by D. L. Koontz
Libby opened her mouth, an automatic denial forming on her lips, but hesitated. She liked Maude. This exchange had turned them into more than fellow guests. There was a bond between them now. “I understand. Thank you.”
“Good.” Maude sounded relieved. She pointed to a door to her left. “This is my stop. I’m meeting a gentleman in the piano lounge. Say, do you golf? Ride horses? We should do an activity soon.”
In her room, Libby kicked off her shoes, flopped on the bed, and stifled a sob. If this were the future, she’d traipse to the kitchen, pull a half-gallon of ice cream from the freezer, and eat it out of the carton. Comfort food. But, that was no longer an option. So many little things she’d taken for granted!
As she stared at the ceiling, the melancholy sounds of a jazz band filtered through her open window, carried on the slightest of breezes. Rhapsody in Blue. From a gramophone? Radio?
Libby’s insides clinched. The source didn’t matter. It was the music itself that grabbed her attention, drawing a new memory to mind. She and Andrew at the all-night jazz concert in Alexandria. Him trying to explain the music, her convinced she never would understand. She pressed her palms to her eyes, overcome by the hard longing to have that time back. To ponder jazz, rather than be jazz. Because she was. She was now like the very music she disliked, all free form, taking the rhythms of her life where they might lead, no particular destination in mind, no inkling as to how her song would end.
She rolled to her side, and looked out her window at the moonlit sky. It appeared silvery and cold, and the moon seemed so remote and distant, so disinterred in her now. Curling into a fetal position, she sobbed. She loved music. How would she ever survive with no more George Strait? No Eagles. Or Beatles, or Josh Grobin, or Adele, or Abba, or CCR, or Jimi Hendrix? No Rock and Roll. Or Blues. Not even Disney songs!
The music that soothed her, motivated her, anchored her, entertained her, would no long filter through headphones as she went about her day. She’d lost many things and opportunities and understandings in this new life. She’d have to sacrifice and adjust, but to say goodbye to familiar music...this left her with none of her adored routines to look forward to, to organize her continued existence around.
It was more than not merely being able to download and listen to a particular song when she wanted, it was the loss of how certain songs brought people together or helped to define a moment. She’d never be able to mention those songs or bands or lyrics to anyone and receive understanding or a shared acknowledgment in return.
Just one more thing she would have to fake, wing, pretend. All day, she’d felt like an actor who didn’t know her lines. She’d pretended to be a part of this world, but it had been hard not to feel like an alien. In her day, these people would all be dead and gone. Now, they were her peers. And it had happened so quickly, like someone strolling on a backlot at MGM, first walking down a modern city street setting, just to turn the corner and trip into a setting from a hundred years earlier.
Davis had said to find your horizon. Maude had inquired, Got any ideas what you want to do? What would she do now? She didn’t even know what choices she had. Opportunities were scarce for women, and pay was minimal. That wouldn’t change until World War II when women would flood the workforce to help the war effort. But, this didn’t sit well with her, this carefree life. It was too foreign. Too without purpose.
If only Andrew were there. He was her husband and a part of her life now. How could she make a decision about her future without him? She had no idea how or where they would live, so how could she make plans?
Then again, it was hard to think of herself as a wife, but even harder to think of herself as a widow. If only she could touch him, trace the lines of his upper lip, the indentation in his temple, the crinkles at the corner of his eyes when he smiled.
She pounded the bed with her fist. What was she crying about? Music? Work? Andrew? Her thoughts were so erratic. And, she’d acted like a fool with the sheriff. Was she falling apart?
She fell asleep thinking about all the things she would discuss with Andrew when he came back to her.
If he came back.
A rumble of thunder in the distance woke Libby the next morning. She climbed from bed and peered miserably out her lone window to find the sky filled with ominous gray clouds and drizzling rain. The sidewalks were slate-colored and the lawns glistened.
In such weather, no one would be about. At least not this early. She pulled on her jeans and boots, and tucked in the ends of the shirt she’d slept in. She needed to go back there.
Back to where she’d said goodbye to Andrew. Back to where her life had changed.
Through the drizzle, she walked to the Crystal Spring, passing an occasional puddle of collected rainfall that shivered against the breeze. She’d been right, no guests were out that early in the rain, and only a few uniformed employees moved about.
Distantly spaced wooden signs directed her way. The terrain was familiar enough that she was certain her path was correct. Within minutes she found the Crystal Spring, but it looked different, and not just because it was daylight. There was no low retaining wall. No signs that it had been prettied up for tourist purposes as it had looked when she’d used it in 2016.
Instead, the location was unadorned and more natural, the water dominant, its gurgle almost zen-like and tranquil, as though heedless of what it had done to her. The immediate area felt and looked timeless.
She dropped to her knees and with a trembling hand, inched her fingers into the cool water and waited. For what, she didn’t know. A sensation, perhaps. A memory.
Nothing.
As she sat there, she didn’t know how long, the rain strengthened, pattering in steady rhythm on the ground around her.
When she returned to the hotel later, the young man at the front desk stopped her, handing her two messages. The first was from Davis’s broker, Thomas St. Clair, saying he planned to be there in three weeks and recommending they meet during lunch. The other missive from Maude suggested they get together for a swim.
Yes, she would meet with both, St. Clair out of necessity, Maude because she longed for companionship. After all, what else did she have to do? There wasn’t a single person or commitment that wanted, needed, or commanded her time these days.
The rain continued into the next day. Following breakfast, Libby decided to collect more magazines from the lobby and return to her room for a day of reading advertisements to see what companies and products were available for investment.
Entering the lobby, she spotted a figure arriving at the same time on the opposite side of the expansive area. A pale, reed-thin man in ill-fitting clothing stepped from an exterior back door into the shadows.
It’s not that she experienced recognition. His pale face was partially hidden by a hat brim turned down and a collar turned up as though against the rain, revealing only his eyes. Perhaps it was his posture that caused a quick electrical pulse to shoot through her heart. Hands tucked in his pockets. Head tilted. The slightly reckless stance made him look unhealthy and out of place. A premeditated meddler who had no concern about looking like the other guests. And that stillness! Between his stance and his glare, she felt stapled in place. His gaze, directly at her, was like a hatchet-glare, as if he was looking at her with such contempt he could easily bury a hatchet into her skull. For a moment, she didn’t move, and neither did he. A porter emerged from seemingly nowhere pushing a luggage carrier stacked with cases at least seven feet high, and after it passed, no one was standing at the spot where the pale man had stood.
A vein pulsed in her neck and she looked right. Left. He was gone. She dropped into the nearest chair, waiting for her heartbeat to return to normal. What just happened? First the sheriff, now pale man. At least with the sheriff she hadn’t felt threatened. Disoriented, uneased, perhaps afraid, but not threatened.
It was at least a half-hour before she conceded pale man was gone. She retrieved several magazines all the while reminding herse
lf that she hadn’t even been in 1926 long enough to have made an enemy. Either she had been mistaken, or he had mistaken her for someone else.
She turned to go but stopped short when she overheard a woman speaking French in a loud, panicked voice.
She watched a stylish woman descend the stairway, talking to a befuddled-looking Jarvis, her arms animated and her face streaked with tears. “Mon mari est mauvais.” My husband is ill. She continued in French, “He brought medication with him, but we cannot find the bag.”
Jarvis looked at her helplessly. “I’m sorry. I do not know what you want.”
They stopped within two yards of her, so Libby stepped forward and addressed the woman in French. “Puis-je vous aider?” May I help you?
The woman’s eyes lit up and she threw her hands on Libby’s arms in a please-listen-to-me gesture. “My husband speaks English,” she said in her Romance language, which to Libby always sounded like a song or an old-fashioned melodrama, “but he is ill. Until the water can help him, I need his medication. It was in a leather bag. I am sure we brought it. But when I searched for it, it was missing.”
Libby touched the woman’s arm, nodded and translated her concerns to Jarvis.
“A small leather bag?” Jarvis nodded hurriedly. “Yes, yes. Tell her we might have it. It must have gotten separated from their other belongings.” He turned and signaled to a porter who had just come in the main entrance. “Paul. Did you hear? That unclaimed bag belongs to this guest.”
Paul, a thin, grave young man of about twenty nodded and walked to a door behind the check-in counter, retrieved a bag and brought it to the woman.
“Oh, merci, merci!” She turned and hurried up the steps clutching it like it was a treasure chest.
Paul strolled back to his post outside the front door.
Jarvis turned to Libby. “You speak French.” The way he said it wasn’t a question, but rather an observation he felt obliged to make.
She pushed the pale man from her mind, and offered a curt nod, attempting to appear demure, poised. “As well as Spanish, Italian, German, several others. And, I’m well-educated and well-traveled, Mr. Jarvis.” She hoped her voice sounded supportive, not pointed. “If you ever need my assistance again, let me know.” She didn’t wait for a reply. Why provide him with the opportunity to deny her civility? Instead, she turned and headed toward the stairs.
“Madame?”
She stopped and steadied her nerves before turning around. “Yes?”
“Thank you.” He bowed with his head and walked away.
It wasn’t his words that eased her mind, but rather the tone in his voice. One of contrition and kindness.
“You’re welcome, Jarvis,” she said although she doubted he heard her. It didn’t matter. She said it because she wanted no more pandering or worrying what he thought of her. Mostly, she wanted to hear how the name rolled off her lips, the way the other guests addressed him, without the ‘Mr.’ honorific prefix attached.
It felt good.
Life took on a certain rhythm in the next several weeks. Libby spent her mornings with newspapers and magazines to learn current events and make lists of potential investments. Afterward she would swim, hike, play Ping-Pong, tennis or golf, or go horseback riding with Maude. Three times she played cards with Mrs. Beachum under the colonnade enjoying iced tea and the views of the rolling hills and distant mountains around them.
The colonnade walkway was edged by a series of columns supporting a flat roof which also served as a second-floor loggia and promenade sided with decorative railings, and ushered guests across an expansive lawn and Shobers Run. The ground floor, while a boardwalk also, sported tables, chairs, and benches for guests to enjoy leisure afternoons out of the sun or rain while still soaking in the surrounding vista. The landscape appeared familiar and ageless, and it comforted Libby. Others may find her new life monotonously repetitious, but she needed that predictability for now.
She also walked to town each Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, always careful to avoid the sheriff. She would shop, people-watch, and most enjoyable of all, meet with Hardin Lochery to discuss oils and herbs. He proved to be a delightful and self-educated man, enthralled with all things beyond the visual: health, religion, spiritualism, and supernatural. Libby enjoyed the walks but often felt like someone was watching her. She would catch herself looking over her shoulder. She thought of the pale man, but always, she shrugged it off. Her body was still healing, she reasoned. Her internal gauge for hunches and intuition were off because, as odd as the sensation was, it also felt inexplicably familiar as though it had been a constant in her former life.
Twice, Rose came to Libby’s room with fresh linens while Libby was reading. The second time, Rose finally relaxed enough to talk fashion. Libby asked to see some of her designs and stitchery, then showered her profusely with praise days later when Rose brought several frocks she’d made. Libby ordered three dresses, paid in advance, and secured Rose’s promise to coach Libby in all things fashion. As Rose turned to go, Libby again complimented her designs and stitching.
Rose blushed. “Thank you, ma’am. I always start with the styles by Chanel or Patou, then tweak them a little.”
“Chanel? The Chanel, as in Coco Chanel?”
“That’s her. The designer from Paris.”
“Do you know if she’s publicly traded?”
“Ma’am?”
Libby shrugged. “Never mind.” Few people in 1926 could imagine how the fashion industry would grow in the coming decades. Libby made a mental note to add Chanel and the design industry to her list of possible investments.
One Tuesday evening, Oliver Kenton delivered a message that Sheriff Brogan Harrow was in the lobby and wished to talk to her. Instantly anxiety gripped her, so she feigned fatigue. She asked Oliver to extend her apologies and a promise they would talk some other time. Weeks went by, but she didn’t hear from Harrow again.
Davis called twice each week. The conversations were warm but bland as both were aware that a switchboard filled with operators could be listening to their discussions. Her birth certificate arrived by special post, secured in an envelope with red sealing wax and accompanied by a brief letter typewritten on a machine with a faulty ‘w’.
It read, Thought you would enjoy seeing correspondence before the age of computers and printers. Regarding the enclosed: your new life begins. Live it well. It was signed, “See you soon, Davis” in blue ink.
And through all this busyness and activity, a foreboding grew in Libby’s mind, brought on by the briefest of encounters with Leon Martelli. For the most part, she was able to ignore or avoid him, but one evening on her return from supper she encountered him coming the opposite direction in the long, ground-level hallway.
He smiled that imperious smile he did so well and watched her pass by with only a curt nod and a snarky-sounding “Mrs. Shaw.” Then, he stopped her in her tracks after she’d gone a couple yards beyond him when he said, “Your little friend Rose? I see she still travels that road alone. It’s a shame you can’t be with her all the time, isn’t it?” She whirled around in time to see him turn his haughty look of triumph toward his destination and saunter away.
The next morning Libby told Rose to collect as many maids as she could for a self-defense training. Eight young, skeptical women joined her that evening on the lawn outside the pool building. After demonstrating several ways to handle attacks, she tutored their practice.
All seemed to be going well until she instructed them to hit the men in the gonads. Following several gasps, Libby explained what the results of such a move would produce. Only half the women acted pleased to learn of this crucial self-defense tactic; the others merely blushed and admitted they would never be able to do such a thing. Begging, reasoning, and more explanation wouldn’t change their minds, so Libby suggested they always wear a long sturdy pin in their hats. That mollified their concerns, even titillated them a bit. By morning, three other maids pulled her aside sheepishly and req
uested the training.
In all, Libby held three sessions, with promises to provide practices and refreshers if the ladies ever requested. Rumor reached her after a week that Jarvis had learned about the classes. She waited for him to voice dismay or offer his opinion, but it never came.
After a few weeks, Thomas St. Clair arrived. They met over lunch at the hotel, but carried their selections on trays to the outdoor patio to talk privately. He was a short, dignified man approaching sixty, with a round face, receding hairline, large nose, and heavy bags and other signs of age and stress beneath piercing eyes. Impressive wasn’t the first thought that came to mind when one looked at the man, but his confidant carriage and impeccable clothing demanded a second perusal. His dark three-piece suit, highly starched white collar, and black tie were made of finest silk, and his shiny Italian shoes suggested success.
That morning and with the help of a hotel employee, Libby had retrieved most of her money from the guests’ safe, kept in a locked room beside the lobby. Along with two hundred and fifty dollars, she gave him a list of investments she hoped to make. He wouldn’t get rich off the commission on this small amount of money, but given its 2016 inflation value, she figured this was a good first-time investment and that St. Clair would see the future potential as her investments earned more money.
He donned wire glasses and studied the list with a thoroughness and scrutiny she appreciated. “General Electric, RCA, Kodak, Goodyear. You and Mr. Whitaker favor the same investments. He’s a keen, astute investor. Everything he’s favored has paid off handsomely, to say the least. I’m guessing that, like him, you are not interested in hearing about other possibilities? Say, Edison Records? They’ve been doing rather well.”
Not a chance. Ever. They close their doors because radio proves more popular. “No, not this time, but thank you.”
St. Clair finished reading the other companies on the list and looked up. “Mrs. Shaw, a couple companies you prefer have not gone public yet, but you can trust that I will otherwise follow the priorities you have outlined.” He signed his name to a receipt and a contract, and handed them to her.