The Ghost of Greenwich Village: A Novel (41 page)

The rain had stopped and the streets appeared rinsed clean.
The sunshine seemed washed, too, and now shone clearer and brighter. Every window and puddle glinted.

“Aren’t we two lucky girls?” said Gwendolyn as they strolled arm in arm. She drew Eve close, their upper arms pressed together. “To be young and healthy and living in Greenwich Village? What could be better?”

“Nothing,” said Eve. A rush of feeling moved through her, momentarily taking her breath away. “Absolutely nothing.”

   • • •

De Fief’s men knocked harder. They weren’t buying that she wasn’t home. Eve wondered if they’d been watching her, tracking her movements, and was grateful that at least Donald wasn’t around, because this might get ugly.

Eve picked up the registered letter lying on her nightstand. It had arrived yesterday, March 4, not as quickly as she’d anticipated, but no less serious for that. The landlord was demanding immediate payment of March’s rent, plus a five-hundred-dollar penalty for using the fireplace. How did he even know about that? She didn’t remember seeing anything about that in the lease, not that she’d read it very carefully. So naïve was she a year ago. Failure to pay at once would result in eviction and/or legal action, De Fief warned.

The banging continued and Highball decided she’d had it. She rose from her spot at Eve’s feet and made for the front door, barking.

“Coming,”
shouted Eve, over the din. She picked up the check from Full Circle. It was signed by Gwendolyn and made out for twelve hundred dollars. Though she was paying a hundred dollars a dress, an extremely generous amount, it was still far from what the men were after. It was something, though. So why was it so difficult to part with? Eve guessed because it would mean her mother’s dresses were really, truly gone. Taking them to the store had been only a step. Spending the money she’d gotten for
them made it seem final. She tried to shake off these thoughts. The dresses were just yards of fabric; they were not Penelope.

She pulled the dressing gown around her tightly and tucked her hair behind her ears. With all the banging and the barking, she almost didn’t hear the phone.

“Hello?”

“Eve?”

Eve pressed a hand to the ear without the phone. “I’m sorry, I’m having a hard time hearing you.” The person spoke but again, Eve couldn’t understand a word. “Who?”

“Orla.”

“Hang on, please.” She took the phone into the bathroom, away from the banging and yelling, and closed the door. She perched on the edge of the tub. “Yes?”

“I’ve been thinking about your proposal,” said Orla. “I have some problems with it.”

“Uh-huh,” said Eve, running her toe along the lines between the tiny black and white floor tiles.

“I have some concerns about its workability. And potential legal issues.”

“Mmmm.”

“However. They’re concerns we should talk about here at the office.”

“The office?”

“Well, if you’re working for me, that would be the most convenient place.”

“You’re hiring me?”

“On a trial basis. To see if we can make this thing work.”

“But I thought—I mean—”

“I wasn’t going to. But I gave it some thought and realized your proposal has possibilities. I also came to the conclusion that between your exploits as a crime-stopper and your takedown of that prima donna Bliss Jones, you’ve shown gumption I didn’t give you credit for. Now you’re delivering baked goods, which
shows humility and flexibility. Those are qualities I favor in an employee.”

“I see.”

“Then, as you suggested, I called Mark.” Eve wrinkled her nose. That hadn’t been a real suggestion. “He is not your biggest fan. And I got the feeling there was something he wasn’t telling me. But he did admit that no one has a stronger work ethic. And he says you are skilled at both writing and interviewing. Extremely skilled, in fact.” Orla paused. “He said, and I quote, ‘Tell Toulouse I wish her well.’ Mean anything to you?”

Eve felt a wave of gratitude for her former boss sitting in his little gray box uptown. “That was kind.”

“So—when can you come in?” asked Orla.

It took about two minutes from when she hung up the phone until she had endorsed the Full Circle check over to De Fief. She slipped it under the door, though it took at least ten seconds before the goons even noticed. At last they stopped banging and she called out to them in a loud, clear voice. “I know it’s not the full amount. But take it to show my good faith. And tell your boss he’ll have the rest within the week.” After several moments, she heard sounds of surprise and resignation before they shuffled off down the hall and Highball ran circles around the apartment, a victory lap celebrating her show of force.

I
t had been a start-and-stop early spring, but finally the weather turned warm, as if someone important had snapped his fingers. Coats came off and cherry blossoms exploded on the Village’s narrow streets.

Eve stood in the center of her closet, her brow furrowed in concentration. After the big sell-off, she didn’t have many dressy dresses left. She slipped on a tea-length plum sheath and turned this way and that. Highball, lying on the bed, shook her head. No, it wasn’t right. Too severe. She was just reaching for a pearl-bedecked cardigan to try to cheer the thing up when the buzzer rang.

“Messenger,” came a crackly voice over the intercom.

“Be right there.” Eve dashed downstairs, Highball at her heels. The messenger handed her a large, flat box and she signed for it. Back in the apartment, she placed it on her bed and opened the card.

Eve opened the box. Inside layers of tissue embossed with the “double K” Klieg logo reposed a little black dress. Simple, flapper-style, with a detachable rosette, it fit her exquisitely. Her very own Klieg original, the most elegant hug in the world.

She hoped this meant he was working again.

“What do you think?” Highball nodded approvingly while Eve slid into a pair of kitten heels.

She looked down at her watch and realized she was late. She threw a wrap around her shoulders and stopped for a long moment in the doorway. She took a last look around before closing the door quietly behind her.

   • • •

It was Saturday night at El Faro. The restaurant fizzed like a scene in a Dawn Powell book, with pairs of women in red lipstick threading their way to the ladies’ room, eyes glinting with gossip; men telling tall tales, eliciting hoots of laughter; and waiters kissing their favorite customers at the door while carrying dozens of drinks on trays high overhead.

Klieg caught sight of Eve making her way across the room and stood. “There she is,” he said, waving. Eve made her way to the table and lost herself inside his bear hug. The wool of his jacket felt like silk against her cheek, his arms surprisingly strong as they encircled her. She felt his chin rest lightly atop her head. “Hello, my dear,” he said.

“Hello,” she whispered into his tie. Eve’s eyes were closed, and when she opened them, she saw the rather startled expressions of everyone at the table: Gwendolyn, Quirine and Victor, Russell and Susan, and … Günter.

“He wanted to come,” whispered Klieg. “And I thought he could meet some people his own age. I hope it is all right?”

“Of course it is. And thank you for the dress. It’s lovely. And so comfortable,” she said, winking at him.

It was the first time that she’d assembled a group of New Yorkers, and as Eve introduced everyone she crossed her fingers that they would enjoy one another. She was tickled to see Gwendolyn and Quirine stammer slightly as they leaned across the table to shake Klieg’s hand.
“Enchanté,”
said Quirine with feeling.

The waiter arrived to inquire about their orders. Heads tipped over menus and polite conferring ensued. Günter consulted with Quirine in what sounded like perfect French. In the end, they decided on paella for eight.

As she handed her menu in with the others, Eve turned to her former colleagues. “When we talked, you guys weren’t sure yet if you’d be safe from the layoffs. How did things shake out? Are you both okay?”

“We are,” said Russell. “Cassandra and Steve have less seniority. They’re staying, though. It’s Quirine who’s leaving.”

“What?” said Eve, incredulous.

“I’m sick of working nights,” said Quirine. “And asking people if they would mind wearing blue contact lenses or covering a birthmark with makeup. So I’m going to follow my dream of being even more overworked and underpaid: I start at Pratt in the fall.” She turned to Victor. “This one and I are going to get very sick of each other,” she said, kissing him.

“Studying what?” asked Eve.

“Fashion design,” said Quirine. “They have a new Eco program. Only sustainable fabrics.”

“I have heard about this,” said Klieg. “Does the quality approximate traditional textiles?”

“From what I’ve seen, yes. But I’d be happy to update you once I get started.”

“Thank you. And please let me know if I can be of any assistance,” said Klieg. “I know some of the faculty.”

Quirine looked like she’d just found a thousand dollars in the couch cushions. “Thank you,” she said.

“And you?” asked Eve, turning to Russell. “What will you do without Quirine there?”

“Kill myself,” he said good-naturedly.

“You must tell me how on earth creative people make a living today,” said Klieg. Eve was surprised to see him so open to new people. When she’d first met him, he was almost sullen around strangers. Now he was practically chatty. “When I was young, one could be a painter, a writer, anything—even if one was poor. So many cafés and other businesses took pride in helping out young artists, extending them various courtesies. But from what I’ve seen of today’s New York, you are all very much on your own.”

The others agreed, lamenting the difficulties of being young and artistically minded in the big city.

“Would you mind telling us something about your Paris days?” asked Gwendolyn as she took a piece of warm bread from the wire basket being handed around. “I hear from Eve you’ve known some extraordinary people.”

“Oh yes, please,” said Susan.

“If you like.” Klieg took a sip of water and began. “I thought I knew what I would find in the City of Light, but it outpaced all my expectations. I remember the moment I disembarked the train.…” He paused every few minutes as if to see whether he was retaining the table’s attention, but everyone only nodded encouragingly.

Once or twice, Eve noticed, Günter prompted his uncle with details he’d forgotten or otherwise amplified on Klieg’s tales. Apparently, he knew them now. Eve watched Günter closely for a moment. When he was happy, his face completely changed. His deep blue eyes appeared lit from within and there was a charming guilelessness in his expression she hadn’t seen before.

The paella arrived, an enormous pan of gold in the middle of the table. As Eve helped herself to clams and mussels, she smiled to herself, thinking of bouillabaisse.

“You’ve been so evasive lately. What have you been up to?” asked Quirine as she sliced some chorizo.

“I wanted to wait until we were face-to-face to tell you this,” said Eve. She took a sip of rioja. “I’m working for Orla Knock.”

Quirine’s and Russell’s heads jerked back in surprise and Eve filled them in on the documentary, which Orla had agreed to produce. Eve was doing interviews, writing, and research, including tracking down as many hidden masterpieces as she could. Not all of the homeowners she approached could be called enthusiastic. Some wouldn’t even take the time to listen; they were simply, like all New Yorkers, too busy. Others had no idea they shared a home with someone famous. “Didn’t you notice the plaque outside your front door?” Eve would ask. Of course, they hadn’t. A few were skeptical about the proposed hunt for lost material. “I’d love to, dear, but we just had the floors done.…”

But others were more accommodating. One family allowed her to poke through Willa Cather’s basement, and another, Ted Joans’s attic.

Even better, next week Eve was to visit the tenant at the East Tenth Street apartment where Dawn Powell had written
The Happy Island
. She could never tell anyone what that experience would mean to her. Nor could she tell them about a silly but irresistible fantasy she harbored: that if she lingered in the home long enough, if she was very quiet and listened very closely, maybe, just maybe, Dawn would speak to her. What she would want to tell her! And what questions she’d love to ask!

“Very cool,” said Russell. “A little more interesting than ‘how to exercise your goldfish,’ eh?”

“If only you didn’t have to work for the dragon lady,” said Quirine.

“She’s not so bad.” Eve lifted a shrimp to her mouth and
chewed it thoughtfully. “I mean, she doesn’t exactly hand out gold stars, but she’s teaching me a lot. And …”

“What?” asked Quirine.

“She gave me an advance on my salary before I even started. Otherwise, I would have had to give up my apartment.”

“Wonders … ceasing … apparently never,” said Russell.

Eve answered the rest of their questions, but hugged one secret to herself. She was going to share it with only one person, and not until later. She had sent Donald’s now-completed manuscript out to several publishers, explaining that the memoir was to form the backbone of a nationally televised documentary. Today she had gotten letters back from two university presses, expressing interest in publishing it. Who knew? There might even be a bidding war.

   • • •

The candles on the table burned down, the flames faltering as they consumed the last specks of wick. Günter was telling Eve about the arthropods of Capri, speaking in yards and yards of full sentences. His manner was limber, his gestures fluid. He even made a joke about tarantulas, which eluded Eve completely. She laughed anyway, though, because he was so funny as he told it.