Gretta smiled, suddenly knowing if she was relocated to New York sometime in the past ten years, the cross reference directory would probably be her ticket to success. "Correct. Every town has them, and I think most libraries carry an up-to-date volume."
"Then I'm sure that's where you'll find them. Emily Bronsen is working the third floor desk today, and she's a sweetie. If you need any help up there, you ask Em. Good luck, dear."
"Thank you so much," Gretta said, and turned, running smack into the pizza-maker, standing directly behind her.
"Oh, excuse me," she said, not recognizing him at first, not until she saw the scar running down his face. As she looked up into his gorgeous brown eyes, she saw that he was smiling that wonderful smile, felt herself falling hard for him.
"Oh, hi, I didn't expect to run into you." She smiled at her play on words, and started laughing along with the man.
"You said you were going to the library, and since I'm intimately familiar with this particular branch, I thought you might need some of my expert assistance. So, if you'll permit me to help, I, Lawrence Remington, am at your service." He bowed slightly, and the gallantry of the old-fashioned display of manners made Gretta's mind up for her, with a little help from those brown eyes.
"Hi, Wanda. How are you today?" he added, waving at the librarian.
"Very well, thank you, Mr. Remington," she replied, smiling her best smile at the man.
The exchange convinced her, the guy being known by name by a librarian. Almost like a co-signer, she thought, grinning.
"Cool, I would appreciate the help. Thanks. I'm heading for the third floor." She spotted the stairs and was off, her long legs carrying her across the blue and white tiled floor, Lawrence Remington a step behind. As they climbed the steps, Gretta snuck a look at the pizza-maker, amazed at the transformation. This was not the young man who had been tossing pizza dough for her an hour earlier, showing off. This was a well-dressed, confident man, comfortable in this environment of learning and knowledge, seeming to know his way around the library as though he spent a lot of time there.
"So, how did you get off work so quickly?" she asked.
"You were my last customer before my replacement showed up. I have a class later today, and this is my short pizza day. I was trying to make up my mind whether to close the shop early so that I could find you, or wait until he got there and take the chance of missing you. Fortunately, he came in early, a clear-cut sign of fate. He's never come to work early before. So here I am."
"Why do I feel I was just fed a magnificent yarn?" Gretta giggled, pleased with the attention of the guy, aware of the magnetism he was generating.
"True story," he objected, laughing at her reaction.
"Where is it you have a class? And what are you studying?"
"Fordham. And I'm not studying today, I'm teaching. I teach part-time at Fordham, Western Civilization from an Urban Perspective. It's a 200 course, a sophomore class for history majors. I teach one class a semester while I'm writing my dissertation. If I keep up my present pace of pizza, teaching and writing, I may be done with it in about 25 years." He chuckled, and it was at that moment that Gretta lost her heart to him.
"Actually, I might accelerate the schedule and receive my doctorate sometime next year. Then I hope that Fordham hires me to a full professorship, a chance to gain tenure. I just might be able to get out of the pizza making business, although I'll miss it. And if they don't hire me, I'll be the most educated pizza cook in the western hemisphere. Dr. Pizza, maybe. So, if we're done with my recent history, I have two questions for you."
"Oh, I don't mind," she said, anticipating his questions, wanting to pour out her life story to him, and anything else he might want to hear.
"Your name? And then, what are we looking for on the third floor? It's mostly a storage area."
"Easy. I'm Gretta Hughes and I’m glad to meet you, Lawrence Remington." She put her hand out and shook his, smiling. Suddenly she realized her mistake, giving the same name as the person she was looking for. Thinking quickly, she created a story in her head for any further questions.
"And I'm looking for a Gretta Hughes, too. I have an aunt who has lost touch with our family. She was always my favorite, you know, the black sheep of the family. I want to find her, maybe re-establish contact. She's wonderful, and the last I heard she was in New York. So here I am, on the third floor, looking for my namesake."
"I didn't think you were a New Yorker. Where are you from?" he asked.
"You said two questions," she shot back.
They arrived at the top of the steps, a cluttered and disorganized appearing part of the library, very much unlike the first two floors. This area was obviously, as Lawrence had pointed out, used as a storage area, and any hope of finding something quickly was hopeless. Thankfully, Gretta knew exactly what she was looking for, and she had a willing and eager helper along. The phone books and cross reference volumes were in the back of the room, stacked on gray, metal shelves, rejects from another era. Gretta grabbed the most recent New York City phone book, hefted the gigantic volume in her arms, and carried it to a table. Lawrence grabbed another and followed her, taking a seat alongside her.
"This is the biggest phone book I've ever seen," Gretta muttered.
"And this is just two boroughs," Lawrence told her. "There are three more boroughs in New York City."
Gretta rolled her eyes, let out a deep breath, and turned to the H section of the Brooklyn phone book. The next couple of hours were spent writing down every Gretta Hughes, G. Hughes, and G. E. Hughes in the five monster phone books. The girl couldn't believe how many Hughes resided in the New York City area. Several times during the day their hands touched, or their legs brushed each other, each time ignored outwardly by the pair, each touch igniting fires within. After their lists were completed, they each grabbed a copy of the city cross-reference directories and started a process of elimination. After another hour, Lawrence got up, excused himself and made a phone call, returning to the task.
"Hey, your class, you better get going," Gretta cried, looking at her watch.
"I canceled. It's okay, it's too pretty of a day for many of the kids to have showed up anyway. Summer classes are like that. There's nothing that’s going to make me leave here without finding this mysterious aunt of yours."
Gretta ducked her head back into the reference book, smiling to herself. God, I think I'm in love, she thought. I'm certainly smitten with this guy.
The cross-directory showed that the majority of names on the list were those of males, as well as ten G. Hughes who were retired persons. Three others were deceased. Gretta was praying that none of the deceased names were her, the fear sitting heavily in the back of her mind. The process left them with a list of nine possibilities.
"We need to find a phone, my cell is about dead," Lawrence said. "If you want, we can take a bus over to my flat and call all the numbers, that'll probably be the easiest way. I don't live very far, and I probably have some cold pizza and wine if you're hungry."
Gretta was starved, the one piece of pizza having been consumed several hours earlier. She didn't have any problem with going to Lawrence's apartment, was really kind of curious about how her pizza-maker/ professor/student lived. He had fascinated the girl with his charm, but even more with his sharp intelligence.
They caught an electric-powered bus in front of the library and rode it to a stop near Lawrence's home, Gretta amazed at the speed and the lack of sound of the bus. Lawrence explained during the ride that the New York subway system was becoming extinct, these above ground busses a recent alternative to the underground trains. They walked a half-block to his basement flat, descending three steps to his front door. The living room was decorated simply but tastefully, several items of African art adorning the walls, colorful throw-rugs covering a wood floor.
"Make yourself comfortable. The phone's there on the table. I'll get us something to eat while you start calling," Lawrence said.
&nb
sp; "Uh, Lawrence. Would you mind very much if I fixed lunch and you made the calls?" She was looking at him seriously, not offering any further explanation. She had a sudden fear of what might happen if she reached herself on the phone. The Wizard guy had not explained that part to her, but she thought it might not be a good idea to talk to herself. Way too confusing.
"Well, sure. The fridge is pretty barren, but there's enough to feed us, I think. The red wine is really pretty good," he answered, a puzzled look on his face. "What do I say when they answer?"
"Uh...I don't...how about if you ask them if they are from the Radford, or related to the Radford Hughes'. That should be enough. Only one of them is going to be from there." She walked into the tiny kitchen area before he could ask any further questions and went about heating up the cold pizza she found in the fridge. She also found breadsticks, a head of lettuce, a block of cheese, garlic croutons, and a half-bottle of Italian salad dressing along with a bottle of red wine. As she bustled around the kitchen, she heard Lawrence's voice on the phone. She had gotten the table laid out, the wine poured into two crystal champagne goblets she had found in the back of a cabinet, when she heard his voice.
"Bingo!" he called excitedly.
Gretta ran into the living room as he was replacing the phone.
"Found her," he said. "I asked her if she was the Gretta Hughes from Radford. She hesitated and then said yes, asked me if I was someone she knew from home. I told her we might have a mutual friend, and that I would be in touch. Hey, I like this detective stuff, it's kind of fun.”
"Oh, gosh, that's wonderful," she cried, throwing her arms around the man's neck, hugging him.
"Wow, now I know I like it," he murmured, returning the embrace.
"What did she sound like, which one is it," she asked, letting go of his neck, more excited than she could ever remember being. She was looking at the list, coming to the G.E. Hughes that wasn't scratched off. Gretta Elaine Hughes. That was her, G.E. Hughes of New York City. Now, how the heck did I get here?
"She sounded fine, almost the same voice you have. It's kind of funny, she didn't act overly surprised to be getting the call, almost as though she were expecting it or something...I don't know what I mean, just that she was wary...but...hell, I don't know, just something. I could tell you were related, from the same part of the country, the same little twang in your voice. And she must be doing pretty good. Her Greenwich address is a nice area, if it's where I think it is, kind of artsy types. So, are you going to call her back?"
She hesitated, suddenly unsure of herself. "Let's eat first. Then I'll decide what to do. I don't want to surprise her over the phone."
"But Gretta, it's your aunt, just call her and arrange a meeting, she'll be thrilled to hear from you," he argued.
"It's a little more complicated than that, Lawrence. I think I may have to go down to Greenwich Village after we eat. You don't have to go, I'll be all right."
"Like hell I don't have to go. You're not getting rid of me that easily, and you're damn sure not crossing New York City alone. I joined this mystery to the finish. Now, let's eat. It smells almost good, if you like day-old pizza."
19
Greenwich Village turned out to be exactly the way Gretta had imagined it would be, reminding her of a Woody Allen movie. The neighborhood where G.E. Hughes lived contained an assortment of quaint little shops, bistros, and cafes, a mixture of suits and ties blended with oddly dressed people walking up and down the streets, shouting greetings to friends and shop owners, an air of friendliness permeating the atmosphere, something missing from the other portions of New York Gretta had visited that day. The cleanliness of the place contrasted sharply with the other parts of the city, impressing her immediately. She liked it, felt an eerie intimacy to the area, almost like she was coming home. Stepping off the bus, she put her arm through Lawrence's, holding her new friend tightly.
"That's the address, right next to that little dress boutique," he said, pointing across the street.
"Let's get a cup of coffee and kind of wait a while," she said, leading him to a sidewalk cafe, the view to the apartment building unobstructed from the white, wrought-iron table she selected.
"You're not going to tell me anything about this aunt of yours, are you?" he said after the waitress left with their order. "This is something a little more complicated than trying to find a long-lost relative, huh?"
"Oh, Lawrence, believe me, you would think I was insane if I told you the whole thing. But I promise you, sometime, not today I don't think, but sometime I'll tell you the whole story. You are so sweet, and I don't want to ever lose you as my friend," she said, squeezing his hand across the table. "Let me find Gretta Hughes, and then I'm going to find you."
Her last statement caused a look of confusion to cross his face, a question coming to his lips. Thinking better of it, he said, "Okay, although I'm confused as hell, if nothing else, I'm a patient man. I'll wait however long it takes. So tell me, Gretta Hughes the Second, where do you live, what do you do, and how do I convince you not to leave me?"
"You don't have to convince me of anything, Lawrence. This afternoon convinced me of everything I needed to know."
The handsome man took a sip of his coffee, looking at the girl over the delicate white cup he held in his hand. "I would be remiss if I didn't tell you, Gretta, now that I have your attention, that I think, after spending this exciting afternoon with you, I think I'm seriously falling for you."
He was so sincere, and Gretta didn't doubt for one moment that he was serious. She started crying softly, the tears rolling down her cheeks.
"Oh, Lawrence, I think I love you, too," she whispered, looking him right in his eyes. "And there's no way to explain this thing to you. Please, let's find my aunt, and then I promise you, sometime you're going to understand, I promise." She knew there was no way he was going to understand, remembering the promise to the Wizard guy, bound by her word that she wouldn't reveal what she was doing in New York, knowing Lawrence would think she was a nut if she tried.
"Is that her?" he asked suddenly, breaking the spell they were under. He had been watching a tall, thin black woman leaving the apartment house, dressed in a long, red knitted dress and white stockings, her hair wrapped in a turban and wearing sunglasses, despite the darkness that the day was turning into. The woman carried herself proudly, smiling at the door man, exchanging a brief greeting with him, waiting while he hailed a cab for her.
Gretta looked up, almost missing her as she ducked into the cab. "Shit, I didn't see. Was it her, do you think?"
"I could be wrong, but I'd put money on it that it was her. She looked a lot like you, same walk, same carriage."
Gretta looked across the street. "Come on, we've got to follow her," she cried, jumping up, almost knocking over her cup. It was her, she was sure of it, the vibes were right. And Lawrence had recognized that they walked the same. Gotcha Gretta, you little bohemian.
Lawrence threw a couple of dollars on the table as the pair ran to the street, hailing the first taxi cab he saw. They jumped in the back seat, Lawrence hollering at the driver, "Follow that cab!"
The driver turned, a smile on his face. "Rather dramatic, don't you think?" he chuckled, a thick middle-eastern accent, shifting his vehicle into gear.
"Yeah, I suppose so, but I always wanted to do that," Lawrence grinned back.
The driver squealed his tires, off in hot pursuit of the other cab. They weaved in and out of traffic, traveling through the busy streets of New York. Gretta still wasn't accustomed to the sheer number of people in this one area, millions and millions of New Yorkers going about their everyday business, like something out of a book or magazine while they careened through the traffic like something out of a Clint Eastwood movie, no one paying the least bit of attention to them.
The energy of the city was mesmerizing her, quickly winning her over. It reminded her of the fascination she had gotten when, as a little girl, she had found a huge ant hill in the woods and
watched the worker ants, seemingly thousands of them create a huge hill by fetching one grain of sand at a time. This was where she wanted to be, this New York City, this was what life was all about. Her daydreams were interrupted by the driver, slowing the vehicle down and pulling it over to the curb.
"Looks like the St. James," he said over his shoulder, Gretta not understanding his meaning. Lawrence explaining as he paid the driver.
"Your aunt went into the St. James Theater. You know, Broadway. We're on Broadway," he said, opening the door and helping her out, saying the words like they were magic. "Maybe she works there. The show doesn't start for another hour, we can ask at the ticket window. Come on."
Taking her by the arm, he led her toward the ticket window of the St. James. The afternoon was turning into dusk, the sun setting and nighttime trying to break through, a full moon peeking out of the clouds. The huge, lighted letters on the canopy above the theater was not yet switched on, but Gretta could read the five-foot high words clearly.
Nottingham Arms was the name of the play, starring Abbie Clearwater and Terrance Banister. Gretta racked her brain, but couldn't for the life of her recall either of those names, nor the name of the play. As they walked up to the theater, she studied the billboard posters, the face of Abbie Clearwater staring back at her. The woman was black, more beautiful than any black woman Gretta had ever seen before. The picture of Abbie Clearwater didn't resemble Gretta Hughes in the least, the possibility that maybe Gretta had switched names proven wrong. There was a young, white man working the ticket window, waiting on a pair of elderly, blue-hair woman, arguing gently with them. "No ladies, I am so sorry, the show is sold out for all of this week's performances. If you would like, I can check the schedule for the next few weeks to see if there are any seats available at that time. I am truly sorry."
The ladies turned away, obviously disappointed to be missing the performance. The man started to close the window, caught sight of Lawrence, and started his spill again. "I'm sorry; we are sold out for this performance."
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