She was sitting on some little stool, looking like a little kid, with a full skirt flowing out around her like a pink cloud. Her dark hair was loose and flowing and curly, and perched on top sat a pointed hat of some kind, trailing pink fluff, and looking ridiculous. And adorable.
Kids crowded all around her on the carpet, listening intently as she read a story from a big, colorful book. She fascinated him.
He slipped down the next book aisle, not wanting to be seen, and took position to watch her, peeking through an opening in the stack of books to the children’s section beyond. From his hidden vantage point, he heard every word she said, the lilting enchantment of the words as she made voices and brought the story to life.
When the children clapped and laughed, he thought the session was over. Disappointment struck him. But then the monkey thing began. Curious George? He had never heard of him, but the kids sure were informed. As the story went on, Cindy jumped up, making monkey faces, scratching her head, swinging her arms, and loping around the children. They hooted, they giggled, and then they followed her.
Prince glanced around the library, expecting trouble. Wasn’t somebody going to reprimand her for the noise? But no one did.
He’d never seen anything so ridiculous in his life. Monkey wannabes of various sizes and shapes paraded around the library, making kid-size monkey noises, following the largest and strangest monkey of all, complete in swirling pink skirt and her famous sandals. He tried to be horrified. He tried to imagine the reaction of his upscale clubby friends if they witnessed the event. He attempted to be cynical, to put on his Main Line airs and wonder what a grown woman could even be thinking to make such a spectacle of herself in a hallowed public place like the Philadelphia Library.
But all he could do was laugh. A chuckle bubbled up inside, like a soda can shaken much too hard, pressure building, seeking release. He exploded in laughter, until tears ran down his well tanned face.
“Shhhhh!” exclaimed a passing bespectacled librarian as she heard his roar.
They’re shushing ME? His mind screamed in silent delight, making him laugh even harder. Monkeys are on parade and that battleaxe is shushing me? No stuffy librarians bothered to shush them, he noticed, still grinning when he got his breath back again. So much for equality in the library.
But his laughter had called attention, and the librarian watched him as he lurked in the stacks. So he studied the engrossing book on bugs and gardening with all his might, not wanting to be suspected of being a pervert who stole glances at little children during story hour.
No, he was a pervert who stole glances at librarians during story hour. There was a big difference, wasn’t there?
As the story hour broke, and the children were given back to their assorted caregivers, Prince took leave of his hiding place, and walked toward the door with as much dignity as he could muster. He didn’t dare to talk to her, for some reason. Something had been unleashed in him he just didn’t understand. He didn’t know why he had come, but the laughing had done him good, and he still smiled.
He walked out of the library and saw his car peacefully waiting at the curb. Today was a good day. He laughed, hunched over for a minute, swinging his arms, and making monkey noises. Quite a good Curious George imitation for a man who had no practice at such a task.
Chapter Four
The wedding, as weddings went, was boring. Prince knew, however, the society news would print otherwise. After the service at the Cathedral, the crowd congregated at the prestigious Union League for the reception. A string of black and white limos delivered “Who’s Who of Philadelphia Society” to the stately curved stairway of the entranceway on Broad Street.
The elegant passengers gracefully ascended the stone steps in their sparkling evening dresses and tuxedos. Anyone who was anyone was in attendance for the nuptials of the Congressman’s eldest daughter.
Music from the fourteen-piece band echoed in the high ceiling of the room, where crystal chandeliers dazzled above the well-heeled dancers. Prince looked down and smiled politely at his dancing partner. Haley Edwards Carrington, heiress to the Carrington carpet fortune, was wrapped in his arms. She was a perfectly suitable date. Haley was rich, she was beautiful, she sported an education from Vassar, and she had a tennis serve to brag about.
And Princeton Highfield was bored out of his well-tuxedoed mind.
From across the room, he caught sight of his father dancing with his mother, his silver head towering above the crowd. Hugh Highfield, founder and CEO of Highfield Industries, and Celia Highfield, society matron second to none, fit together like a glove in the dazzle of the Union League. His father looked over at him, his gaze registering the suitable date on his arm. Hugh Highfield smiled his approval.
Princeton looked away, refusing to give in to the surging feelings, and purposely focusing on his date. There had to be something to talk about. Suddenly, his collar was choking him, but he resisted the urge to loosen his tie.
Why was it the rare moments when he sensed his father’s approval just happened to be the moments when he was the most awkward, the least comfortable?
And why—as a person who had every gift and convenience life could offer, standing in the midst of this exclusive event, surrounded by the most important people in the region, and courting a beautiful and desirable woman like Haley—did he feel so empty? So sad? So out of place?
The music halted as the musicians took a break, and Prince ushered Haley back to the white linen-covered table set for ten, where four additional well-dressed and society-suitable couples hoisted champagne in imported crystal.
He clenched his fists, and tried to focus on the conversation. A new and expensive club had opened down on the waterfront with a jungle theme. Tickets costing thousands had been procured for an upcoming concert. A trip to ski the Alps in Switzerland was touted for the holidays. A local sports hero had been arrested at a party. A recent jaunt to Maui had been utterly fantastic.
Prince swigged his bubbly champagne, breathing in the smells of expensive perfume and hearing the tinkling laughter of the beautiful designer-dressed women around him. This was his life. And he had it made, didn’t he? He abruptly put down his glass on the table. Maybe he’d better give up drinking. Maybe that had something to do with the pain in his stomach.
****
Cindy squinted at the computer screen in the corner of her bedroom. Her spellchecking program rudely informed her that the word she had typed was misspelled, but none of the suggested alternatives fit the bill. What a pain!
She giggled and rolled her desk chair to the book shelf in the corner of her bedroom and grabbed the big worn dictionary, nearly as old as she was. Forget technology, sometimes a person needed to go back to basics. Like read a book, for example. She smiled as she found the correct spelling in the yellowing pages. Computers were okay, but she sure loved books! She snapped the volume shut and rolled back to her desk, tucked in the back corner of her little bedroom. “Cindy’s Office” announced a colorfully decorated framed poster above her desk.
She went back to pounding the keyboard, and the words flowed. Cindy loved this hour of the night. The children were safely and peacefully asleep down the hall. Soft lilting music played gently in the air. One light remained lit in the room, and a single candle burned. She cherished this time.
Pausing from her work, she smiled. She knew she was blessed in her life. She adored her kids. She loved her job at the library, reading stories, and assisting and guiding families to enjoy children’s literature. And in these quiet moments of the night, she reveled in the process of writing her own magical children’s stories, full of adventure, quirky characters and happy endings.
The children in her stories often lived in foster homes, overcame rough odds, dealt with loss and heartache, and found a life of happiness in the world. Some of her stories were for younger children, telling tales of magic bunnies and imaginary creatures. For today, the process was a creative outlet, but someday—she hoped to have h
er stories published. She had built an independent life, with her little home, her dear friends, and her kids.
And her affectionate and loveable cat.
Dunkin stretched and resettled himself on her lap. When she sat here at her desk at the end of the long day, the yellow tabby cat considered her his personal pillow. The rest of the day, he could be found sleeping in many other favorite spots, as sleeping was his one and only activity. During the day, on guard to keep safe from the too-eager hands of Morgan and Hannah, he chose high places, like the top of the fridge. When the “short people” slept or were otherwise occupied, he could be found in an upstairs windowsill, or sprawled under the living room coffee table. Position was everything in life.
As she petted him, Dunkin purred. He’d been a stray when he’d been hit by a car outside her front door a year ago. Except for the horrendous vet bills—and his mad attempt to climb the tottering Christmas tree—she’d never regretted taking him in and making him a part of the family. At some moments, especially when she worked late into the night, he made her feel less alone.
As the minutes ticked by in the night, Cindy added paragraphs to her story, where a determined little girl named Charity fought evil forces in a make-believe land, and found a new family in the process.
When her eyes got tired, she crawled into her bed with a satisfied but pensive heart, contemplating the question of happy endings. When writing fiction, a person could always make good win out over grief and evil. Wouldn’t it be nice if real life could be the same?
****
At the same moment, Princeton Edmund Highfield laid awake in his king-sized bed on the Main Line Highfield estate. Alone. He had lived through the wedding. Nice wedding, by wedding standards, he supposed. He had driven the lovely Haley home to her riverfront high-rise penthouse condo, where he had gazed out her expansive windows over the Delaware River. He lounged on her expensive leather couch. He was impressed with her high-ceilinged walls filled with expensive collectable artwork—and then was shocked to hear himself refuse both her offer of a late night drink and a chance to “make himself more comfortable.”
The next thing he knew, he gave her a chaste kiss goodnight, practically jogged back to his Aston Martin, and had floored the accelerator until he arrived home. Alone.
Just what had come over him?
He stared at the ceiling in the dark. He hadn’t enjoyed the wedding. He hadn’t even enjoyed being with the beautiful Haley. He didn’t look forward to the trips discussed. The truth was, he was tired of talking about the “who’s who” of the social set, the best new restaurants and clubs in town, and the quality of his racquetball game.
What was wrong with him? He ran a hand over his face. Where were these feelings coming from? Tonight, for the first time, sitting amidst the splendor and elegance of the Union League, Princeton Edmund Highfield had taken a look at himself and at his life.
And he was bored.
****
“Morgan’s trying to eat my oatmeal!” Hannah wrapped her sturdy little toddler arms around the bowl in front of her, guarding her meal with her life.
Her older brother, tortuous grin on his face, sat poised with spoon in air. “If Morgan the Great cannot eat your oatmeal, he will now turn it into slimy snails!” he cried.
“ARRRGGGHHH!” cried the outraged Hannah, “Help!”
Cindy laughed as she entered the room. “Ignore your brother, Hannah, he’s just teasing. And Morgan, if that oatmeal does turn into snails, guess who is going to eat it? You better take back the spell pronto!”
“Okay,” conceded Morgan with a grin, going back to his own cereal bowl. “I was just testing my magic power. She can eat her own dumb oatmeal.”
“Good choice,” said Cindy, in jeans and an oversized LaSalle tee shirt, sipping a steaming mug of coffee.
Ahh, there is nothing like that first cup of coffee!
“And hurry up, you two. We are due at the community center for Karate in just a little bit.” The morning sun hit her face as they hit the sidewalk and headed for the center. Morgan dressed in his white gi, and Hannah wore a bright blue tee shirt and overalls. Cindy walked down the block, holding Hannah’s hand. At two, she was not yet trustworthy to pay attention in traffic. Morgan hopped and sang a few feet in front of them, happy with the world.
Today was a great day. The air would be way too warm later, according to the predictions, but for now the fresh air and brilliant sunshine were welcome and exhilarating. In three blocks, they reached the Community Center, right in time for Morgan’s class.
The place buzzed with an abundance of activity. Children of all ages and styles were arriving for activities. With Morgan set in class, Cindy took Hannah to the toddler room, full of kids her age to play with. Their Saturday morning ritual.
“Hey, chica!”
Her best friend sat in one of the well-worn stuffed chairs in the corner of the lobby. This was known as the “conversation pit”, which was really a joke, as trying to have a meaningful conversation in the midst of the center bustle was absolutely a ridiculous idea, unless you were into shouting.
Consuela Maria Elena Rodriquez, better known as Connie, waved the newspaper she read, as Cindy plopped down on the arm of her chair.
“How you doin’ today, girlfriend?” Connie drawled with a big grin.
“Fine.” Her friend’s “big hair” was totally coiffed, and her face bore full makeup, even at this early morning hour.
She handed Cindy a shopping list. “Okay, I’ll cover the kids after class and meet you back at your place about noon.”
Another Saturday ritual, Connie took Hannah and Morgan, and her own three year old daughter, Jasmine, after class and entertained them while Cindy did the grocery shopping for both families.
“My list is sparse, as I’m trying like anything to stay on this diet. Also, I’m broke.” Connie sighed and held up the newspaper, which was, as usual, turned to the society pages. “Someday I’m going to be skinny enough to wear a dress like this. And catch a rich gorgeous guy like that!”
Cindy laughed, and looked at the series of pictures from a society wedding the night before. Connie lived for things like this, and obsessed about her weight, though Cindy thought Connie’s rounded curves looked just fine. After years of friendship, she knew better than to say so. So she looked at the pictures.
The bride and groom were gorgeous, of course. And happy. Cindy sighed, and shook her head. Nice when love could make a person happy. She looked at the other pictures, well-placed shots of the city’s well-heeled. She squinted, and then her body stiffened.
“Let me see that.” She pulled the picture up close and stared at the grainy newsprint. Newspaper pictures weren’t the clearest in the world. But this picture was clear enough.
The face of the infamous bus man stared back from the newsprint page. Her stranger. The handsome stalker who had followed her home. She blinked. How odd. She read the caption.
“One of Philadelphia’s most eligible, Princeton Edmund Highfield, youngest son of local businessman and philanthropist Hugh Highfield, squires the lovely Haley Edwards Carrington, heiress to the Carrington Carpet fortune. Do we hear more wedding bells in the near future?” She swallowed, feeling the strangest sensation of loss.
“Isn’t he the prize?” cooed Connie, now looking over her shoulder.
“Ah, yes, I guess so,” Cindy stammered, handing back the paper as if it were burning her hands. She rubbed her palms on her jeans. She raised a hand to touch her lips where he had kissed her and frowned. He was somebody’s prize, that was for sure. Why did that fact bother her? Cindy never aspired to money or society people like Connie openly did. She liked things small. And simple. And private. For some strange reason, she was much more comfortable thinking of the bus man as a handsome, quirky stranger than as the gem of Philadelphia society. Go figure.
She jogged back to the alley behind her house, opened the garage door, preparing to go to the market. Within moments, she had donned an empty bac
kpack. Hair tucked up in a bright green motorcycle helmet. Cindy turned the key and her aged Harley cycle roared to life.
She loved her Harley. Many times, the thrill of its engine beneath her and the feeling of the wind on her face had wiped away any painful thoughts. Today would be a good day for that! Within minutes, she barreled down the main boulevard leading downtown, heading for the health food store.
****
When Prince dragged himself to consciousness in the morning, far later than he had planned before succumbing to too much champagne, he had a dire need for coffee. Too much effort was needed to go through the motions of making it, so he pulled on his racquetball clothes. He had promised to meet his friend Kyle for a match. He jogged across the property to his parent’s home, letting himself in the back kitchen door. The soothing smells of an expensive and caffeinated dark roast assailed his nostrils.
He filled a mug. Ahhhh, better than having your own personal Starbucks. He took a swig and savored it then sighed out loud. Nothing like that first gulp of coffee, especially after an alcohol-induced next day fog.
“Is that you, Mr. Prince?” Mrs. Duran, the longtime housekeeper, stuck her grey head out of the pantry. She gave him a big grin. “Looks and sounds like you need that coffee, Mr. Prince. Still burning the candle at both ends?”
“Both ends and in the middle, Mrs. Duran,” he said with a laugh, gulping more coffee. “And nothing like your brew to get me going in the morning.”
“Your folks are in the breakfast room,” she said, coming from the pantry, struggling with a large box of canned goods. “Might be nice to stop in and say hello.”
“Geesh.” He put down his mug and grabbed the box to help her. “This is heavy. You shouldn’t he lugging this yourself. Where do you want it?”
She pointed to the counter.
With a jerk, he hoisted it into place. “Anything else you need help hauling before you throw your back out of whack?”
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