by Jill Barnett
Her hand shot up. "Stay there." Her voice sounded raspy and sharp, almost as if she was going to cry. "Please. Don't." And for a brief instant she didn't know if she was talking to him or to herself.
He did stop and just stood there looking at her.
"I came to tell you I'm moving into the flat upstairs." Her words came out in a rush.
The moment seemed to hang in the air like the cigar smoke. It was awkward and she could feel her nervousness. Her face felt hot, and her hands were clenched at her sides.
She knew the moment her words had registered. His face showed it. Now she had his attention for something other than his juvenile entertainment.
"What the hell do you mean you're moving upstairs? I live there."
"I own the building."
"I have a lease from your grandfather. Legally you have to uphold that agreement. And you know damn well I've offered repeatedly to buy this building."
"Yes, you have. Almost as often as you've cursed at me."
"You refuse to sell."
"You're correct. I won't sell."
"Why the hell not? I've offered you a fair price."
"I just told you why. Because I'm going to live here."
His expression hardened. "Not in this lifetime, lady."
She sighed. It truly was like talking to a brick wall.
He took two huge steps closer. "You are not moving onto the third floor."
She stood a little straighter, the door pressed against her back. He moved even closer, trying to intimidate her. Still she only stood level with his shoulder. She raised her chin. "You're absolutely right. I'm not moving onto the third floor." Her tone was casual.
"Damn straight." He gave his head a sharp nod as if to say his word was law.
"I'm moving in above you."
His eyes narrowed. He was not a happy man.
"The fourth floor," she explained simply.
"I store my extra supplies and equipment on the fourth floor."
"I know. That's the reason I came here today."
"Well, Nellibelle." He crossed his hammy arms over his chest. "I don't think there will be room for you and those weights and my sporting equipment and the gym supplies."
"There will be plenty of room once you move everything out."
"Like hell I will! I pay rent!"
"Not for the fourth floor, you don't. I suggest you read your lease. You have two days to vacate the fourth-floor loft. Happy holidays, Mr. Donoughue." Eleanor turned and marched right out the door.
* * *
She stood with her back pressed against the cold damp brick building. Her chest was heaving from a horrid case of nerves. What a foolish old thing she was. She was no giddy girl, the kind that would get flustered at the mere sight of a man. She was a woman. And not even a young woman.
She was forty years old.
Irritated with herself for reacting like she was, she exhaled sharply. Her throat was dry to the point of soreness, and her breath had that brittle taste of cigar smoke.
The air outside was cold now, much colder than it had been before she went inside. Yet here she was sweating as if it were July. She fanned her face a little, and the pheasant feathers on her Sunday hat fluttered.
Just like her silly old heart.
She had met Conn Donoughue on a half a dozen occasions since she took over ownership of the building, and still she reacted to him in the same insane way each time. It was as if he were a huge dipper of peppermint ice cream.
Eleanor loved peppermint ice cream.
And Eleanor loved Conn Donoughue. To her absolute horror, she had taken one look at him, and suddenly she wasn't the old Eleanor anymore. She was one big heartache.
From that moment on, she had known that nothing would ever be the same again. She had fallen for him so deeply and quickly that it was like being slapped right in the face.
Conn was a boxer who was too young and too handsome, especially for a forty-year-old woman who had long ago accepted the fact that love and passion and desire were not to be a part of her life. He had smiled at her the first time they met. She remembered being so amazed that someone who was so tall and so big could smile like that. So she had just stood there and stared at him.
He had reddish blond hair, deep blue eyes, and an angled face that was unforgettable; it haunted her at the most awkward times. There was a bump on his nose. But she liked it because it gave character to what would have been a too handsome face.
At that first meeting, she had come to her senses a little late and realized he was watching her stare at him. She'd felt herself blush, so hot that she had been certain her face was as pink as a cabbage rose. How to feel so very silly! She took a long breath, willing her cheeks to grow cold. A forty year-old woman should be past the age of blushes and sheep's eyes and flirtations.
Years before, she had accepted she was through with those white-hot dreams of desire and love, wild dreams that grow up with young girls on the cusp of womanhood. Those dreams were the same ones where she would awake in a deep sweat because her own body didn't know what she was experiencing was merely a dream.
But along came Conn and at the strangest times during the day she would feel dizzy and light-headed. She would stare off at nothing almost as if she were searching for a reason why this was happening to her. The only explanation she could come up with was Conn Donoughue himself. He had brought back all that youthful craziness and hope. Sometimes it seemed to her as if the world just didn't work right.
He had invited her to dinner soon after that first meeting. She had forgotten herself and had gone out that evening feeling like a young girl again. All through dinner he had been charming and attentive, so she just fell all that much harder for him. He danced with her and pulled her closer than a man properly should. He would lean down to say something to her, and she could feel his breath in her ear and goose-pimples covered her from head to toe. He took her back to Mrs. Waverly's and kissed her under the lamplight on the stoop.
And while she was trying to calm her heart, he went and ruined everything.
He leaned against the building with his arms crossed in that conquering male way he had, and suggested they "get down to business." He wanted to buy the building.
She was so humiliated that she had refused his offer with a stubbornness he didn't appear to understand. And perhaps neither did she.
From then on they'd been adversaries.
He hounded her to sell. She stubbornly refused. She had even resorted to dropping by unannounced and pointing out infractions in the lease agreement.
It was her right. Besides, it irritated him, which was the reason she did it.
Eleanor straightened and pushed away from the building. She adjusted the velvet collar on her wool coat, pulling it up around her neck as if it could block out everything she was feeling. A minute later it was snowing those small and white wet flakes that seemed to melt just the instant before they touched you.
She squared her shoulders and walked down the sidewalk without glancing back. Snowflakes sprinkled her face and floated in her mouth. She went as far as the corner where the cable car stopped every half hour, and stood there for a minute. But she wasn't looking for the car or listening for the ringing of the trolley bell.
She was staring back at the windows of the gym.
It wasn't even five o'clock, but lamplight shone in shapes of dim yellow boxes from a window on the third floor. She had forgotten how very dark it could get at this time of year.
She wondered if he was reading the lease. The clause was there in black and white on that lease. The top floor and the roof had been excluded from the lease agreement by her grandfather. She knew why. Half the roof was paneled with long panes of glass that framed the night sky and made it look as if it were lifted right from a Van Gogh painting.
Gramps had always fancied himself somewhat of an astronomer. She'd heard him say that someday he would move his telescopes and charts to the old building. If the stock market did well, G
ramps had been determined to renovate someday, perhaps even turn that building into a small neighborhood observatory.
But then her family had always been filled with hopeless dreamers. She never knew if that observatory was only a far-off dream or if he would have actually done it. But he never had the chance.
The market crashed in 1893. And so did their world. After two years of struggling and unexpected poverty, Gramps died. The only thing he still owned was the building, which was leased for five years to the gymnasium.
A cold breath of winter air blew down the street and ruffled her hair. A moment later the cable car clanged its way up the street, and the people who stood on the corner began to crowd together, anxious to board. Heat from the huddle of commuters blocked out the cold air. Blessedly, the snow had stopped falling.
Eleanor shifted to hold her place at the edge of the curb. The cable car clacked to a stop, and the crowd swarmed forward. She jumped up the steps, dropped two pennies into the coin box with a clink, and turned to look for a seat.
Rows of couples stared back at her: men and women, fathers and mothers, husbands and wives, friends and lovers. She gripped the handrail above her as the car filled, then the trolley jerked forward. For the hundredth time the knowledge she was alone hit her. She was alone how in a city that was so very crowded.
A husband and wife sat next to where she stood with her hand in the leather strap that hung from the handrail above. The couple was talking about what to buy the children for Christmas.
She turned away only to see a handsome young pair across the aisle share a long look of first love. They shifted closer like turtledoves when the cable car turned another corner. She saw the young man discreetly take a hold of the girl's hand. The girl looked up shyly, and they exchanged a smile so full of feeling it hurt for her to watch.
She stood there tall and stiff and feeling achingly empty inside, and more lonely than she could ever remember feeling. It was as if she were on the outside of a huge window where she could only look on as the entire world merrily went by on the other side of the glass.
Over the years she had thought she'd gotten used to this lonely life, accepted it the same lost way someone learns to accept going through life on a wooden leg. All around her people chattered and laughed. She stood there, her body rocking to the cable car motion, her mind rocking with an odd mixture of loneliness and desire.
The car moved down the blocks. People got on. People got off. But even when there were empty seats, she did not sit. Somehow it seemed right that she, a woman alone, stay separated from everyone else.
At a crowded intersection, the brakeman clanged out "Jingle Bells" on the trolley bell. That did make her smile.
Ten minutes later she was off the trolley and moving down the street toward her rented rooms. It was raining now, and she began to run past the pushcarts filled with vegetables and fruits brought up on refrigerated trains from Florida. She ran past the couples shopping for supper. She only had a half block to go when the winter skies just opened up. Rain was coming down so hard it could blind you if you looked up at it. She made a dash for cover under the red canvas awning at the Paris Café and huddled there watching the rain splatter down as if the sky were a river. With the downpour came a gloomy darkness, and the lamps outside the cafe fluttered on.
Startled, she turned around. There, through the windows, she could see the waiters setting tables with candles and roses and wineglasses for two.
Twos. All around her was a world of twos.
She turned and bolted from beneath the awning. Rain pelted her face as she ran down the street and the cold water on the sidewalk splashed over the tops of her calfskin boots. By the time she made it to the stoop, she had pheasant feathers straggling in her face, and her coat felt like she was wearing a sandbag.
She was wet and freezing. Her shoes squished into the drafty linoleum in the foyer, and she closed the front door. Turning, she slapped the feathers out of her eyes and shook out her coat.
Mrs. Waverly was leaning against the wainscoted wall of the dining room and shouting into the shiny black horn on the wooden telephone box. "I heard you, Sally! The train is coming in at four o'clock on Thursday. I'll be there. Don't fret so."
She nodded at Eleanor and pointed to the table near the stairs, where she would put any mail that had come. Eleanor walked over and picked up the envelopes. She thumbed through the ones that were most important.
Every week she sent out a new batch of applications. And every week the responses said the same thing. No positions available at this time.
Mrs. Waverly hung up the telephone. "I swear that girl gets worse every day. If it isn't one thing, it's another. She's called me six times already today."
"I'm sure she's just excited to be coming home."
"I suppose you're right. A girl's wedding is the most important day of her life."
Eleanor stood stoically silent.
Mrs. Waverly looked up as she retied her ruffled chintz apron with the cabbage rose print. She nodded at the envelopes in Eleanor's hand. "Any luck?"
Eleanor shook her head and tucked the letters into her coat pocket. "I'm certain there will be something available for me soon."
"You know how very sorry I am, my dear."
"I know. You don't have to keep apologizing about the move." Eleanor gave her landlady a smile.
"If Sally wasn't coming, you could stay indefinitely and not have to pay one single penny."
"I know that. But Sally needs you. And it will be special to have her and your new son-in-law living here. Besides, which, I have a perfectly good place to go. Really."
"That horrid gymnasium?" Mrs. Waverly snorted.
"It's actually better inside than it looks. I'm certain I can find a position after the holidays. Then I'll be able to fix it up just the way Gramps would have liked."
"It's a hectic time of year for you to be looking for work. Nothing gets done during the holidays. People don't seem to pay attention. Why that daughter of mine wanted a Christmas wedding I'll never know."
"I think a Christmas wedding would be lovely."
"I suppose." Mrs. Waverly planted her hands on her rounded hips and asked, "Do you know why Sally called this time?"
Eleanor shook her head.
"That silly girl wanted me to make certain the florist had Christmas lilies. I told her it was Christmas. Of course they'd have Christmas lilies." The older woman sighed. "There's already enough to do at this time of year without having all this brouhaha. Oh, which reminds me. One of those Stadler boys came by this afternoon, and said they'd have the wagon here at seven Wednesday morning. They'll have your things moved out and into the new place by noon."
Before Eleanor could thank her, the telephone rang with a loud shrill ring.
"I wonder who this could be," Mrs. Waverly said in a wry tone. She grabbed the ear piece, tapped on the speaking horn, and listened for a second. "Yes, Sally. It's me." She glanced at Eleanor and rolled her eyes. "Yes, Sally. I'll check it. No, the florist is closed. I'll have to call tomorrow."
Eleanor stood there for a moment as Mrs. Waverly reassured her daughter the wedding would o on without a hitch. She turned away but her aloneness stayed with her. Weddings and holidays and Conn Donoughue? She sighed. Perhaps she was turning into a lonely old woman who did nothing but dream of what could never be.
Eleanor felt all used up. After a moment she trudged up the staircase to her rooms. She had her things to pack.
Chapter 3
Early Wednesday morning Conn awoke to the sound of someone singing Christmas carols. He groaned and rolled over, flinging his arm over his eyes to block out the shock of daylight. To hell with King Wenceslas. The ceiling thundered as if all the king's horses and all the king's men were having a melee right above him. He crammed a pillow over his head and tried to go back to sleep.
It worked until something thumped down the stairs. Something heavy. Something big. Something loud.
Conn rolled his legs over the
side of the bed and sat up. There was another loud thud. He buried his pounding head in his hands, before he glanced up, wincing. The banging around on the fourth floor was so loud the old gaslight ceiling lamp in the center of the room shook.
Another loud thud. It sounded as if the whole building rattled. Conn stood up, scowling at the ceiling. Who the hell was moving in? One stubborn pain-in-the-butt woman or New York City's mounted police? He stepped into his pants and shrugged on a wool shirt. Grumbling under his breath, he tied his shoes and crossed to the room. He threw open the door.
There in the hallway near the stairs was a cumbersome oak cabinet rocking back and forth in midair. Two men, one under it and one behind it, were trying to move the cabinet around the turn in the third-floor landing and up the next flight of stairs.
One of the men swore. "Stop telling me how to do it, Jimmy, and just back up so we can get this blasted thing up the stairs."
"Yoo-hoo!" Nellibelle leaned over the banister and shook her finger at the movers.
One of the men groaned under his breath, "Not again."
Conn knew just how he felt.
"Don't scratch the wood please!"
The tallest mover shifted to get a better grip on the cabinet and leaned his head over to the side. "We got it, Miss Austen."
She started to say something else but her gaze flashed to Conn. For just an instant her face froze in a sick look; it was the same look he'd seen on people who had just swallowed a rotten oyster.
A second later she stiffened as if she had a steel spine. She stared at him the way she had when they'd first met and her face began to turn bright pink. Her chin shot up, and she spun around and disappeared into the doorway of the fourth floor apartments.
Conn looked at the other men and shrugged, then pushed away from the doorway. "You want some help?"
The mover took in his size with a quick once-over. He had seen that look a million times.
"Yeah. We'd appreciate it. Jimmy, set down your end and take this other corner." He turned to Conn. "Thanks.” He nodded up at the fourth floor. “It's been a long morning."