Tiffany Girl (54 page)

Dear Maman,

The boys from the Y surprised me last night and came to the house bearing gifts. I now have a soccer ball, a fishing reel, an abacus, a saucepan, a spittoon—of all things—and The Board Game of Old Maid. It’s the same one I’d donated to the Y’s game room. (The guys were only too glad to be rid of it.)

Since it was too cold and dark to go outdoors, we played a rather ruthless game in the barren parlor with my soccer ball. We split into two teams and lined up on opposite sides of the room, then tried to eliminate the other team’s members by striking them with the ball as hard as we could. The first team with all players down were the losers.

I didn’t play, however. I, instead, was the defender of my windows. They are still intact, I’m pleased to say, but the fellows could tell how nervous I was and kept flinging the ball perilously close to them. I had to make several dives to protect them. The wooden floor is not nearly as forgiving as grass. I’m stiff and sore and bruised, but very happy.

We made the losers play The Board Game of Old Maid, which always generates a great deal of laughter and moans. That, of course, was the best gift of all, that and the conversation which filled the house. It almost felt like a home, then. Almost.

Dear Maman,

Your blanket arrived today, and I have no words. I don’t have to ask to know that you knitted it with your own two hands. It is beautiful and warm and my favorite color. Well, I didn’t really have a favorite color before, but now I do. It is and will forevermore be blue.

I wear it like a cloak all around the house, especially at night when the temperatures drop even more. It is so big that I roll myself up into it like a scroll. It keeps me warm the whole night through, even when the fire has dwindled down to nothing but embers.

Dear Maman,

My library rocker arrived today, and I am sitting in it right now with your blanket over my legs. I decided to save my money a little bit longer this time and buy something of value that would last, rather than buy two cheap rockers.

It’s a man’s chair and plenty big enough to hold my frame comfortably, but Cat thinks it’s hers. I’ve had to kick her off repeatedly. I couldn’t afford the leather, so settled instead for a brown upholstery. It has a deep spring seat and spring back and top roll. The arms and legs are of golden oak. I have figured out that at the current rate I’m going, I will have the house completely furnished by the time I’m fifty.

A LITTLE GIRL IN CENTRAL PARK 
³⁹

“Of their own volition, his legs carried him inside her self-made gallery.”

CHAPTER

79

R
eeve stepped into the entry hall of Klausmeyer’s, two copies of his new book tucked beneath his arm. Nothing had changed in the fifteen months he’d been gone. The parlor still stretched out on the side, the furniture sat in the same place, the piano rested against the wall, the fireplace needed to be stoked.

Instead of the familiar bringing comfort, it was unnerving, for so much about him had changed. He was living a completely different life. He wrote fiction. He lived in a house he’d built himself. He played in basketball tournaments for the Y, and he had many casual friends and two really good ones.

His feelings for Flossie hadn’t changed, though. Because of them, because seeing her would be too painful, he’d not crossed the threshold of Klausmeyer’s again until today. But today was different. He simply couldn’t wait to show Maman his book. Hopefully, Flossie would be at work or tucked away in her attic room.

He hooked his hat and coat on the hall tree, then headed to Maman’s room. His old bedroom door was closed. Further down, Flossie’s former room was open. He knew she didn’t live in it anymore, yet his pulse quickened.

At Maman’s doorway, he paused. She’d fallen asleep in her chair. He took a minute to view her room through new eyes, the
eyes of a son. He shook his head. After all his lecturing to Flossie, he’d actually been the one to end up with family at 438.

A large marble-top dresser held frames and candles. Jars and bottles. Vases and hat stands. The Tiffany pin he’d given her was part of a collection of pins sticking out of a fancy porcelain cup.

Doilies covered every surface, even the arms of the two upholstered chairs next to her heater—one of which she sat in, her head down, her knitting forgotten. It was so crowded. So . . . lived in. Especially compared to his place with its two spindle chairs, one table, one rocker, and a single pallet by the fire.

His attention drifted back to the woman he’d come to see. He smiled. Keeping his tone low and his voice soft, he spoke. “Hello, Maman.”

She jerked and looked up, disoriented, then her eyes lit with pleasure. Setting her needles aside, she stood and opened her arms. “Come here, my boy, and give this old woman a hug.”

Placing the books on a dresser, he walked into her embrace and stayed there. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too, though your letters are wonderful. You ought to be a writer.”

He chuckled, kissed the top of her head, and stepped back. “The books are here. I brought you a copy.”

Clapping her hands together, she pressed them against her mouth. “I can’t wait. Let me see.”

He picked one up and handed it to her.

She sat and simply held it. “I’m so proud of you, Reeve. So proud. Sit down and pour me some tea while I look at it. I’ve kept it warm for us.”

He stood flatfooted for a moment. Proud of him? No one had ever said those words to him. Not ever. The rush of well-being they induced surprised and somewhat embarrassed him. He headed toward the tea service, glad to have something to do. Glad
she was already looking at the book and he wasn’t required to give her a response.

Her crooked hand smoothed the title page, then she ran her finger over the words
I. D. Claire
. “Whatever were you thinking?”

“I never intended to have to use it. Have regretted it a hundred times over.”

She patted it. “Don’t regret it, son. Not even for a minute.”

He
harrumph
ed and poured tea into her cup, his hands shaking at the use of the word “son.” It was how she addressed all her letters to him, and he never tired of reading it, but he’d only heard her say it a few times. He prepared her tea the way she liked it with a tiny squeeze of lemon and lots of sugar. Then he poured himself one and sat in the cushy chair at a forty-five degree angle from hers.

She read the first page, smile lines beginning to form. Resting an ankle on his knee, he took a sip of the weak brew, observing her over the cup, listening to the sound of pages being turned. Watching as her shoulders lifted and fell in a sigh. As her hand touched her throat, then her heart.

“Oh, Reeve. It’s wonderful. I can’t wait to read the whole thing, but I must put it aside and not use up our precious time. How are you, my dear? You look marvelous.”

“As do you.”

“Thank you.” She gave him a quizzical look. “Interesting dedication in your book.”

“So it is. How’s your foot? Still bothering you?”

She accepted the change of subject and, as with every time he saw her, the hours flew by while they talked nonstop.

“It’s not a home, Maman. Not like this.” He swept his arm in front of him, indicating her room.

“It needs a woman’s touch,” she said.

He nodded. “Please, take the place in hand and do what you will.”

“
No, no, not me. I’m terrible at that kind of thing. Now, Flossie, being an artist and all, I imagine she’d be quite good. Perhaps you could hire her. She’d welcome the extra work, I’m sure.”

He raised a brow. “I will not be hiring Miss Jayne. Shame on you for trying to maneuver me.”

She pouted. “My Herschel was much easier to influence.”

“Well, you know what they say about children. They’re all so different.”

She gave a soft laugh. “I see you brought an extra book.”

“I did.”

“And who might that be for?”

He gave her a pointed look. “You know good and well who it’s for. Will you see that she gets it?”

“I most certainly will not. You want her to have it, you can go put it in her room same as I can.”

He pressed back into the chair. “I can’t go way up into her attic room. That would be unseemly, don’t you think?”

“She’s not in the attic anymore.”

“She’s not?”

“No, she’s moved.”

Uncrossing his legs, he pulled himself up off the back cushion. “Moved? Away?”

“No.” She pointed a crooked finger toward her door. “Across the hall.”

He blinked, then followed with his gaze the direction of her finger. “Across the hall? To, to
my
room?”

Picking up her knitting needles, she began to click them together in a staccato rhythm. “Mm-hm.”

He gripped the armrests. “Is she in there right now?”