Tiffany Girl (53 page)

T
he Gusmans sold his house. At least, Reeve assumed they had. He searched the paper three times, but the listing wasn’t there. Grabbing his coat, he all but ran to Georgia Avenue.

A large wagon filled with a rocker, a bedstead, and all sorts of odds and ends was parked out front. The Gusmans were nowhere to be seen. Instead, an older man with two teeners unloaded a sofa.

Reeve stood at the edge of the property, his breath vaporizing as his lungs pulled in and pushed out air. This couldn’t be happening. This was his house. He was the one who’d lived in it first. He was the one who’d been born in it. He was the one who was supposed to buy it back. He searched the sky. Heavy clouds blocked the heavens and offered no answer to his inward cries of
Why? Why?

He should have bought it when he had the chance. But, no, he couldn’t have used the money from the Marylee story. He’d have never been able to live with himself. His knees weakened, his eyes stung, his nostrils flared. Jamming his hands in his pockets, he spun around, ducked his head, and began to walk back to the Y, the snow slushing beneath his boots. His body began to shake. He’d needed that house,
needed
it.

He fisted his hands inside his pockets, reminding himself he wasn’t as
lonely as he used to be. He’d made some friends. He had a maman. But he didn’t have a home. He didn’t have a place he belonged. Not like he would’ve in that house.

He rubbed his mouth. What would he do? Where would he go? He’d merely been tolerating his roommate. Telling himself it was only temporary. Only until he could get his home back. His roommate had gone home for the holidays, but that was hardly the reprieve Reeve was looking for.

When he returned to the Y, he tossed his coat and hat on the bed, and made himself some coffee. As soon as he had a cup ready, he sat down at his desk and stared at a stack of empty pages. Thoughts piled up like a shuffled deck of cards waiting to be drawn, turned over, and spread out for all to see. He flexed his fingers.

I do declare, but I wish he’d write something new. If he did, I would be first in line to read it.

He glanced at her Christmas card propped on the corner of his desk, the Tiffany tea screen, and the cat figurine in front of it. Sucking in a deep breath, he dipped his pen in an inkwell, gave his emotions free rein, and began to write, the nib of his pen scratching across the paper, his mind moving faster than his fingers. First thoughts, then sentences, then paragraphs, then chapters. It felt so good to get it out and onto paper where he could move it around, mark it out, or add to it.

Little by little a story began to take shape. A story. Never had he expected to write another word of fiction, wouldn’t have even thought to, if it hadn’t been for Flossie. He worked well into the night, only stopping when the sun began to peek through the shutters and his fingers began to cramp. Finally, he fell into bed, not bothering to remove his clothes.

Perhaps he wasn’t a journalist after all. Perhaps he’d been a novelist all along and simply hadn’t realized it. It was his last thought before sleep overtook him.

CHAPTER

77

R
eeve stood at Freddie Blackburn’s doorway, his smile wide.

Blackburn looked up from his desk. “What has you in such a merry mood?”

“My house kit from Sears, Roebuck arrived.” He squared his shoulders. “I’m in the building business.”

Crossing his arms, Blackburn leaned his chair back onto two legs. “I take it that means I’m in the hammering and nailing business?”

Reeve chuckled. “I could sure use the help.”

“When do we start?”

“No better time than the present.”

Plopping his chair down, Blackburn nodded. “Let me finish up here, then, and you go see who else you can round up.”

“Thank you, friend.” Reeve pushed off the doorway, then went up and down the hall recruiting any who were willing.

He’d finished his book in February and sold it in March, but only on the condition that he agree to publish it under the pseudonym of I. D. Claire. Reeve fought and fought the publisher about it, but with the reputation he’d made for himself on the Marylee piece, it was a sure thing that any book with Claire’s name on it would sell. He’d finally agreed.

That was the bad news. The good news was, I. D. Claire’s name meant the publisher would pay him a tidy sum. It wasn’t enough to buy a four-thousand-dollar home, like the ones around the Y, but it was enough for a down payment on a seven-hundred-dollar lot on Sheffield, one street over from his childhood home, and to buy a five-hundred-dollar home kit from the Sears, Roebuck catalog.

With hammers, saws, nails, and a lot of enthusiasm, the starting lineup for the basketball team of the Twenty-Sixth Ward YMCA headed out in the crisp spring air. By the time the group of laughing young men made it to Reeve’s lot, the neighborhood children had come to see what all the fuss was about.

Once word spread, the men who lived on Sheffield Avenue pushed themselves up out of their porch swings to offer strong backs. The women, in turn, kept a supply of food and drinks coming—mostly made and delivered by their daughters. Some tall, some short. Some curvy, some willowy. Some giggly, some sober. But all of them swishing their skirts until they sounded like high wind in a tall grass. That ended up working out well for Reeve, because with all those young ladies prancing about, not only did his team of workers grow, but so did their efforts.

Swiping an arm across his forehead, he soaked up the heat of the sun. He couldn’t help but think of how much had changed since this time last year when he’d hidden in his tiny room at Klausmeyer’s full of resentment over the pretty little magpie who’d moved in next door and wouldn’t shut up. If someone had told him then how much he’d be missing her now, he’d have never believed them. Putting two nails into his mouth, he set the third against the intersection of two beams, began to hammer, and turned his mind to what he was doing.

CHAPTER

78

S
itting on an upside-down apple crate, Reeve poked at a log in the red brick fireplace of his brand-new home. It had taken all summer and well into the fall to build the house. The fellows at the Y had been enthusiastic helpers at first, but as the months wore on and as baseball leagues were formed, fewer and fewer stayed around to help. As their numbers diminished, the neighbors went back to their porches, the ladies back to their kitchens.

That was all right with Reeve. He’d enjoyed every part of the process, from the foundation to the fireplace to the roof shingles. When it was only one or two guys helping, he found it a lot easier to get to know them.

The whole thing had ended up costing much more than he’d expected. Storm doors and windows were twenty-six dollars extra, material for steps off the front porch and rear stoop were nine dollars, and a cook stove with a reservoir was ten dollars.

That hadn’t left much for furniture. Looking around, he sighed. It hadn’t left much for
any
furniture. Still, building the place with his own two hands had made it, in some ways, even more personal than his birthplace.

Cat rolled onto her back, paws in the air, and soaked up heat from the fireplace.

“You’d best
not get too close. I haven’t bought a screen yet and those sparks will singe the hair right off of you.”

Cat flicked her gray tail, but gave no indication of moving. Shaking his head, Reeve took a gulp of coffee and glanced at the only screen he did have—Maman’s tea screen on the hearth. The flame from the burner made the glass glow and its colors change.

He’d tried to drink tea, but it was just too weak. So, he’d ended up brewing coffee in his pot instead. He’d not told Maman, though. She would not have been pleased.

Setting down his cup, he picked up his lap desk, opened the hinged top, and removed his metal figurine and a piece of paper.

Dear Maman,

It is finished. The last nail has been hammered. The last screw tightened. Cat and I are sitting in the parlor and the only thing missing is you. You’ll be glad you aren’t here, though, for I’ve nothing but an old apple crate to offer as a chair, and nothing in the cupboards—because I don’t have any cupboards! So it has yet to feel like a home.

Dear Maman,

I have made my first piece of furniture. It is a table and the ugliest thing you’ve ever seen. With the house, everything was precut, but Sears, Roebuck doesn’t sell any furniture kits. They do have kitchen chairs for forty-five cents apiece, however, which is cheaper than I can get them around here. They are nothing fancy—wood seats, four spindles, bowed backs, and some ornamental stripes—but I daresay they will be better than anything I could make.

When I collect my next paycheck, I will order two of those. Maybe then the place will feel more like a home.