Tiffany Girl (52 page)

“My Marylee story has been picked up by a great number of newspapers and magazines.”

She smiled. “Why, you little devil. Did Flossie help you pick it out?”

“She wasn’t in the showroom when I was there. I, of course, had no idea she even might be.”

“She roams throughout the building depending on where she’s needed. She was only with me because she knew I was coming.” She opened the hinged lid. Inside lay a long hatpin with a favrile bead at its head. Picking it up, she held it to the fire, its translucent colors changing from green to blue to purple. “It’s stunning, Reeve. Absolutely stunning. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She tucked it back into the box. “I can call you Reeve, can’t I? I don’t much like addressing someone who is like a son to me by his surname.”

He stared at her. “Like a son?”

Her eyes softened. “For quite some time. I was adrift when you left Klausmeyer’s.”

His chest rose and fell. “I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you. It was simply that I couldn’t go back there. Not after what happened with Flossie. Not after everyone found out I was I. D. Claire. I missed you, too, terribly. I didn’t realize you’d feel the same.”

“I assumed it was something like that. It’s of no matter. We’re together now. That’s what’s important.” She tilted her head. “So, may I call you Reeve?”

“I’d be honored, Mrs. Dinwiddie.”

“Maman. Do you think you could bring yourself to call me Maman? It’s French for mother.” She tugged on her cuff. “My grandmother was French, you know. But I realize you may not feel at all comfortable with that, and I want you to know I’d understand.”

He held his breath. His first instinct was to tell her no. To retreat. To protect that little bit of him that still shied away from anything and anyone who got too close.

But he could see the longing in her eyes. Could feel the tug. Moisture touched his own eyes. “Of course. I-I don’t know what to say.”

“Say, ‘Maman.’ ”

He’d been hanging onto the last shred of his dignity for several minutes now. If this didn’t stop, she’d completely strip him of his manhood. Still, he would not dishonor her.

He rose to his feet, then held out a hand. His throat became so thick, the best he could do was a whisper. “Maman.”

She placed her hand in his and allowed him to help her to her
feet. Grasping his lapel, she pulled him down and gave him a kiss on the cheek, camphor oil once again filling his senses. “You’re a good boy, Reeve Wilder.”

An arrow tied to a string went straight from the peck on his cheek and the words from her mouth to the innermost spot in his heart. A direct hit. And with it, his walls crumbled. For as far back as his memories took him, he’d never had the privilege of calling anyone Mother, in any language. But he’d wanted to, oh, how he’d wanted to.

Affection for her shot up from the arrow’s mark like a fountain in Central Park, showering him, covering him, deluging him with a love like none he’d ever felt before.

Pulling her against him, he buried his face in her neck and sobbed.

CHRISTMAS CARD 
³⁸

“The snowman had a pipe stuck in a downturned mouth and a swig of holly trapped beneath his arm.”

CHAPTER

75

A
fter all that transpired, Reeve was not about to let Mrs. Dinwi—
Maman
—return to Klausmeyer’s alone. They sat on the same side of the carriage, covered with a cloak and sharing a warmer beneath it. He’d taken hold of her hand as soon as they’d settled and not let go the entire way.

When they turned onto West Fifty-Seventh, his heart began to hammer. He knew Flossie wasn’t there, that she would be home with her parents, but he couldn’t seem to convince his heart of the same.

“You haven’t asked me why I brought such a big basket for such a small-sized present,” she said.

He gave her a sideways look. “Far be it from me to question the ways of a woman.”

Releasing his hand, she took the basket from the floor and up onto her lap. “There’s some molasses candy and a block of fruitcake in here for you.”

“There is?” He glanced at the checkered cloth. “I’ll have to hide it or the boys will eat it before I have a chance.”

“Flossie made it.”

He froze. “Flossie?”

“Yes.
She made it in her mother’s kitchen, then gave it to me for Christmas.”

He let out a slow breath. “This is yours, then?”

“No, this is yours. She made two batches.”

He fingered the corner of the cloth. “And she said one batch was for me?”

“Not in so many words, but when she gave it to me, she handed me the first batch and said, ‘Merry Christmas.’ Then, she stuttered and twirled her hair and worried her lip before finally saying she knew I was going to see you and she thought we might like a bit of refreshment for our visit, so she made a little extra.” Mrs. Dinwi—no, Maman shook her head. “This is much more than a ‘little extra.’ It’ll last you a week.”

He took in deep breaths, trying to understand if it was an olive branch, or if Flossie was merely worried that he would starve Maman during their visit. Which he had, he realized with a start.

“I never offered you a bit of refreshment.” He struck his forehead with the butt of his hand. “I’ve never entertained before, so it didn’t even occur to me. You must be famished.”

“I’m not famished. If I’d been famished, I’d have had you give me a piece of candy.”

The carriage pulled to a stop. Reeve glanced at the familiar stoop of 438, but had no time to reminisce before Maman handed him the basket.

“You keep this,” she said. “And I will expect regular communications from you.”

“I’ll write you every week, but please don’t ask me to come here. I-I—”

She squeezed his arm. “Letters will be fine for now.”

The driver opened the door.

She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Don’t get out. And Merry Christmas, my boy.”

Curling a finger beneath her chin, he drew her forward and gave her a light kiss on the lips. “Merry Christmas to you, too, Maman.”

She blushed.

Ignoring her instructions, he escorted her to the door, but not inside. He simply couldn’t bring himself to go back inside. As soon as he returned to the carriage, he uncovered the cloth, then jerked back his hand. Sitting on top of the fruitcake and candy was a Christmas card. A hand painted Christmas card.

Lifting it, he held it to the window, cold air seeping through the glass. It was of a cat and a miniature snowman. The snowman had a pipe stuck in a downturned mouth and a swig of holly trapped beneath his arm. The cat wasn’t his, but was a black cat sprinkled with snow. It had approached the grouchy snowman, and stood back a bit while its nose stretched forward—sniffing, sniffing, not quite sure if it was safe to touch.

Squinting, Reeve sought out her signature painted in the bottom corner. F. Jayne
.

He rubbed his thumb across it, then studied the card more closely, looking at things he’d missed the first time. A stone wall next to the cat. The shadows and the play of light. The collection of snow on the walkway. The white whiskers radiating from each side of the cat’s face. And the color of its eyes—not quite gold, but not exactly brown, either.

A MERRY CHRISTMAS
had been written in block letters across the top. She’d become better since he’d seen her little watercolor figures around the edges of their questions at dinnertime. She must be practicing quite a bit.

He wondered if she were taking lessons. But, no, she wouldn’t be able to afford them. He sighed. He hated to think of her shut up in an attic like some sleeping Briar Rose.

The carriage rounded a corner and knocked him into the side wall. Straightening, he adjusted his hat, then opened the card and read it. Then, read it again.

Dear Mr. Wilder,

I
hope Cat is doing well and has settled in to her new quarters. I was very happy to hear you’d become a member of the 26th Ward YMCA there in Brooklyn. No one knew where you had gone, though we were able to read and enjoy your articles, of course.

With my Jane Austen books long since gone, I’ve had a terrible time finding any good fiction to read. I’ve tried several books and a collection of short stories, but nothing seems to hold my interest. I know of a talented writer, but he’s only written one thing. I do declare, but I wish he’d write something new. If he did, I would be first in line to read it.

I hope this finds you well. Please give Cat my deepest regards.

Christmas Cheer,

FRJ

Closing the card, he sat back, wondering what the
R
stood for. Rachel? Regina? Roberta?

He fingered the card’s edges. She wanted him to write something, something fiction. Not about Marylee, surely. No, no. She wouldn’t have meant that. But perhaps something different?

He wasn’t sure what it all meant, didn’t know if he should write her back or if she didn’t want to hear from him until he’d written a story. Or maybe she didn’t want to hear from him at all, maybe she was just being polite or wanted something to read.

After the morning he’d had with Maman, he couldn’t think about Flossie. It was simply too much.

He took a piece of molasses candy from the basket and popped it in his mouth. He lifted his brows. It was very good. He’d had no idea she was a good cook.

Looking to the side, he watched the blur of brownstones go by and redirected his thoughts to possible story ideas. Maybe he’d give it a try. It couldn’t hurt, and if it was anything as popular as Marylee’s story, he just might be able to buy back his childhood home, after all.

CHAPTER

76