BACK     CONTENTS     ARF!     ©

= Romantic Novel =

A New England Love Story

by Jean-Thomas Cullen

11.

Rick Moyer sat in a conference room high above Manhattan. He was looking downtown, toward the Empire State Building and the new World Trade Center, among masses of tall and taller buildings making a gray field under miles of scudding clouds. It was nine a.m. on a rainy day, the kind where you want to be indoors. At least they had a little heat going in this otherwise chilly conference room. Even so, Rick had his tan raincoat with dangling buckles draped over his shoulders as he sat in the high-backed luxury office chair someone had borrowed from Mahogany Row, now a ghost town down the hall.

It was February—a month not of snow and freezing cold, as was traditional, but of huge charcoal clouds floating across the Manhattan skies like battleships, and of tidal seas of rain and drizzle that rattled and pressed ominously against thick plate glass windows far above the city streets. Way down there, where pedestrians and their umbrellas looked ant-like, and the usual rivers of yellow taxis flowed, street lights seemed to glow day and night. People with money had long since left for vacations in Florida, Los Angeles, Barbados, Australia, Ibiza—you name it. Only Rick Moyer (so he felt at odd moments) was stuck here with a leaky pen, reading coffee-stained contracts written by Lilliputians in microscopic ink scratches.

A secretary brought a new stack of papers to be signed and examined.

Rick joked: "We should just weigh them by the pound."

"That would make our lives easier," the woman agreed. She left them by his side on the gleaming mahogany desk top. She was a tall, pretty lady—with a wedding ring, of course. "Can I get you some tea or coffee, Mr. Moyer?"

He smiled. "If you had a donut, I would rejoice. Thanks, Agatha."

The woman named smiled back, her face crowned in blonde ringlets. "I think I might be able to arrange something in a jelly donut." She was the host business owner’s executive assistant, a stylish New York City woman in her late thirties. As in Paris, Milan, or London, Rick noted, women working and living in a fashion center managed somehow to acquire a higher taste in clothing and makeup. Her hair style was perfect for her. Without makeup, she might be an average looker in small town USA, but here in the Massive Mackintosh she was a looker wearing hot-magazine jewelry and clothing right off the fashion runway.

"Raspberry."

"Sorry. Grape." She was diplomatic, too.

"Grape is my favorite."

"You are so diplomatic. No wonder you do such big deals."

"In my heart I wanted grape. It just seemed like such an impossible thing to wish for that I didn’t bother trying, so I merely hoped for raspberry, thinking it would be easier for you. My heart was with grape."

"If you want something, you have to ask for it, I always say." She opened the documents to the marked pages and made sure he had a working pen. "Did you say coffee?"

"I think I am in a tea mood." He took out reading glasses. The light in here was a bit dim and yellowish. He put on the glasses, which had dark-brown horn rims and made him look intellectual. The light reminded him of something. Home. He wasn’t sure what. He was about to sign the papers for a ten million dollar merger, in which Moyer LX Holding would acquire two underperforming mutual funds that were all that was left of an otherwise gutted and bankrupt firm. The firm’s proxy board members had been in the office, agreed to Rick’s reasonably generous terms—since the principals had been indicted after running their firm into the ground. Everyone would walk away with a piece of something, even the two executives now serving time and wearing khaki prison garb to better mop the halls of Sing-Sing with. The light reminded him of the library in Emery. He would drive by there later today, yearning for its lantern comfort, and the Vestals inside, who languidly tended to its sacred mysteries. He did not relish the long drive home, during which he would again have occasion to resent Dad and his life. Which was unfair, and he knew he’d have to make a confrontation about it soon or do something crazy like take up bungee-jumping off the Empire State Building with a paragliding kit. Or tearing all his clothes off and running down the street screaming until the police captured him with a big butterfly net and locked him up for his own safety.

"I’ll bring you a fresh pot."

"I think I saw a nice Irish breakfast tea out there on the table, with a little lemon and sugar please."

"You don’t miss a thing," the secretary said with that cheerful glow.

Rick watched her sway from the room, admiring her shapely figure in the black and white speckled wool dress, along with her dark nylons and black high heels. So many women in the world, so many satisfied men. He shook his head, picked up the pen, and turned his attention to the misery before him. Not that making money was misery, just that it was—well, again—elevator music if you had nobody real and solid to share a dreary Saturday afternoon at home with over popcorn and beer, a ball game on TV, and maybe a blanket big enough for two.

Inside Rick’s jacket, his cell phone made a noise. He had it programmed to make a rather professional, but still fun, ringing noise like an old fashioned phone. Sometimes when he was free on a weekend, out and about in his shorts and sandals, maybe sailing on Long Island Sound, or jetting up to Montreal for a good theater in the Old City, he changed the ring tone to his favorite: a woman yodeling. But not now. Not here.

"This is Rick Moyer," he said in a businesslike manner.

"Mr. Moyer," said a woman’s voice full of laughter and sunshine.

"Yes? No lemons?" It had to be the woman with the curly ringlets.

"Wha-a-a-?"

"I’m sorry. Is this Agatha? Is there tea?"

"There is no tea, but I want to know where you are keeping the book."

"I am sorry. This must be a wrong number." If it were a guy, he would have hung up already or thrown the phone across the room into that trashcan in the corner by the window overlooking the Chrysler Building. Something about that voice made him keep the phone cocked to one ear. As he did so, Agatha entered—pushing the door open with that delightful rear end—carrying a tray with delicious looking things on it. The woman on the phone was therefore not Agatha, unless Agatha had a twin sister or some crazy thing.

"Am I speaking with Mr. Richard Moyer?"

"Yes?" He felt puzzled while Agatha poured tea and fussed about him with crumpets, butter, jelly, and what not. He nodded thanks, brightly, Agatha made a saluting motion with bright blue eyes as she left the room to let him sign all the legal trash.

"You probably do not remember me—the pesky librarian from Emery."

"Oh, Mrs. Otter. How are you and all the little otters?"

"Not Mrs. Otto. This is Marian McLaughlin."

As he stirred sugar into his tea, he said: "You know, I am confused, frightened, and puzzled. I have no idea who you are. From England?"

"Emery."

"We must have a bad connection. Are you calling from underwater?"

"Yes, I am in a submarine off New York City."

He was beginning to recognize the voice, and filled inwardly with delight, but he kept up the banter. Was it possible? The married woman he had flirted with? Surely this was just all a silly, funny, pleasant little joke. She had liked him after all, and didn’t hate him for being a flirtatious, inconsiderate cad. Now he realized what the cozy, wan light reminded him of—libraries everywhere, in his home town growing up, or in Emery Township where the cars flew by without ever stopping to smell the roses or check out a book.

"The compartments are flooding, so I must swim to the surface."

"Those must be bubbles I hear. That’s why we have a poor connection."

"And the porpoises playing saxophone nearby."

"Yes. Marian, is this you?"

"You remembered my name."

"How could I forget? I was so embarrassed."

"I know why you are embarrassed." She managed somehow to seem like she was sitting next to him. How did she do that?

"The ring."

"It never occurred to me you saw it. Rose Otto told me. She saw us talking."

"When I saw that ring on your paw, I could have crawled under the Help Desk and died."

"You poor man."

"It’s a good thing I didn’t have a baseball bat, or I would have beaten myself unconscious."

"Well, I called about my book."

"What book?"

"The cowboy and the chick on the rail. You know. The Stars Shine On Us, by Ruff MacDuff or somebody."

"Oh my god in heaven. I screwed up again. It’s in the trunk of my car, sitting in a parking lot right here in Manhattan."

"You can drop it off on your way home."

"And your husband? Small detail."

"I never thought to explain to you—I am a widow."

Rick was stunned. He felt as if a hard, cold fist had just tightened around his heart. After a shocked pause, he said:

"I am so sorry."

"Naw," she said with a philosophical, accepting little chuckle, "It’s my life. Or was. Or is."

"I am so sorry if I offended you in any way."

"Offended me? I was hoping you’d stop back and check your book in and check me out."

He felt tongue-tied. Before he could speak, she said:

"I like you, Mr. Moyer. No need to feel sorry."

"I like you too."

"Mind if I call you Richard?"

"Rick. No. Yes. Call me anything, but call me. Please."

She laughed. The last ice had been broken. "I am calling you, am I not?"

"Oh my god. You are. And here I am."

"There you are."

"Marian, I feel like—Christmas all over again."

"Me too. I have to confess. The book thing is real. You are in huge trouble here in Emery. But I wanted to take the excuse to hear your voice again."

"Oh my god." He felt helpless and terrified—could this be a dream, a delusion, a sign of impending insanity? Had the stress flipped his wig for him?

"I’ll make a deal with you if you are interested."

Rick patted the multi-million dollar package before him with his palm. "I am pretty good at deals."

"I am sure you are." There was sunshine in her voice.

He said: "I have a ten inch packet of contracts, worth zillions of dollars, sitting here awaiting my signature. Somehow, Marian, I have a feeling you can trump that."

She laughed. "Oh, I don’t know. I was just going to say that you could bring that book back. It’s overdue and the fine is up to twelve dollars by now. So I was going to suggest that we go out for dinner when you drop the book off. I thought I would offer to reduce the fine to, oh, say fifty cents, and you could treat me to a burger and fries—unless it’s not payday yet. If you are broke, I’ll just steal the money from the small change here by the used book sale."

"You are a wheeler and dealer at heart, Marian. Were you always Marian, or did you change your name when you went to work at the library?"

"Always Marian—maiden name McLaughlin, as in you funny man and you always keep me a-loffin."

"I am sure you did not just make that joke up."

"No. Kids used to tease me in Kindergarten. McLaughlin?"

"I get it, Marian. They are ruthless, those Kindergarteners."

"That wasn’t half so bad. We had a girl named Lifshitz. You can imagine what they said to her."

"I dare not think of it. Hey, so it’s like 9:30 a.m."

"You usually come by late in the afternoon."

"It’s been a long time."

"You thought I was married and you were mortified. Aw."

"I must confess. Yes. I do not mess with ladies who are married or otherwise spoken for."

"You are a shining knight. I’ll save my appetite if you are interested in my offer."

"Your offer is the most exciting thing that’s happened to me all day."

"And your zillion dollar doo-hickey?"

"This is just paper. That is coins, real money, that you have there. Look, don’t steal the kitty. I’ll pay my fine, since I am a good resident of Emery."

"But not a soul dwelling here."

"That was Rose’s gig."

"Poor thing. She has had a hard life, but she means well. She set us up, you know."

"Really?" He raised his chin and imitated Rose’s holler: "Marian!"

"Ye-e-e-s-s?" she imitated herself right back, in that same ghostly wail he had heard in the library.

"Ah, that voice floating in from the stacks. Okay, so if you could be there, we’ll be square."

"I will wait for you by the entrance if it’s late."

"Keep the lamp on for me."

"Mm?"

"The lamp of your soul. Light my way."

"Bring the book, cowboy."

"Wait on the fence for me."

"You picked that particular novel to send me a message."

"Busted."

"I will be clapping my paws as you drive up."

"Will you check me out?"

"Only if you promise to check me out first."

"I can’t wait."

Suddenly, the banter ended. After a moment’s silence, she hung up as if some other, dark emotions had gotten the better of her. Rick knew by now that he had not once again said or done the wrong thing. She was trying to hard, and she was so shy. She’d had a panic attack—he could tell.