“Monica!”
She ducked into a doorway—a stationer’s shop closed for the night—and next she knew he filled it, shielding her from the street and any of the prying eyes that might have followed.
“Oh, Max.” She grabbed two handfuls of his coat and drew herself up against him. “It was terrible, the things they said about me. You should have heard . . .”
He placed his hands on her shoulders in an embrace meant to keep her distant and stooped to look into her eyes.
“So they know it’s you? That you wrote the column?”
She shook her head. “Not exactly. Not that I could tell. But she read the column out loud, and it was awful.”
“Oh, darling.” He drew her close, and she felt his hand on top of her head. “I think what you’re feeling here is what some would call an attack of conscience.” And then, to her utter horror, she felt him chuckle.
She would have swatted him away, but his embrace was becoming a familiar place of refuge.
“They think I’m a monster,” she said. “Or that she is.”
“Shall I be on the lookout for pitchforks?”
She lifted her face, then twisted it. “Sanctuary . . .”
He laughed again and gave her a good-natured push away. “Oh no. I told you not to go back.”
“Technically, you said you didn’t know if it would be a good idea for me to go back.”
“And was it?”
“No. Is that why you’re here? To rescue me?”
“Only from hunger. I’ve been meaning to repay you for the kolache. In fact, I was planning to take you to dinner yesterday, after our visit to the cathedral, but you didn’t seem in the right humor.”
“Unlike the fountain of joy you see before you now?”
“I’ll try to work up a few jokes between here and there.”
There turned out to be a twenty-top diner just two blocks away. Light glowed warm from within, softened by steam on the windows. Inside, they were led to a high-back booth where Monica immediately drew her signature monkey in the steam.
“Brazen,” he said.
“I’ve always been the wild child.”
They spent a few moments looking around at their fellow late diners—not that nine o’clock was an unreasonable hour for supper. Several of their companions were older couples who sat in a silence equal to their own, yet comfortable. Giggles bubbled over from a tableful of shopgirls, no doubt to attract the attention of one or more of the young men at the counter.
She ordered a hearty meal of shepherd’s pie, he a chopped steak with potatoes, and they settled in with cups of steaming tea to wait for their food.
“I’ve never been to this place before,” Monica said. Looking around, she wished she had. It felt cozy. There was, however, a sweet little club about ten doors down from that stationer’s shop, and upstairs. No music, just drinks—more like a parlor with a Victrola. She wondered if Max knew about that, decided he didn’t, and kept her own mouth shut about it.
“My house is just a few blocks that way. I’m fast becoming a regular here.”
The fact was evident in the familiar way the waitress had taken their order and attended to their—at least, his—needs. Not exactly flirting, but definitely special.
She calculated what she knew of the city. “That’s quite a hike for you, then, isn’t it? Into the office?”
“I guess Edward liked to keep his distance.”
“I’m guessing it’s about time for you to break down and buy a car.”
Their food arrived, giving the waitress a chance to bestow a lingering touch on Max’s sleeve as she promised to be right back with ketchup.
“I can see why you’re a regular,” Monica said, teasing.
“Take a bite, and then you’ll see.”
She obeyed, and he was right. The food was warm and comforting. The hurtful words of Alice Reighly and the self-loathing those words created melted away in the bits of seasoned diced meat and potato crust.
“Delicious?” he asked.
“Amazing.” She stilled her conversation for three more bites. “I guess living near this place is worth the walk.”
“Indeed. And, yes, it’s a bit far, but not far enough to justify a car. I’m thinking it will be a little more pleasant in the spring.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “So you’re planning to be here in the spring?”
“So far, yes. No sense investing my money in the paper if I don’t intend to invest myself, too.”
“Well, if it gives you any hope at all, I had a sign today that spring is on its way.”
“Your cat?”
He remembered. “Right outside my window. I fixed him a snack and he fell asleep on the end of my bed. I didn’t have the heart to kick him out into the cold before I left. If he wakes up and starts howling, I might be kicked right out on the street with him.”
“Landlord doesn’t approve?”
“Claims they’re filthy beasts that steal babies’ breath. Not that we have any babies in the house.”
“That’s too bad. I’ve always had a fondness for cats myself.”
Monica only allowed the next thought as much time to form as it took for her to eat the next forkful of pie. “You should take my Paolo.”
“Paolo?”
“He’s exotic. And it’s still too cold for him to be homeless.”
“For all you know, he lives in a senator’s house during the winter.”
“All the more reason to rescue the poor thing, don’t you think?”
Max lifted his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, but only for the rest of winter. I’d hate to steal away your closest friend. When shall I pick him up?”
“Not tonight. It’s too late for me to have a visitor.” Never mind that she’d had plenty of guests who arrived at this hour and stayed on until morning. Why not take a shot at establishing a little propriety? “Maybe I can bring him to your place? I can return your book.”
He looked uncomfortable. “It’s a little late for me to have a visitor too.”
“You live alone.”
“But I have my own sense of—”
“Propriety?”
“Respect. For you. I wouldn’t want anybody to get the wrong idea.”
“How kind of you.” But a bit of coolness had crept up from her supper and into her voice. “Some other time, then?”
“Tomorrow night,” he said, surprising her with his insistence. “Seven o’clock. That will give me time to tidy up and get a few groceries.”
A bit of warmth came back. “Dinner, too?”
“To be honest, I was thinking of the cat. But of course, dinner, too.”
She had a split second to collect herself and decide whether to be embarrassed at her gaffe or to laugh it off with something clever like “Good. We both like ham.” But she waited too long, and before she could say a thing, the door to the diner opened and in walked a very loud, very inebriated couple, one of whom was all too familiar.
Charlie.
He looked oddly more squat and square than she remembered, but maybe that was due to his flattened hat and a coat that looked ready to burst its buttons. His companion was a good three inches taller than he, with hair the distinctive shade of blonde that implicated a bottle in its creation. They were wrapped around each other as if joined in some invisible, slow-moving potato-sack stagger.
Luckily the booths were tall and she was short. Instinctively she slouched down in her seat and grabbed a menu to hide her face.
“Hey, relax,” Max said. “For a bachelor, I’m not that bad of a cook.”
“Sorry,” she said, keeping her voice low. “Bad penny just turned up.”
He swiveled in his seat, easily looking over the back of the booth. “Which one? Him or her?”
“Both. But I can only vouch for one.”
“Would you like to wear my hat? Can I get you a fake moustache?”
“Just act natural.”
He slumped. “I shall follow your exampl
e.” He proceeded to cut into his steak with such exaggerated furtiveness that she couldn’t stifle her giggle. One peek around the edge of the menu showed that Charlie heard the familiar sound, and she could only sit, a helpless target, as they veered unsteadily toward her.
“There’s my little Mousie.” Charlie’s words were thick and slurred. He took the menu away from Monica and trapped it on the table under his wide, soft palm. “Fancy running into you here. Must be some kind of fate or somethin’. Right, baby?” This he directed at the blonde. “Some kind of fate.”
“Yeah, some kind,” the blonde repeated. She openly stared at Max with black-smeared eyes. “Maybe you should introduce us.”
“Yes,” Monica said, tight-lipped. “Please do. I take it this isn’t your wife, either?”
“Wife?” The woman seemed offended enough to fall off her shoes.
“Ah, now, Mousie. Why you gotta be like that?”
“You’re right, Charlie,” Monica said. “If this were your wife, you never would have come over here, would you? So let’s just pretend—you’re good at that—and you can go away.”
“You always had a whole lotta mean in that little body. You broke my heart.”
“Obviously.”
“I think it’s best that you go,” Max said. He slid out from the booth and stood, towering over them both. “Or if it’s easier, we will.” He glanced down at Monica. “Are you finished?”
If anything could make this meal too undesirable to finish, it was the presence of Charlie and this woman. She pushed her plate away and would have stood, too, if Charlie weren’t lurking just at the edge of her seat.
“This the guy you threw me over for?”
She didn’t answer. Or move.
“Hey, buddy,” Max said, “I don’t think that’s the way you want to talk to the lady.”
Charlie spun in an unsteady circle, saying, “Lady? Lady? Any of you guys see a lady in here?”
This sent the blonde into a fit of giggles, and Charlie might have kept spinning indefinitely if Max hadn’t done him the kindness of grasping his arm and bringing him to a stumbling stop, saying, “That’s enough.”
“Well, look who found herself a champion.”
By now they’d attracted the attention of everyone in the restaurant, including the gentlemen from the lunch counter, who cracked their knuckles, appearing ready and eager to come to Max’s aid should he need it.
He didn’t.
Easily twisting Charlie’s arm into an unnatural angle with one hand, Max dropped enough money on the table to not only cover the bill but also to compensate their waitress for the trouble caused by their uninvited guests. Monica quickly slid out, careful not to brush up against either of them, and wished the blonde good luck.
“Don’t act like I wasn’t good to you.” Charlie’s lips took on a sinister twist, and he craned his neck to look around Max at the blonde. “Be a good enough girl, and you might get yourself a little fox coat just like that one.”
Monica felt every bit of herself drain away, like her head had been split wide open, leaving everything exposed to Charlie’s acidic revelations. She burned from the inside, her face red from the volcanic rush, too hot for tears. Whatever Max said next was lost, but his meaning came through unmistakable as he drew back his free hand and landed a punch squarely against Charlie’s nose.
“Baby!” The blonde rushed to his side as he staggered into a chair that was far too fragile to absorb the impact.
“Max!”
She grabbed his arm before he could deliver another blow, should Charlie find the strength to stand.
“Sir!” The waitress was at his side, wrapping an ice cube in a cloth napkin. “For your hand, so it don’t swell up.”
“How about a steak for his face?” the blonde said, cradling Charlie’s head in her lap.
“Give me eighty-five cents, and it’s yours.”
“Come on,” Max said, tugging Monica out the door. Once outside, he kept hold of her hand, walking swiftly enough to force her to run until they reached the nearest streetcar stop.
“Are you all right?” he said, studying her face in the streetlight.
Her champion, Charlie had said, and she forced herself not to fling her arms around his neck and kiss him.
“You’re the one who socked him. How are you?”
He held up his hand, and she could see the knuckles still red and already swollen. This, without a thought, she kissed. “No one’s ever defended me like that before.”
“’Twas an honor, milady.”
“He’s . . . Charlie . . . He was an old boyfriend.”
“So I gathered.”
“Not so old, I guess. I mean, it’s only been a little while since—”
“You don’t need to explain.”
Of course she didn’t. Any questions he might have had about her character were answered in the revelatory light of Charlie’s lewd suggestion. She’d never be able to wear this coat again.
A car arrived and came to a stop, emitting a few passengers onto the street.
“Is this one yours?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Do you have a dime?”
She nodded again, not wanting to let go of his hand, despite his obvious dismissal. “I suppose you’ll want to cancel our—” she hesitated to use the word date—“dinner tomorrow.”
He grinned and recited a series of numbers on Ninth Street. “Seven o’clock. Bring the cat.”
And so, slowly, beginning at his hands and feet and creeping along his limbs to the vital centres of his body, that strange change continued. It was like the slow spreading of a poison.
H. G. WELLS, THE INVISIBLE MAN
WHY HAD HE SAID ANYTHING about dinner? For that matter, why did he say anything about anything?
And those were the more innocuous questions that pestered him as he lay on his narrow, cold bed.
How “old” of an old boyfriend was that Charlie guy? Before Max met her? After she started on this ill-fated anti-flirt espionage? And just how long did it take for her to figure out he was married?
Dear Lord, he prayed, there have to be half a million girls in this city. Why did you have to cross my path with hers? And just what am I supposed to do with her now that she’s mine?
“Not that she’s mine,” he said into the darkness. Just because he thought about her, prayed for her, protected her, saw her face and heard her laugh when she was nowhere to be found. Didn’t every pretty girl make a guy choke on his heart when he saw her standing with him in a church? Couldn’t a fellow punch another fellow in the face without laying claim to the girl in the middle? After all, he had no desire to sock it to Miss Alice Reighly, and she’d hurt Monica as much as anybody. No, in that matter he wanted to smack himself for starting that whole ball rolling.
If any woman ever seemed like one who should send him running, it was Monica Bisbaine. She had none of the qualities his mother had urged him to look for. Her life was a living example of everything Sister Aimee warned the world against. Loose, if this jokester tonight were to be believed. A lush, given her ease with and desire for drink. Even lazy—wasting a quick wit and sharp writing on a crummy last-page column in a two-bit tabloid.
But she’s mine.
This time the words didn’t belong to him.
She’s mine, Max.
He tried to imagine anyone else levying that same list of accusations against her. Charlie called her loose, and he socked him. Alice Reighly insulted her writing, and he’d burned a little in anger, wishing to rise to her defense. As for the drinking? Well, even he couldn’t defend the government’s interference there.
She’s mine, Max. And I love her.
“I know you do, Lord. I wish she knew that too.”
And despite all the reasons he shouldn’t, Max knew he loved her too.
Knowing he’d pushed sleep further away than before, he sat up in bed and reached for the chain on the bedside lamp, turning his eyes away from the initial illu
mination. Books were stacked on the table, his Bible among them, and while he knew his first recourse should be to look for comfort and clarification in God’s Word, he couldn’t help but dread what he might hear.
Two wandering souls, they were, each orphaned and alone. The hunchback and the gypsy, though their roles seemed interchangeable. She fancied herself, he presumed, the twisted, unlovable soul, yet here he harbored an unspoken love.
His mind went back to that first day, those first moments before he knew what a quagmire lurked behind those big brown eyes, when she’d called him Griffin. The Invisible Man. Little did he know then that she lived just as invisibly as he did.
That novel, too, lay on the bedside table, marked with the ribbon where he’d left off at his last reading. He grabbed it now, put on his glasses, and smiled at the chapter title: “The Invisible Man Sleeps.”
“Not likely.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed and slipped his feet into his slippers. His thick robe hung from the bedpost. He put it on, took his book, and headed into the dark kitchen. A glass of warm milk was in order; he’d take it back into bed with him, feeling defiant in doing so despite the years he’d spent without accountability for his behavior.
As the milk warmed in the pan, he thought about all the responsibilities he would have for tomorrow’s evening with Monica. A “date,” as she might call it. As anyone might call it, actually. The house remained fairly clean between Zelda’s visits, though he might straighten the bookshelf. And perhaps a new oilcloth for the table. Something pretty—women liked those things. Flowers for the center. And food.
He thought no further than food.
Whatever had compelled him to agree to making dinner? Bewitched might be more accurate. He wasn’t even sure what he should get for the cat.
This was the disadvantage of living invisible. A stranger in a strange land. He’d never invited a woman to his home before, having gone from his parents’ house to Army barracks to a one-room apartment under the scrutiny of an evangelist with a strangely personal reach. Maybe he’d assumed Monica—a bachelor in her own right—would be satisfied with a can of soup and a ham sandwich.
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