"Okay, I'm asking now."
I drew in a long courage-building breath. "I think it's easier for me to tell you what I don't want. I don't want to live only in the moment. I don't want to feel that asking you about where we're going is a criminal offense. I don't want to never be able to expect anything from you . . . from us. I don't want to be with a man whose past is forever kept behind a veil."
"Oh. I guess then it's my turn to say, 'I see'." He began to mechanically fold up the refuse from lunch. He shoved the last uneaten part of his sandwich viciously into the bag and stood up with the trash in his hands. Wordlessly, he walked to the kitchen and I heard the thump and thwack of the bag hitting the trash shute and the door slamming back in place.
When he returned, there was a lot less light in his leafy eyes. He sat down next to me and gently took my hands in his. "Annalise, I'm sorry. Very sorry. I hope you will let me see through the situation with your parents and help you find a position. It's the least I can do."
"That's it? That's all you have to say?" I was shocked. I had been kidding myself that somehow he would want to make it right. To open up, to bend a little.
He stood up and kissed my forehead with a softness that brought tears to my eyes. "I'm going to my office for the afternoon. Stay as long as you like. Taishi will be downstairs when you're ready to go back to your house. I'll be in touch . . . later." Then he was gone.
Twenty six
My room seemed small, shabby and like it belonged to a little girl. I felt like a little girl. A lost one.
I didn't mention the 'scene' with Kason to my parents. By the time I got home it was dinner time and Mom was back in her place at the stove, throwing together a nice supper for Dad and I. I gave them both a big hug and fled upstairs hoping that my devastating sadness wasn't written all over my face. They needed some peace and happiness, not my self-pity to bring them down.
I soaked my pillow with some hot tears of frustration and anger. I had blown it big time and deserved to have Kason cut me out of his life. The man had been kind, generous and totally up front about himself and I just couldn't leave it alone. I didn't have the emotional maturity to deal with a man like Kason Royce. I was a bad cliché. The girl who just has to push until she pushes the one man she really wants out of her life.
I was surprised when my father told me he had talked to Kason that afternoon. He blithely related what a great guy Kason was. That he was handling the union problem with subtlety and real street smarts. Kason had informed Dad that even though there were plenty of witnesses to the beating, none of them would testify publicly.
"Damn cowards, every one," my father fumed. "Kason says that even though we know, beyond a doubt, who the guys are and where they are, our hands are tied. Kason wants to set them up—a sting—and get them on tape."
"I hope you told him to find another star for his show," my mother said.
"Are you kidding? I'm the only logical one. Kason said . . ."
"Dad, can we just stop with 'Kason said' and 'Kason wants'? Please?" I really didn't need to hear much more about wonder-boy. My mother shot me a strange look
"Did you and Kason have a fight?" she asked me.
"No, mother. We didn't have a fight. We just want different things. Okay?" I pushed myself away from the table. "It's been a long and mostly rotten day. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to bed."
My phone mocked me from the nightstand. I couldn't will it to ring. I couldn't, by sheer force of thought make Kason dial my number and say "We need to talk" or "I've changed my mind" or any number of things I so wanted to hear.
I tried to put him out of my mind. I was actually watching South Pacific on the classic movie channel. It was corny and old, old school. It was even an old movie by my parents' standards. I had forgotten the night Kason and I first made love in Brian's loft. But it all came back to me when Rossano Brazzi started to sing "Some Enchanted Evening". When he got to the end and sang "then fly to her side, and make her your own, or all through your life you may dream all alone" I started to cry again.
"Is that what you want, Kason?" I asked the empty room. "You want to dream all alone? What an awful waste," I sobbed. My American Girl dolls all looked down from the shelf at me and I imagined they felt sorry for me. I cried harder, wishing I could go back to a time when my biggest concern was whether I'd get the outfits and furniture for them that I asked for Christmas.
It was still early when I fell into a teary, exhausted sleep, snubbing into the wet pillow as the last of my impotent sobs resided. I woke up at eleven thirty, then two, then three. I fought the urge to get up and tossed back into a fitful sleep.
***
I woke in a burning sweat. My skin was soaked. The clock said five-thirty. It was close enough to dawn for me to get up. The prospect of the dream that had awoken me returning motivated me out of the treacherous bed that led me to such a miserable nightmare.
I went down to the kitchen and started the coffee. I've always hated getting up before the sun. The darkest hour was made even darker by the dream in which I kept hearing Kason whispering to Elsa . . . all the things I knew he had probably really said to her. The things he'd never say to me.
Mercifully, I wasn't alone with my thoughts very long. George wandered up the stairs and Dad came down. I got busy cooking up a batch of biscuits. I knew my mother would welcome the smell of baking bread when she joined us. By the time the sun was fully up, breakfast was well underway and the dream receded into the backwaters of my mind.
I intended to stay busy and keep my thoughts from drifting to Kason. He had said that he'd be in touch, but I knew better than to expect it to be any time in the near future. I had made my decision and I had said the words. I couldn't take them back now and he couldn't take back the gentle but cold dismissal of my needs.
As the day wore on, I was thankful that my sadness began to morph into anger. Anger is a lot easier to channel into productivity than sadness. I didn't want to be depressed, I wanted to take action. Since the day I met Kason, I had allowed him to take control of my emotions. He had made all the rules and I had blithely followed them out of fear that not doing so would lose him.
Indeed, that's exactly what happened. As my mind wrapped itself around the damage I had done, I started to forgive myself. I watched my parents cherish one another in the small things as they began their umpteenth day together. She poured him coffee, he shared a headline or two out of the morning paper. When he rose to take his plate to the sink, he picked hers up as well and gave her a little peck on the cheek. It was all very mundane.
My mother didn't have to ask my father to be there the next morning, or the next or the next. And if she had, he would have thought it an honor to promise her anything. He would not have felt cornered or thought her needy for asking. As much as I would miss Kason's touch and the adventure and excitement of time spent with him, I deserved as much as my mother. I deserved to expect.
By midday, I had the want ads spread out on one end of the table and my laptop at the other. My resume was slim, but polished. There was no point now in kicking myself over blowing off those interviews to go to France with Kason. There was a job waiting for me out there and I intended to find it.
Twenty seven
A week later, I wasn't nearly as optimistic. I had emailed my resume to any and all jobs that remotely fit my parameters. I applied to publishing houses, theaters, museums, libraries, bookstores and non-profits. In seven days, I hadn't netted a single return call.
As a fall back, I had pounded the pavement in my neighborhood hoping to luck into a vacancy in a restaurant. I had experience as a waitress, hostess and pantry girl. Although I hoped it wouldn't come to restaurant work, I was prepared to take anything. I had let the grass grow under my feet. I was broke and had stooped to getting spending money from Mom and Dad. This was not the way I had envisioned life.
Dad had been talking to Kason on the phone. My parents knew, of course, that we were no longer 'together' as if we had ever reall
y been. They were diplomatic about it and didn't question me. But they didn't avoid him, either. My father still wanted to nail the bastards that beat him up and Kason was the only person who seemed fully committed to seeing it through. I left it alone, it was between my Dad and Kason.
Plus, Archie was still hound-dogging the money trail to see if he could nail Mom's kidnapper. He was convinced that those hundred dollar bills would surface sooner or later and probably closer to home than any of us thought. Archie claimed to be an 'intuitive' detective. It was a word that seemed out of place in his vernacular. But he was sure that his gut feelings were as valid as any other piece of evidence in Mom's case. The police had been cooperative, but it was Archie (and thus Kason) who was supplying the man-hours. Plenty were needed.
We were at dinner one night about two weeks 'post Kason' as I had come to think of it. My father mentioned that a friend of a friend had a bookshop on the upper west side that was looking for an assistant manager.
"It's a really small place that specializes in rare books—antiques and first copies, I think he said."
"First editions, you mean?"
"That's it, first editions." He fished a rumpled piece of paper from his pocket. "All he gave me was an address. If you feel like it would interest you, why don't you check it out." He handed the paper to me. It was on Broadway, upper Westside.
The next day I put on a nice pair of slacks with a light turtleneck and my favorite, well worn but still classy blue blazer. There was a good autumn chill in the air and I threw a wool scarf around my neck for extra color and the warmth it provided.
The store was one of those narrow, tiny places with a classic green canvas awning stenciled boldly on the top with the word "Books" and across the apron on the front "Rare and Used Volumes". It was wedged between a florist and a dry cleaners and right across the street from Zabars. That was a great sign; I could always count on a good lunch from Zabars even if it would eat up half my paycheck.
I could see that there was a tiny apartment over the shop and wondered if that's where the owner lived. It was certainly a very cool location. It made me a little uneasy that the bookshop was only about a dozen blocks from the Dakota. But Kason wasn't likely to be walking the streets of his neighborhood and I put that little coincidence down to harmless.
The wizened old man who poked his head out when the bell tinkled as I opened the door looked to be about a hundred and ten years old. He was as dusty and antique as the books lining the shelves and piled everywhere. I picked my way through the mess and introduced myself.
Crusty as he appeared, Mr. Clemson was sharp as a tack. It didn't take me long to have enormous respect for the catalog he carried around in his head. "That's the trouble, though, you see. My head isn't going to be around forever. My grandson keeps needling me about a website and computerized records for all of my friends." He swept a gnarled hand at the stacks. The skin was yellow and fragile, like much of the paper in the room. He led me to the back of the store where, to my utter surprise, he swung open a door to an immaculate modern office about the size of a walk-in closet.
"I've got all the stuff here, but I just can't face it. At my age, I don't want to have to learn all . . . this. I'd rather be reading." He looked at me through rheumy eyes that belonged on an aging spaniel. I wanted to pet his bald head and get him a cookie.
I handed him my resume and pointed out the experience working the Tanglewood system and some other computer work I had done. A couple of simple websites were listed as part of my experience also.
Mr. Clemson waved the paper away. "I'm not interested in what you've got written down on that paper, Miss Harding. Take a look around you. Tell me if you know what needs to be done and if you think you are willing and able to do it. Take all the time you need. We're not going anywhere soon."
The way he referred to his books and himself as 'we' was charming. He rattled back into the bookshelves where he nearly disappeared, so camouflaged was he by the similarity between himself and his beloved volumes.
An hour later, having taken a good look at the computers—state of the art—and the program manuals—straightforward and practical—I was sure I could accomplish what his grandson rightly thought should be done to move the shop into the 21st century.
"Mr. Clemson?" I think I startled him out of a catnap. "I'm quite sure I can do what needs to be done here."
"Miss Harding, I believe you. When can you start?"
We discussed the details of the job. He offered me a generous salary, considering the fact that the shop couldn't possibly be making a lot of money. It wouldn't be enough to get me my own apartment for a while and the commute into Manhattan wasn't something I was looking forward to especially with winter approaching, but I was thrilled to have it.
As I was getting ready to leave the shop I asked Mr. Clemson if he lived above the store.
He snorted. "You must be joking! Have you taken a look at the stairs? That's a young person's apartment. It hasn't been occupied in years. I got tired of the last tenant traipsing in and out of the shop at all hours. There's no separate entrance for it, you see." He laughed. "The young pup was always arguing with me about the utilities, too. The store and the apartment are on one meter."
"I see." I was going to go for it. A lucky day shouldn't go to waste. "Would you consider renting it to me? I could pay out of my salary. I'd never be able to claim the subway was late or get snowed in and I'd always be around." I was prattling and I knew it, but it was such an opportunity! I smiled my most charming and persuasive smile.
Mr. Clemson tried to look stern, but I could tell instantly that he liked the idea. "It gets cleaned every so often, so it isn't knee deep in dust. But some of the furniture is older than these books. You want to take a look at it?"
"Oh yes, Mr. Clemson. Yes, please."
He rooted around in his roll top desk and produced an ancient key. "Help yourself," he told me.
I sprinted up the stairs and unlocked the heavy wooden door. The tiny apartment smelled like old books, just like the shop. The living, dining and kitchen area looked out over Broadway and the bedroom and bathroom were tucked away in the back. The old oak floors creaked under my feet as I poked around. The couch could have come out of some old time gentlemen's club. The golden leather had the patina of smoke about it. With a good dose of leather conditioner, I knew it would come back to life beautifully.
The two matching wingback chairs framed a fireplace, long converted to a gas heater, but it gave some charm to the room as did the high tin ceilings and the wonderful French windows. The kitchen area was tiny and I squealed with delight when I recognized the stove as the exact same one in Rachel Ray's kitchen on TV. The refrigerator was from the fifties also and matched the curvy lines of the Chambers stove. I figured I could rise to the challenge of appliances that were that cute.
Every last piece wooden furniture looked terribly old and dry, but otherwise classic in form and function. The dropleaf dining table was a masterpiece of space saving straight out of the 1800's.
A bright rug, a few pictures and a new mattress looked like just about all I would need to set up housekeeping. In the kitchen cabinets I found a complete set of pink depression glassware, old enamel bowls, iron skillets and a couple of copper pots. I was sure Mr. Clemson didn't know the treasure trove he had in there. He was lucky the last tenant didn't make off with the dishes. It was an antique hunter's dream.
I tried to put on a poker face when I came down the stairs, but it was impossible. "I love the place! It's so perfect." I sucked in some air and braced myself. "How much will you rent it to me for?"
He seemed to have trouble with that. "I wasn't really thinking about renting it at all. How does $500 a month sound? That would include utilities. I can't be bothered with separating the bills."
Five. Hundred. Dollars. For a cute upper Westside apartment? It was a gift. I could easily afford that on what Mr. Clemson had offered me. I wanted to hug him. But instead I just said, "Thank you so much.
You won't regret it."
"I've already got that internet thing, but I don't know how to get that upstairs. If you want TV you'll have to do that yourself."
"That's fine, Mr. Clemson. I can put WiFi in for next to nothing. I probably won't need cable if the internet's good. I can watch plenty on line if I want to."
"I don't know why you'd want to watch anything with all these books here waiting to be read."
"You're absolutely right. I intend to take full advantage of this wonderful library." That seemed to make the old guy happy and we settled a few more details before I was on my way. I was to start in ten days which couldn't be soon enough for me.
As I rode the subway home, I couldn't help but smile at all my fellow commuters. I had scored a wonderful job and an apartment at the same time. My commute was going to be going down a set of stairs. Sweet.
Twenty eight
I couldn't wait to tell my parents about the job, the apartment and darling old Mr. Clemson. On the way home from the subway stop, I used the remainder of the twenty bucks Dad had given me that morning to buy some cannoli and cream puffs. Mom, Dad and I all had a weak spot for sweets and we'd celebrate with the pastries.
Up the stairs, two at a time, I went happily through the front door with my box of goodies and my news. I froze when I saw Kason seated, back to me, at the dining table with Taishi, George, Hoc, Archie and my parents. I felt my knees and just about every other part of my body go rubbery. My heart, my betraying, treacherous heart, began to beat against my chest walls and I could feel the heat of a blush working its way from my ears to my neck. The golden curls over his collar made the tips of my fingers itch to touch them.
Almost Always: A Love Unexpected Novel Page 16