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39: Invested
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2020-12-31 13:08:52Evelyn stood in Andrew’s office, listening to his side of a phone conversation with the NYWFC accountants. Watching as he jotted notes—the answers to his terse questions—and made lightning quick calculations in his head with an upward flick of his mutable eyes, she wrapped one arm about her middle and worried her thumbnail between her front teeth.
“How many?” Andrew demanded in an ominous monotone, scratching the number on a calculation-obscured notepad before him. “You’re certain that’s the final number? Go on.”
Against his light gray suit, his eyes flashed more green than blue, the annoyed scowl deepening around them the longer the conversation went on, the longer the rows of figures became. More than a week later, final tallies for the King and Queen of England’s visit to the Fair were available at long last and based on the way he’d pressed his fine lips into a tight line, Evelyn doubted it was good. He’d be i
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“No.” Andrew’s jaw was set firmly and his tone brooked no argument. Yet argue was exactly what Madame Moreau did. “Mr. James, this is not merely a dress, this is art!” Madame, in her husky voice which, in combination with her French accent, already sounded more than a bit condescending to Evelyn, hissed back defiantly. “Then sell it to a museum. I am not paying for that,” Andrew bit out. Noting the hard glint in his changeable blue eyes, Evelyn sighed in relief. This return visit to Madame’s couture shop had been the worst yet. The dress she was modeling— a shoulder-less gown with an asymmetric fitted bodice and a skirt that draped from the waist into a flouncy full ruffle covered in a peacock feather pattern but with shockingly prominent frankly eerie eyes— was the culmination of it. The fact that it was also Schiaparelli’s signature design shade of ‘shocking pink’ nauseated her even more. Madame’s face screwed up into a tight unflattering pinch and yanking her glasses off her f
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With the New York Times tucked under one arm and his hands in his pockets, Andrew hurried across the Trust’s lobby, whistling Where or When. It had played last night at some point when he and Evelyn had danced and had kept playing in his head until he’d woken this morning with the memory of her lips and skin and lissome body against him. When he rounded the corner into their thirty-eighth floor office, Andrew stood stock still, staring at the empty space behind her desk where Evelyn should be, then darted down the narrow hall to the kitchenette, disappointed to find it empty of all except a brewed pot of delightful smelling coffee. Sliding his tongue over his front teeth, wracking his brain for where she might be, he ambled slowly into his office then grinned. The sturdy coffee mug of clear pink glass he stubbornly refused to relinquish to Evelyn sat steaming its fragrant bouquet in the exact spot he liked it on h
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Dear God, Evelyn thought trudging up the Trust’s stairs. Even this early in the day, the monotonous gray cement stairwell was blisteringly hot and stuffy, and her rising physical discomfort added to the intertwined panic and confusion clanging madly in her head. She wondered which one of them was lying about their identity— Edwardo Montero? Or Mrs. Stiles. Probably both, she thought contemptuously. No question about why Evelyn herself didn’t like either of them—why her stomach twisted into pretzel knots the instant either of them was around—and knowing they were together in whatever malign scheme they were hatching only made it worse. ‘We need to talk’, the sleazy detective had said menacingly. She doubted it. Yet the same instinct that made her insides wrench with anxiety upon seeing him, lit up her neural pathways like the Empire State building at night, anxious to hear what he had to say. Just not whil
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Andrew’s voice sounded raspy, doubtless from the argument with his mother, but still cultured, elegant and cool. Between the gravel in his voice and his disheveled appearance, his fine suit wrinkled as he sat cross-legged on the floor like one of the children, the exchange they were having seemed absurd, even bordering on surreal. Stripped of his polished veneer, he should have sounded fanatic. Instead, he sounded entirely sincere. Evelyn’s heart lurched and her eyes widened in shock, then the cold hard truth intruded again. She had to keep her defenses up—she was too big of a pushover to his charms otherwise, and all that had landed her was a broken heart. “You want what you can’t have, Andrew.” Cocking his head, he huffed a laugh and flashed her a megawatt smile. “That’s not how I imagined that going.” “Cinderella stories only work for real princesses.” He look
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World of Tomorrow 139: Epilogue
“Stop, Peter!” Sarah exclaimed, whirling to face behind her. She shot her brother an angry glare. “Peter, for pity’s sake, don’t throw dirt clods at your sister,” Andrew called over his shoulder, shifting his swaddled, sleeping son from his right shoulder to his left as they walked the long, tree-lined drive that led to the James’ estate, perched with its back on a bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Gulls rode the ocean updrafts in the afternoon sun above the glistening water, occasionally diving when something of interest caught their eye. On the opposite side of the tree-lined drive, his wife’s tiny orchard of glossy-leaved oranges in full bloom left a sweet scent drifting over the drive on the warm, salty breeze off the sea. Not far away, Evelyn's gated garden was growing lush with upright stalks of corn, twined in the loving arms of pole beans with the wide leaves of squash spreading in a carpet at their feet along the ground in one row. In another, her tomatoes were already d
World of Tomorrow 138: Sound and Fury
“M-ma-ma.” The stuttering word was an alarming half-sob and half-gurgle from the wounded Becky. “M-ma-m-ma.” Dear God! Whoever it was had shot her! That poor, helpless girl! Why!? She wasn’t a threat! And there was absolutely nothing here of any value! Evelyn’s heart leapt to her throat and hammered painfully. But she stayed close to the wall, inching forward on tiptoe to clutch at Andrew’s jacket. She pointed to the floor where their shadows fell long across it from the single overhead lamp in the middle of the room. If they drew too close to the door, their shadows would be visible to the intruder in the darkened hall leading to the bedrooms. She pointed to the window, and Andrew jerked his chin towards it in acknowledgement. Escape. They had to escape. Outside, on the sidewalk, they could summon the patrolling police officer. They could summon help. Men trained for this. Men with other guns. They had to move fast. Miranda’s daughter needed them. Even above the scuffling noises fr
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Andrew rose slowly to his feet, an antagonized muscle twitching along his clean-shaven jaw. His expression looked like a bomb about to explode. Evelyn drew a sudden breath, one hand clapping over her mouth. She stared, in turns, first at Will, then at Miranda, and her mind whirled. What was it Alexander Lowell had said the day that Detective Kelly had attempted to arrest her? The same day he’d later resigned from the police department. Something about the detective being fed what he needed to lay an accusation upon Evelyn. The question of ‘why’ anyone cared about a lowly former secretary enough to attempt to kill her, let alone invest the effort in framing her was growing more convoluted by the minute. But it was clear it was centered here, with the account belonging to Glorietta Moreno and her rights as an heir to it. “It’s a stretch,” Andrew said softly, nodding towards Miranda, “but I can see why your mother might have had Russell’s name on that account. N
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“You folks just planning on waiting?” their cabbie asked, his dark eyes studying Andrew and Will in the rearview mirror, despite that Evelyn was seated between them. “Meter’s running. Makes no never mind to me if you do, but I’ll have to circle the block or the flatfoots will cite me.” “How long do we have to decide?” Andrew asked, reluctant to have the cab move on the off chance that they might miss Miranda's departure for work during the process. “’Nother minute or two at most.” “Thank you.” He shifted slightly on the cab’s rear seat so he could better see his companions. “I know we’re early, but if she’s keeping business hours, I’d have expected she’d have to allow time to travel to a workplace. You’re certain this is the building, Will?” “It’s the place,” he replied definitively. “I can go in and wait. Tail her to wherever she’s going, then come get you.” “Is it possible she recognized you yesterday?” Evelyn asked, peering through the murk
World of Tomorrow 135: Plan of Attack
The dancing had worked like a charm. For a couple of hours. Andrew had managed to get just shy of another couple hours on top of that, burning time off the afternoon by alternating between listening to the orchestra rehearse, dancing, and finally, by slipping a bribe to the broadcasting staff to show Evelyn their equipment set-up and to take their sweet time about it. After that, she’d become too fretful to do much beyond distractedly, which had quickly spoiled the ballroom option for both of them. They’d retired to their drawing room, taken afternoon tea, then Evelyn’s pacing had begun again in earnest. He had to admit, watching her as she combed through her drying hair at the dressing table, it might be time to worry about Will a little. It was going on eight o’clock. Late by any business standard, but certainly well past the time when most diners catering to the kind of clients they’d seen at the DeBaliviere Diner and Waffle House would be visiting
World of Tomorrow 134: As Luck Would Have It
Wednesday morning in St. Louis dawned dark and gloomy and only marginally better than it had been upon their arrival early afternoon on Monday. When Evelyn emerged from the bedroom into the drawing room where he and the constantly-moving Will waited, Andrew flicked the newspaper he’d been reading down and smiled. They’d all slept poorly—again. They’d all woken late—again—and after their enjoyable brunch yesterday, both men were eager to see what other offerings were available in the East Lounge’s dining area. “Well?” she asked, her red-tinged and particle-irritated eyes roving the drawing room’s lush furnishings, immediately spotting the unmistakable coating of fine black powder and ash. “Are we trapped inside again today? It seems faintly better.” Will snorted. “By comparison to yesterday, being buried in black sand would seem better.” Andrew chuckled, setting aside the St. Louis Star-Times he’d been reading. He rifled through a stack of newspapers o
World of Tomorrow 133: Black Tuesday
The hotel’s ballroom was a gently baroque style. Its elegant space was replete with all manner of luxuries one would expect of a high-profile hotel, no matter where one might visit in the world—custom paneled with artfully etched-mirror and plaster walls, gold-leafed accents and intricate crown moldings. Above the near-magical dancefloor, which was lit from below, hung in the decorative ceiling, a ponderous crystal chandelier lit the warm wooden dancefloor beneath it. Along the periphery, undulating balconies supported by Corinthian pilasters gave an air of classicism to the space, but one not overly staid. These generous galleries provided seating for those who had only come for a meal, to watch the dancing or to listen to the orchestra. They’d dressed for a late dinner, but though the orchestra played, their music broadcast exactly as Evelyn had always dreamed of experiencing, she and Andrew hadn’t danced. In fact, they hadn’t stayed much longer than
World of Tomorrow 132: Miserable Monday
“The Coronado was built, and I believe is now run, by Preston Bradshaw,” Andrew advised more than an hour later as their cab pulled away from the curb at the train depot. “He graduated from Columbia with my brother, Russell. The two were quite good friends as I recall. My father introduced him to Stanford White in New York City where he worked before returning to St. Louis. He’s responsible for the monumental hotels on Lindell Boulevard. The Melbourne and the Coronado at midtown and the theatre district. And opposite, near the Central West end, the Chase and the Forest Park hotels were also his commissions.” “Did you know him?” Evelyn asked, closing her burning eyes and resting her head against his shoulder. “Is that why we’re staying at the Coronado?” She left unspoken the reminder that the Coronado Hotel, in particular the hotel’s famed Caprice Club, was where they’d found Charlotte to serve Andrew’s divorce paperwork after their tip-off from the Princes in Los Angeles.
World of Tomorrow 131: Arrival
The following morning Evelyn woke alone. She could tell by the way his belongings were packed that Andrew had already risen. If she was any guess, he was taking advantage of the train’s onboard barber, which meant she had time to bathe and dress without his typical morning enthusiasm for both processes. Selecting a warm dress from her traveling case, she draped her clothing over the empty towel rack in the bathroom and rooted through her toiletries for her toothbrush and toothpowder. When she was done, she hung a fresh towel on the rack nearest the shower beside the still-damp one Andrew had used and stepped under the spray. The warm shower felt delightful and soothed the telltale soreness from her bedroom exertions with her husband the night before. Once she’d washed, she stood with the warm spray draining off of her and for the first time since they’d come, wondered what they were going to do in St. Louis. They had only the name of a diner and a hotel off t
