by Lorna Graham
“Very cool,” said Russell. “A little more interesting than ‘how to exercise your goldfish,’ eh?”
“If only you didn’t have to work for the dragon lady,” said Quirine.
“She’s not so bad.” Eve lifted a shrimp to her mouth and chewed it thoughtfully. “I mean, she doesn’t exactly hand out gold stars, but she’s teaching me a lot. And …”
“What?” asked Quirine.
“She gave me an advance on my salary before I even started. Otherwise, I would have had to give up my apartment.”
“Wonders … ceasing … apparently never,” said Russell.
Eve answered the rest of their questions, but hugged one secret to herself. She was going to share it with only one person, and not until later. She had sent Donald’s now-completed manuscript out to several publishers, explaining that the memoir was to form the backbone of a nationally televised documentary. Today she had gotten letters back from two university presses, expressing interest in publishing it. Who knew? There might even be a bidding war.
• • •
The candles on the table burned down, the flames faltering as they consumed the last specks of wick. Günter was telling Eve about the arthropods of Capri, speaking in yards and yards of full sentences. His manner was limber, his gestures fluid. He even made a joke about tarantulas, which eluded Eve completely. She laughed anyway, though, because he was so funny as he told it.
“Have you ever been to the Sorrentine Peninsula?” he asked.
“No. I haven’t traveled much. Just one trip to France as a child,” said Eve. “I’d like to go back, very much.”
“Then I am sure that you will,” said Günter.
“And you?” asked Eve. “Won’t you be leaving soon? I thought your uncle said your year at Plum Island is almost up.”
“Yes. I am not sure what I shall do next. I have an offer back in Germany, but also the opportunity to join a practice here in Manhattan.”
“You have a big decision to make,” said Eve.
“I do,” Günter said quietly.
Busboys shuffled by with stacks of plates while bartenders dried wineglasses before sliding them onto overhead racks, where they clinked rhythmically.
“Think they want to get rid of us?” asked Susan, reaching for her purse under the table. “Where next?”
“I know,” said Eve.
• • •
“What are you doing, my dear? Are we breaking into someone’s home?” asked Klieg as Eve pushed open the unmarked door of Chumley’s. She enjoyed watching the comprehension dawn on his face as he took in the hive of drinking and debate.
They slid into the same booth as the first night Eve had spent in New York, still carrying on their conversations from the walk over. Russell and Victor invited Günter to go fishing somewhere in the Bronx, while Quirine tried to explain her “look” to Klieg. The two of them asked for extra napkins so they could draw silhouettes with Klieg’s fountain pen. Gwendolyn and Susan, it turned out, had gone to the same high school. Sitting directly across from Eve, they reminisced about their dreadful biology teacher.
“Did you see that piece in the Times?” Eve asked. “About the latest school board battle between biology and creationism in the Bible Belt? Sounds like they’re going to have to call in the National Guard.”
“I saw that,” said Susan. “I’m sure, with Quirine gone, Russell will be on that any day now.”
Later, the room began to empty and they didn’t have to raise their voices quite so much. “Have any of the dresses sold?” Eve asked Gwendolyn, not sure she wanted to hear the answer.
“I was wondering when you were going to ask that.” The room was warm and Gwendolyn’s cheeks were flushed. She pushed up the sleeves of her cardigan.
“Well?”
“Nope.”
Eve raised an eyebrow. “None of them?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Not even the gold sheath? With the lace bolero?” Gwendolyn shook her head.
“How strange.” Eve swirled the bourbon around the glass, listening to the ice cubes clink. It was the last thing she’d expected to hear.
“Not that strange.”
“Why not?”
“Because I never put them out.”
“What?”
“They’ve been in the vault downstairs since you brought them in.”
“Why?”
“Those dresses belong with you. It’s their happy ending. You can buy them back anytime you want. All at once, one sleeve at a time, whatever you can manage.”
Eve laid her arm along the table, palm up. “Thank you,” she said.
Gwendolyn slid her own palm along it lightly. “No problem.”
• • •
As she sat listening to everyone, Eve’s gaze fell to the table and the jumbled pattern of carved initials, the very ones that had helped trigger her déjà vu the previous year. They covered the surface so completely it was difficult to separate them. Some were beautifully done, almost like calligraphy, others quite crude.
RS
ML
JR DB
And then she saw a pair of initials, right next to her highball glass, half an inch high, filled in with black ink: PE
P for Penelope … E for Easton. Could the initials belong to her mother? Could she have carved them herself? Or perhaps. Mack had done it, since Penelope herself had not exactly been the penknife type.
They probably weren’t hers at all. So many years later, with so many who’d sat at these tables in the interim, what were the odds?
Still, Eve ran her index finger lightly over the letters. Then she pressed hard so that her skin sank deep into the grooves.
• • •
The bartender announced last call.
During the round-robin of goodbye hugs, Quirine and Victor invited everyone to a housewarming party at their new apartment on West Ninth Street the following weekend. They’d be only four blocks from Eve.
Shyly, Quirine looked up at Klieg. “I don’t suppose you would like to come, too? I would be most honored.”
“If you don’t mind an old man’s company,” he said, and Quirine responded with some soothing-sounding French, which resulted in Klieg bending down to kiss her lightly on the cheek.
Everyone melted away until the bar stood empty except for Eve, Klieg, and Günter and a waitress wiping down tables. They sipped the last of their brandy, speaking in low voices, husky from a long evening’s use.
“If you’ll excuse me …” Klieg departed toward the men’s room, shoulders sagging slightly.
Eve’s chin rested on her palm and she swayed to the music although the jukebox had long since stopped playing.
Günter leaned in and softly cleared his throat. “This party next weekend. Perhaps we could attend together?”
Eve looked at him in surprise. “Yes,” she said, finding that she was smiling. “We could do that.”
• • •
The sky was just beginning to shed its black for violet as they hailed a taxi to take Günter to Penn Station and the first train of the day out to Long Island, where he had an early meeting at the lab. It pulled to a stop in front of them and the three stood looking at one another. Günter gave Eve an awkward but sincere hug and, behind him, she noticed Klieg’s look of surprise give way to pleasure. Günter hastily shook his uncle’s hand and got into the cab. They watched him pull away.
“I could use some fresh air. Would you mind walking a little?” asked Eve.
“Please,” said Klieg.
They headed out to the Hudson, and then north along the water, not speaking. The streets were empty and the city hovered over them, ancient and silent.
“Did you enjoy the evening?” asked Eve. “You seemed preoccupied at times.”
Klieg’s gaze fell to his feet as they crunched over some gravel. He sighed. “It was delightful, my dear. But also a little painful.”
“Why?” she asked, looking up at his profile silhouetted against the weak li
ght of the stars.
“It reminded me of so many nights, so long ago. When I, too, was young.” The purple light around them faded to pale silver. The surface of the river stirred gently as if waking.
“Paris,” Eve said.
“Yes.” Klieg ran his eyes over the water. “Tonight it came back to me in the most visceral fashion. In the faces of your friends, I saw my own. In their voices, I heard echoes of my comrades. In their laughter, I heard my very youth. It was like seeing a cherished photo in a different frame. Still beautiful, but the context is somehow all wrong.”
The water rose higher now and fell, sending waves onto the shore. Droplets danced on their skin, turning it blue-green.
Eve tucked her arm through his. The moon dipped below the western horizon and they turned inland, toward the first glow of the sunrise, across the cobblestones and past the keening old buildings.
“Knowing you all these months, talking as we have, has been so good for me. Because of you, I have my family back, and they are a great comfort.” He gave her arm a squeeze. “Yet the pangs for my youth do not die. I am still pained by the knowledge of what I had and what I lost. The sin for which I can never atone.” One by one, the streetlamps that stretched before them went out, like candles extinguished by an unseen hand. “In the end, we are all alone,” he mused. “Donald said that once and I didn’t believe it. Now I do.”
The wind sighed. Around them the cherry trees began a languid dance. They continued past the wrought-iron gates and the bursting flower boxes. Her front stoop rose up before them. Eve took Klieg’s hand just as the sun peeked over the nearest tenement and threw their shadows long over the slate sidewalk.
“This is where I live,” said Eve. She pointed to the red brick, glowing yellow in the new light. “You see that spot?” Klieg nodded. “Next month the city’s going to put a plaque there, next to the front door, commemorating Donald’s life and work.”
“Really? How is that?”
“I applied for it and the Landmarks Preservation Foundation approved.” Klieg looked at her. “You thought that because of what you did, the world lost Donald. But Donald isn’t lost. Not really,” said Eve.
“He would have been so pleased,” Klieg whispered.
“Yes, he will be,” said Eve.
The wind picked up and the trees began to laugh. They shook merrily, letting go the blossoms in their hair and turning the sidewalk into a flower girl’s trail.
“It is as if the world mirrors their happiness; nature herself celebrates the improbability and purity of their friendship,” murmured Eve. She climbed two steps and turned to face Klieg, eye to eye.
“What, my dear?”
Her heart beat fast. “Would you like to come in? For some coffee?”
He looked at her in surprise. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Because of the damage.”
“What damage?”
“Why, from the fire you suffered recently.”
Ah. Eve pushed some blossoms off Klieg’s shoulder. “That’s all fixed now.”
“You know,” he said, coming up a step. “The next time one of these accidents befalls your flat, you really must stay with me.”
Eve shaded her eyes from the sun. “Actually, I don’t think I’ll be having so many accidents in the future.”
“That is good news. May I assume things are going better for you these days?”
“Yes. Much.”
“You’ve had some difficulties this past year. Perhaps your time has come at last.”
Eve exhaled. “Maybe it has.”
“Perhaps you will tell me about it? I do feel as if we’ve spent an inordinate amount of time discussing me. Perhaps I can learn a little more about you sometime? I seem to remember you once saying your mother admired my work. I would very much like to hear about her as well.”
Eve smiled. “I would love that.” Pink and orange flames licked the sky overhead. “So,” she said, nodding toward the door. “What about it?”
Klieg glanced down the street. “I am not sure. I am an old man, tired. I should find a taxi.”
“But it’s dawn. Time for le café pour trois.”
Klieg nodded wistfully. “Ah yes. A shame there are only two of us.”
Around them, sound drained. Colors deepened. A bird cried and flew out of a tree.
“Actually, there’s someone who wants to see you,” said Eve.
Klieg’s brow creased, soft bewilderment playing across his features. “At this hour? Whatever can you be talking about?”
Eve took his hand in both of hers. “Remember Christmas Eve?”
“Yes …”
“When I told you that everything was going to be all right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it is. You’ll see.”
“If you say so, my dear.” Then he shook his head and straightened his back. “In fact, it is a fine idea. I could use some coffee. And I am curious to see where you live.” He looked up, tipping his head back slightly, taking in the building once more. “So, this is your home.”
“Yes,” said Eve, with a small shrug. “This is me.”
Acknowledgments
To the many who held a flashlight as I embarked on the sometimes murky path of writing fiction for the first time:
First, to Jessie Sholl, peerless leader, and the rest of my wonderful workshop: Paulina Porizkova, Shizuka Otake, Rashmi Dalai, Melissa Johnson, David Simonetti, Chelsea Ferrette, and Angie Mangiano. I am grateful for your friendship and insight, and the fact that you all live “in town.”
To my incomparable agent, Susan Golomb, for crucial guidance and for being such fun.
To my delightful editor, Jen Smith, for her keen eye and kind ways.
Also to Jane von Mehren for her support, and to the incredible team at Ballantine, including Melissa Possick, Sharon Propson, and Leigh Marchant.
To Pat Mulcahy for her expertise.
Special mention to my remarkable colleagues in television news over the years—especially the writers—for making the dream job of my childhood a dream job in actuality.
To Don B., who once called my apartment home and who, from beyond the grave, provided delicious inspiration, if no actual bumps in the night.
And to Charley McKenna, who gave me more words of encouragement than are in this book, and whom I love more than words could ever say.
LORNA GRAHAM was born in the San Francisco Bay Area and graduated from Barnard College. She has written for Good Morning America and Dateline NBC. She also wrote a short film, A Timeless Call, honoring America’s military veterans, that was directed by Steven Spielberg. She lives in Greenwich Village.