all right?” came a soothing, deep voice from behind her.
She whirled around and sneezed again. When she opened her eyes she was face to distinguished face with the man from the theater.
"Y-yes. Thank you. The dust.” Paige took several breaths, willing the feeling to go away.
