Rare Objects (37 page)

I tried to look at the office from a fresh angle. Maybe if we moved the filing cabinet into the corner, the door might finally open all the way.

“Help me, will you?” I took one end.

“Shakespeare is the Shakespeare of the masses!” He pushed from the other side, and we dragged the cabinet into the hallway. “Errol Flynn or James Cagney can't inspire the way Macbeth or King Lear can—there's no comparison.”

“Fine. If you'll stop harassing me, I'll go to a play.”

“And the symphony. You must go to the symphony.”

There was a damp patch on the wall that the cabinet had been hiding. Moving it had been a big mistake.

“I'll take you,” he said suddenly.

I looked at him in alarm. “Pardon me?”

“I have tickets to the opera on Saturday. It's Puccini—everyone loves Puccini.”

“The
opera
! Oh no!” I shook my head. “No, thank you!”

“Why not?”

“I'm not Selena!”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I don't want to be lectured all night!”

He was offended. “I don't lecture anybody!”

Mr. Kessler could be heard chuckling in the next room.

“And I'm not going anywhere with a man who can't remember my first name!” I added.

But he wasn't listening; he'd spotted the old photo on his desk, picked it up. “Where did you find this?”

“On the floor.” I moved in closer, peering over his shoulder at the three faces. “It's you, isn't it?”

He nodded. “With my brothers, Harry and Ralph.”

“Twins?”

“That's right. Not quite identical, but close.”

“So they were the good-looking ones.” I smiled.

His face softened. “They were three years older than me.”

“I didn't know you'd fought in the war. You all joined up at the same time?”

“We wanted to serve in the same regiment. But we were separated anyway. I was sent off to Arabia, because I'd been there before on digs, and knew the language. They never made it out of France. That was the last time we ever saw one another.”

Too late I remembered that Mr. Kessler had told me that Mr. Winshaw didn't have a family.

He put the photo back inside the top drawer of his desk and then looked up at the disarray of his office, as if he'd only just noticed what I was doing. “You know, we should get rid of this all,” he said finally. “Give these books to a library, take that old map down . . .”

The map?

“Oh no!” I was adamant. “You can't do that!”

He looked at me in surprise. “Ever since I've known you, you've wanted me to clear this place out.”

“Yes, but not
that
! That's different. I won't let you!”

“Hello! Excuse me!” someone called from the front of the shop. I peered around the corner. It was a deliveryman, carrying a large bouquet of white roses. “Excuse me, miss. I'm looking for May Fanning?”

“That's me!” No one had ever sent me flowers before. I hurried to take them from him. The arrangement was enormous, almost too unwieldy to hold, with blooms nearly as large as my hand. “My goodness!” I laughed, delighted. “Aren't they beautiful?”

“Sure.” Mr. Winshaw jammed his hands into his pockets. “If you like that sort of thing.”

I pulled out the card.

HOPE YOU HAVEN'T FORGOTTEN ME, FRA LINE. SATURDAY NIGHT?

James

My delight transformed to a childish joy and relief. I thought I'd been the forgotten one. And after the incident with Jack Carney, I'd wondered if he was right, if I were nothing more than a mistake, the legacy of an unfit mother. But James didn't see me that way. And here, out of the blue, were two dozen old-fashioned white roses to prove it.

Mr. Kessler emerged from his office. “Well, look at that! That must be fifty dollars' worth of roses!” He shook his head in admiration. “You know, they fly them in all the way from California.”

“So you have an admirer. Good for you.” Mr. Winshaw jiggled the change in his pockets. “Though I've heard it said that men who make grand gestures are usually trying to hide something.”

“And I've heard it said that men who make no gestures shouldn't judge those who do,” I replied.

“Aw, come on! It's a cheap move. Any man can buy a girl flowers!”

“And yet they don't. Besides, why is it a cheap move? How are men meant to show they care?”

“With their conversation. Their attentiveness.” He tapped his forehead. “The adroitness of their minds!”

“In that case, it's a good thing someone thought of sending flowers.”

“Look, Fanning, I'm merely pointing out that to my taste, this is, well”—he shrugged—“it's a little
vulgar
.”

“That's rich, coming from a man who escorts a different woman around town every night of the week!” I buried my nose in the soft, waxy petals, inhaling deeply. A rush of hope and possibility filled me. Nothing Mr. Winshaw said was going to dampen my spirits now. Besides, he deserved to be put in his place for once. “What
heaven
! I really must put these in water. Don't you have some culturally stimulating event to go to? Some young female mind to expand?” I smiled sweetly. “Something to dig up in a foreign land?”

“Oh, I see!” He leaned back against the counter. “So a few weeds is all it takes to win a woman's heart! You're selling yourself cheap. Far too cheap.”

“You're not fooling anyone,” I informed him, going into the back of the shop to find a vase. “You haven't got the courage to send flowers! And as for the opera, I regret that I will have to decline. I have another engagement for Saturday night.”

As I was filling the vase with water, Mr. Kessler came up behind me, standing in the doorway. “You know,” he pointed out, “nobody speaks to Winshaw quite the way that you do.”

“Well, now somebody does. Don't you think it's about time?”

“Yes.” He nodded thoughtfully, tugging at his waistcoat. “Yes, I do.”

They were just closing up for the day at Russo's when I knocked on the window. Angela was sweeping the floor and looked up to see me on the other side of the rain-streaked glass, holding up the gigantic bouquet. She squealed with delight and hurried to unlock the door.

“Oh my goodness, Mae! Where did you get those?”

“From a man—a real honest gentleman!” I swaggered inside. I'd never been able to sit across from Angela and brag about having a respectable beau.

“Who? I want to hear everything!”

Mrs. Russo came out from the back kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. “Mae! We haven't seen you since Pina's party!”

“Mama! Just look at her flowers!”

“Yes.” She nodded. “Either someone's been very naughty, or they're about to be. Come!” She pulled out some chairs. “Sit down. I'll get coffee.”

We sat and drank coffee while I told them all about James Van der Laar, how he'd first introduced himself, invited me out with his friends, taken me to lunch . . . I took a few liberties, made a few careful edits to the tale, but most of it was true.

“Well, clearly he's sweet on you!” Angela said when I'd finished, easing back in her chair to accommodate her growing bump.

Mrs. Russo wasn't so easily convinced. She looked down into her empty espresso cup and frowned. “Is he Catholic?”

“I'm not sure.” (In fact, I was certain he wasn't.)

She held up her hands in disbelief. “
Dio mio!
What are you thinking? Have you introduced him to your mother?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Well, when?” Her finger went up. I knew that finger, we both did. Here came a lecture. “Here you have a suitor, right? A man needs to meet the family sooner rather than later. After all, the family is what matters! The family tells you everything you need to know about the person. The family is what is left after the roses fade.”

“It isn't like that,” I explained. “He's not a suitor, not like in the old country.”

“Then what is he?”

I glanced across at Angela, who rolled her eyes sympathetically.

“Mama, you're too old-fashioned,” she chided.

“I'm old! Of course I'm old-fashioned! But you can't make a life on a wish and a prayer. You need reality. He needs to know who you are, where you come from.”

“What does that matter?” Angela argued. “Who cares about the past? People don't worry about that nowadays.”

Mrs. Russo ignored her daughter, instead speaking to me. “Does he know anything about you? Where you live? Where you come from?”

“I suppose.”

“You
suppose
?”

It never failed; Maddalena Russo had the power to disarm me in a heartbeat, to pull back the thin veil of wishful thinking and poke at the raw insecurities beneath.

“All your life, Mae, and I've known you all your life, you love to live in storybooks and movies. Like when your boyfriend is a boxer or when you run off to New York. But life is no fairy tale. When you meet a man, you have to
think
, not just
feel
. Where they come from, where they're going, what they believe in . . .”

She didn't understand. I came from nowhere and had a past
not even I wanted to know about. “I just haven't had much luck in love.”

“Luck?” she snorted. “Luck is for gamblers and fools! You make a choice!”

“You're too serious, Mama!” Angela reprimanded. “He sounds like a nice man. Why can't she have a little fun?”

Maddalena Russo sighed heavily, pressing her warm, rough hand over mine in a rare show of tenderness. “Because happiness isn't made of fun. It's made of solid, real things. It's made of paychecks and clean clothing, and hot food and healthy children, and a man who can look you in the eye when he comes home because he has nothing to hide. It's not so rare. In fact, it's so common people don't notice it. They look for roses when they should be looking for indoor plumbing.”

Ma, on the other hand, was thrilled about the bouquet. She couldn't have been more delighted if they'd been given to her.

We didn't have a vase big enough for all of them at once, so she divided them between several small ones, placing them throughout the house. Humming “I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen” softly to herself, she carefully trimmed the stalks and fussed over each delicate arrangement.

Then, quite uncharacteristically, she insisted upon making an appointment with M. Antoine at the beauty salon. “Sometimes it's wiser to spend a little money than save it. And I've seen M. Antoine's waves—they are truly a thing to behold!” Her eyes shone with pride and excitement. “You are on your way, Maeve! You are on your way!”

Saturday night James took me to the Oak Room for supper, at the Copley Plaza Hotel. Grand in the old style, the Oak Room was decorated with carved wooden paneling, leather chairs, and stuffed deer heads staring down at diners with black button eyes. Now that it was summer, electric fans were tucked into corners behind palms, and a drowsy orchestra played sentimental favorites while regulars dined on vichyssoise, lobster Thermidor, and baked Alaska.

My hair gleamed in golden marcel waves, and I wore a dress of red-and-cream-striped lawn that grazed my ankles, made from a Butterwick pattern Ma insisted was identical to a Norman Norell ensemble that had sold out immediately at Stearns.

When we sat down, James waved away the menus. “Don't even bother looking. Just order anything that takes your fancy.”

“Are you sure?” I laughed. “
Anything?
”

“They know me here.”

“All right. Then I'll have what you're having.”

“Don't you even want to know what that is?”

“No. I want to take my chances.”

When the waiter came, James told him we would both “have the usual,” so I was none the wiser.

I noticed that his ring was missing. “What happened?” I pointed to his hand. “Don't you like it anymore?”

“Oh!” He stared at where it had been. “I seemed to have left it somewhere. It will turn up sooner or later. These things always do.”

Then he produced a small jewelry box from his pocket and put it on my plate.

My heart sped up. It wasn't a ring box, but still, I'd never been given a gift of jewelry before. I could feel the other diners
watching, eager to see what was inside. I pretended to be calm. “What's this?”

“Nothing. A trifle.” He smiled, leaning back a little, instinctively giving the rest of the room a clear view.

Inside was a slim brooch in the shape of an arrow, studded with diamonds. “Oh, James!” Taking it out, I held it up, and there was a universal murmur of approval.

“Do you like it?”

It all felt so unreal. These were diamonds, an entire row of them. “It's beautiful!” My voice trembled a little, more from shock than anything else. It was such an unexpected and lavish gift—too lavish.