by Barbara Daly
Chapter 13
« ^
Sam was sitting in a chair in front of the television set in a dead sleep of total physical and emotional exhaustion when the pipes broke. The words that had gripped Hope's attention woke him up. "Magnolia Heights."
He was already hopping into the first clothes that fell out of the cluttered closet and into his hands by the time the reporter got to the words "…at the present temperature of seven degrees Fahrenheit, the water is rapidly forming a sheet of ice approximately three to four inches thick around the three buildings, creating hazardous conditions for…"
In the next few minutes he cursed everything from his shoelaces to his zipper to the concept of plumbing, reviving colorful expletives he hadn't used since his high school days. He was dressed by the time he heard, "At present, there is no water supply to Building B. Residents of the other two buildings have offered shelter to…"
And last, "…won't find much Christmas spirit at Magnolia Heights this year as residents struggle to…"
On his way out the door, he remembered he was flying, that he had once thought he would be flying, to Nebraska tomorrow. He had to call his folks.
His father answered. "Dad, I can't come home tomorrow. I've got a crisis here."
He listened for a minute to the protests, then heard his mother take over the phone. "You go right ahead and take care of that problem at Magnolia Heights," she said. "We've been hearing about those poor people on the news. We'll let the grandkids have their Christmas. The grown-ups will wait until you get here."
"Thanks, Mom." Listening to her, he felt like a kid himself again. "But you don't have to wait."
"I know, but we will. Doesn't matter whether we have Christmas on the twenty-fifth. All that matters is that…"
"…we'll be with each other," Sam said softly. It had taken him this long to find out that his mother was right.
There was no time now to think about his family and how grateful he was to have them. He ran down to Houston Street, figuring that was his best chance for a cab at this hour. The impact of the disaster kept beating at him—no water, sheet of ice, residents bunking in with strangers—all the long distance north to Magnolia Heights. Too little too late. No one could ever make it right, but he was damned sure going to give it a try.
* * *
Hope arrived in New York at four in the morning, sleepless and wired on airline coffee. While she packed, she'd assigned Charity to the computer and Faith to the phone. Between them they'd located a Samuel Sharkey on Avenue B, in an area of New York which was just now beginning to be occupied by young professional people. She was going straight to his apartment. He had to let her in. He had to talk to her. She'd thought of one thing, one small thing that, while it wouldn't solve anything, might at least make everyone feel better. It was so trivial she was almost embarrassed to mention it, but at least it was something.
The taxi pulled up to a four-story town house. It had clearly not felt the touch of gentrification. Hope paid the driver and went up the front stoop to find a call box like the one outside Building B at Magnolia Heights. She found "Sharkey, Sam" in 4R and pushed the buzzer.
There was no answer. But of course he'd be asleep. So she'd wake him up. Grimly she buzzed again. And again.
At last she stood back from the call box and glared at it. If he was out, she'd wait for him. If he was in and not answering, she'd kill him when he came out.
She was beginning to feel the cold through her wool socks, through her snow boots and even through the down coat Charity had insisted on loaning her. She sat on the stoop and leaped up at once. It was like sitting on a glacier.
She began to pace the sidewalk, blowing on her fingertips. It was so dark. The streetlamps seemed dimmer than the ones outside her apartment building. She could see Christmas lights behind some of the nearby windows, but at this hour they seemed menacing rather than cheerful, glowing red like rats' eyes. She wished she hadn't thought about rats. She'd never felt so alone.
At once she wished she were alone. A derelict staggered out of the shadows, moving down the sidewalk toward her. Hope shrank back toward the stoop and the shelter of the doorway, but he'd seen her, he was going to speak to her.
She folded her hands under her chin in a prayerful pose. "God bless ye, merry gentlemen," she sang in a quavering voice, turning her face toward the upper windows of the town house, "let nothing you dismay, for Jesus Christ our Sa-a-vior was…"
"…bored on Chrishmash Day," sang the derelict, stumbling on down the sidewalk. "To shave us all from…"
Hope let out a whoosh of relief, forgiving him completely for being off-key, and resumed her pacing.
There had to be an all-night coffee shop somewhere close. This was New York, the city that never slept. But she couldn't leave her post. She couldn't miss her chance to see Sam when he came home—or kill him when he came out.
She stomped her feet against the pavement, hoping to warm them. They were already so numb with cold it didn't hurt a bit. So she stood a while, stomping, then paced a while, stomping, huddled in the down coat and colder than she'd ever been in her entire life.
Now and then she ran up the stoop and rang Sam's buzzer ten more times. It made a change in the routine. She had just finished doing it again when a police car cruised down the street and pulled up to the curb beside her.
"Time to go home, Lola," one of the officers called out, speaking to her through a window opened two inches.
She stepped over to the car. "I'm not Lola, I'm…"
"Sorry. This is Lola's block. Better not let her catch you here. Well, whoever you are, get yourself home."
"I can't," Hope said. "I'm waiting for someone."
"Sure, sure," he said. "That's what all you girls are doing. Waiting for someone. Come on, lady, go home before you freeze to death."
Even as thickheaded as she felt, his meaning finally became clear. "I'm not a prostitute," she said in an outraged tone. "I'm a friend of someone who lives in that building." She pointed.
"I said go home."
He'd been genial before. Now his voice had hardened. Hope began to grope with numb fingers in her handbag, looking for identification that would prove she was an honest, upright businesswoman. It startled her when the door of the patrol car flew open.
"Okay, that's it. Drop the purse and get in the car."
"What?"
"I said, get in the car." He grabbed her arm. "You won't go home peaceful-like, I have to take you in."
A taxi came by. Hope was thinking of flinging herself in front of it when it stopped and Sam stepped out of it, looked up, saw her and took on an expression of utter astonishment. "Hope?" he said.
"Well. Finally," she snarled at him. "Where have you been, you worthless excuse for a…"
The officer loosened his hold on her arm and she snatched it away angrily.
"This lady a friend of yours?"
Sam looked as if he'd love to deny it.
"Sam Sharkey," she said warningly.
"Yes," he said.
"Need any help with her?"
Sam hesitated again until Hope stamped her foot.
"No."
"Okay, then. Sorry about the confusion." Genial again, the officer got back into the car and it moved off.
"What are you doing here?"
"I have to talk to you."
He looked helpless, his gaze going back and forth between her and his doorway. "Here?"
"Yes, here, you imbecile!" she shouted at him. "Take me inside at once or you'll have my frozen body to deal with!"
"Oh. Yes. Sorry." He hurried her into the building.
She hardly saw the grim, stained stairwell as they climbed three flights of stairs to a doorway at the rear of the building. She hardly noticed the stairs because Sam had picked her up and carried her two of the flights.
When he'd gotten the door open he laid her down carefully on a soft surface. He turned on the light and she saw that she was on his bed. He snuggled a comforter
around her and went to a small stove in what seemed to be the kitchen part of the one-room apartment, where he put a kettle of water on to heat.
For a few minutes, Hope just lay there and shuddered. So this was how Sam lived. Saving his money, not spending on himself except where he had to, to keep up appearances. He'd said she wouldn't be able to understand how much the partnership mattered to him. Now she was beginning to, but it sounded as if he'd done the right thing anyway. Her heart filled with sudden joy, driving away the cold.
He turned away from the stove and came over to her, sat down on the edge of the bed, reached under the coverlet and took off her snow boots. She watched him with wide eyes as he began to massage her feet. The feeling began to come back into them—and into her heart.
"What were you doing outside at six o'clock in the morning? Auditioning for The Little Match Girl?"
His eyes were veiled, his expression inscrutable. She'd broken his heart. How wonderful. It meant he did care for her. Maybe he even loved her. But even if he didn't now, he would when she got through with him.
"Ask me what I was doing there at four," she said.
"What were you…"
"Not literally," she snapped. "I told you. I need to talk to you." His heart would mend. She'd see to it, night and day for the rest of her life.
"This is the twenty-first century. We have telephones."
"This was faster," she said.
She could see him trying to figure that one out. "You are aware of radio and television," he said. "You heard the news."
"There is no other news," she said. "If Jesus had been born last night Christianity wouldn't have had a chance."
He didn't even smile. "It's bad," he said. "I stayed up there until they got the building evacuated and started work on the water system. They're blowing heaters on the sidewalks, too, to cut down on the accidents." He gazed at her blankly for a moment. "You're in Chicago."
Had the man completely lost his swiftness of brain? "I was, but now I'm here. I have an idea." It wasn't the only reason, but the rest could come later.
He got up again, poured an inch of brandy into a glass and added boiling water to it. "Drink this," he said, "then hit me with your idea."
So she did.
"Hope," he said when she'd finished, "how can we do something like that in twenty-four hours?"
"Santa Claus," she reminded him, "does it in one night."
* * *
It was Christmas Eve and the atmosphere at Magnolia Heights was festive. Benton had been almost pathetically cooperative. Palmer Pipe had supplied the railings that surrounded the skating rink that had once been the front lawn of Building B at Magnolia Heights. The general contractor who'd built the buildings had put them up. Sprightly music came from loudspeakers as colorful skaters swooped around the ice in skates supplied by Stockwell Plumbing Contractors.
The City of New York Parks Department had brought out an enormous Christmas tree. Private donors had assembled a mountain of gifts. Vendors distributed free hot dogs, cocoa and cotton candy, courtesy of Brinkley Meyers. A clown on skates entertained the younger children with his antics.
Hope moved closer and stared at him. Could that be St. Paul the Perfect? The clown waved at her and made his mouth go way down at the corners. Ah, the perks that came with being the new vice president of Marketing at Palmer Pipe.
Television cameras formed a ring around the scene. In the late afternoon, they moved as if summoned by the Pied Piper to a spot at the edge of the rink Palmer and Stockwell had called a press conference to announce that their companies would foot the cost of replumbing Magnolia Heights. "This was a grave, grave situation for these wonderful people to find themselves in," Benton said, shaking his jowls. "Whether the fault lies with us or elsewhere, we accept responsibility and we'll make it right."
"Oh, my goodness gracious, isn't that fine?" Maybelle said, scooting up to stand beside Hope.
Hope smiled at her. "Couldn't be finer."
"Well, yes it could." Maybelle frowned. "I just took a tour of that place," she said, pointing toward Building C, "and whoo-ee, hon, I want to tell you the way the Ch'i is flowin' in there it's no wonder some of them folks aren't gettin' on better than they are."
"Well, Maybelle," Hope said patiently, "some people just don't have a lot of money to spend on their homes."
"I'm not talkin' about spending any money," Maybelle scoffed. "You young folks, that's all you can think about. Money. I'm just talkin' about arranging the stuff you've already got, gettin' it in order. That's all I did for you, basically. You know what I'm gonna do?"
"Send me my bill?" Hope said faintly.
"I'm gonna give a bunch of feng shui seminars."
"Why, Maybelle, that's a wonderful idea. If you kept the cost low, like five dollars a session…"
"Oh, hon, I'm not going to charge," Maybelle said. She gazed dreamily into the distance. "Me, a teacher. Now that's one thing I've never been."
"It's clear you've never been an accountant, either," Hope said pointedly. "If you would just send me a—"
"—bill. Oh, yeah. I gotta get around to that one of these days. Well, have yourself a Merry Christmas," Maybelle said, and fluttered away.
The thing that had been about to burst out of Hope bubbled high inside her again and she looked around for Sam. He was nowhere to be found.
* * *
Hope sat on the floor and stared at the Christmas tree. There was still one gift under it, the gift she'd gotten Sam, a luxurious cashmere sweater exactly the color of his eyes.
It was a great gift. All she needed was Sam to give it to.
She leaned back against the nearest chair and closed her eyes. It would never have worked between Sam and her. In her mind's eye, she saw the nanny sitting with the children in front of the Christmas tree. Mommy and Daddy weren't up yet. They were very tired, because Mommy's pipes had broken and Daddy had had to put up a skating rink overnight.
"That," Hope said, opening her eyes, "is ridiculous."
Feeling the tears start up again, she reminded herself that she'd be just fine. She was flying back to Chicago tomorrow to finish her truncated Christmas visit, and when she got back to New York, healed and soothed by the love of her family, she would get a cat and a new job.
Not pipe. Something else. She'd outgrown pipe. She would never outgrow the memories of Sam.
Even now she could feel his fingertips against her skin, hear the deep chords of his voice, feel herself burning with need for him.
She snatched up the cat book and thumbed through it. When the telephone rang, she told herself not to get excited. Her parents would call tonight. That's who it probably—
"Hi."
"Sam?" His name trembled on her tongue.
"Is this a bad time?"
Yes, you idiot, it's a terrible time. I'm sitting here all by myself, crying, looking through a damned cat book, and wondering if I should go into retailing! Is that any way to spend Christmas Eve?
"No," she said more smoothly than she'd spoken before, "I'm just sitting here enjoying the Christmas tree."
"I have a little present for you. May I bring it by?"
As always, there were sounds in the background, some of them very strange indeed. "I suppose so," she said. "I have a little gift for you, too."
"I'll see you in about … a minute and a half," he said. When she opened the door to him, she had to struggle not to leap at him with arms opened wide, begging him for forgiveness and an immediate hug. It would have been difficult for him to give her an immediate hug anyway, because he carried a pet crate in each hand and had a single, scratchy-looking red bow stuck in the pocket of his overcoat.
"What?" she said. "What is that? Are those?" There wasn't much doubt about what they were. Annoyed mewing sounds came from both crates.
"I'll show you," he said.
He opened one crate, and out stepped a kitten. She recognized it from the picture in the cat book, a longhaired Himalayan, pale, blue-eyed and brea
thtakingly beautiful.
"Oh, Sam, she's gorgeous," she said, getting down on the floor to run her hand through its fur.
"He," Sam said. "She's a he."
The kitten prissed disdainfully around Hope's knees, then sniffed her hand.
"Hold on," Sam said, and opened the second crate. A bolt of yellow flew out, skidded to a stop, looked straight up at Hope and all but said, "About time!" before it jumped on her lap, dug all ten tiny claws through her velvet leggings and then climbed her silk shirt.
Her former silk shirt. After a yelp of pain, she laughed out loud. "He?" she said.
"She."
"Oh." She was thin, even scrawny, a yellow-striped tiger kitten with yellow-green eyes that narrowed as she assessed the room and imagined its possibilities.
"I love them," Hope said fervently. "Thank…"
"You have to pick one. I only brought one bow." He took the bow out of his pocket and flourished it at her.
Dismayed, she stared at him. "Pick one? How can I pick one? Just think how the other one would feel."
His dark blue eyes swam across her face, making her dizzy with their intensity. "It will feel fine. Pick one."
"Could we talk for a minute while I think?"
"No. First judgments are usually the best. Pick."
The Himalayan jumped onto the sofa and curled himself into a perfectly round ball, gently purring. An alarming sound came from the bedroom, where the tiger kitten had apparently gone exploring.
"I can't."
"I'll give you the comparative data. The Himalayan's a purebred. He's about a fifteen-hundred-dollar cat, as fine a specimen as you could hope for."
"Oh, Sam, you can't afford…"
"Hush. It's Christmas. The tiger came from Animal Rescue, runt of the litter, abandoned by the mother. Five bucks, shots included." Still he gazed at her.
Hope took a deep breath. She gazed at the peaceful sight of the Himalayan asleep on her sofa. He matched it. You could sit down on a cat like that and never know it until it was too late.
She followed the ominous sounds into her bedroom. The tiger had knocked the new set of candles off the dresser and was batting one of them across the floor with her paw, apparently thrilled that it rolled. When she saw Hope, she paused in her game, tilted her head up and looked Hope straight in the eyes.