Out of the Easy(71)

James’s eyes were round with shock. “No, he didn’t.” Suddenly he was angry. “I can’t believe he’s doing this to me.” He yanked the box off the counter and slammed out the door.

I watched James pace the sidewalk. He was clearly emotional. What did he think Patrick was doing to him? My fingers involuntarily made a sign on the counter. I looked at my hand and then out to James in the street. Patrick wasn’t in love with Kitty.

? ? ?

Cokie drove us to the bus station. It was raining. Patrick rattled off instructions about the house and shop. I practically had them memorized. Miss Paulsen would be checking on the house. A visiting professor from Loyola would begin a sublease next week. The piano man would come the week before Christmas to make sure the B?sendorfer was tuned and adjusted before Patrick came home. I had a list of names in the Florida Keys, the information for Hotel Nacional de Cuba, and the address in Trinidad.

“You have to keep me updated,” said Patrick. “I want to know everything that’s going on, especially when you hear from Smith.”

Cokie unloaded Patrick’s trunk at the station. He clapped Patrick on the back. “You take care, now. Next time you see Josie girl, she’ll be home for Christmas from college.” He beamed. “Now, I got to git. Got a pickup at the Roosevelt.”

We walked into the station, out of the rain. “You still haven’t told him?” Patrick asked as Cokie drove away.

“I don’t know how. I think he’s more excited than me. Speaking of telling, I was surprised you didn’t tell James about your trip. He seemed really upset when I told him you were leaving.” I eyed Patrick carefully. “Do you think he suspects your feelings . . . for Kitty?”

Patrick avoided my gaze. “Give him my address in Trinidad if you want.”

We looked at Patrick’s bus ticket. He had quite a few stops but just three transfers. One in Mobile, one in Jacksonville, and one in West Palm Beach. Men in suits and ties and women in pretty dresses lined up in the bus station with their suitcases, all departing for some exciting destination. Patrick’s blond hair was combed neatly to the side. He looked glamorous in his tan suit and baby blue oxford.

“Thirty-two hours of luxury, and you’ll be out of this rain and on the beach,” I told him. “I’m jealous.”

“Yeah, these buses are so nice. I wish you were coming. Thank you, for everything, Jo. You’ve done so much for Charlie, the shop, and me.”

Patrick’s bus for Mobile was announced.

“I know I’ve let you down,” he said quickly. “You’re the last person I ever wanted to hurt, I swear it.” Light reflected off moisture in his eyes.

A lump bobbed in my throat.

“You’re so important to me,” he whispered. “Please believe me.”

“Let’s make sure your trunk is on,” I said quickly, fighting back the tears.

We walked toward the Greyhound silverside with an illuminated placard that read MOBILE above the windshield. We stood together under the umbrella and watched as his trunk was loaded into the bay of the coach.

I looked at Patrick. “Candace Kinkaid or Agatha Christie?”

He laughed. “Definitely Candace Kinkaid. Way more fun. F. Scott Fitzgerald or Truman Capote?” he asked.

The last call rang out for Mobile.

“Oh, please. Fitzgerald. Of course Fitzgerald. Get on your bus.”

Patrick handed me the umbrella. He wrapped his arms around me and planted a kiss straight on my lips, hard and long. It felt like I was watching the kiss instead of being inside of it. He ran out from underneath the umbrella to the interior shelter of the bus steps. “See you at Christmas!” he called.

I watched as he made his way down the aisle to a window seat near the waistline of the bus.

The doors hissed, then folded closed. Water rolled down the top of the bus, falling in streams over Patrick’s window. He smiled and put his finger on the glass, signaling biography.

I signaled back. Poetry.

The bus rolled, taking Patrick Marlowe, and his secret, with it. I stood and watched it drive away. I thought of the line from Keats and my discussion with Mr. Hearne.

I love you the more in that I believe you have liked me for my own sake and for nothing else.

The rain plunked atop my black umbrella.





FORTY-NINE


I swept the tile floor between the shelves. Moving the books had unlocked bits of fossilized dust. Patrick had only been gone a few days, but the shop was strangely still and lifeless. I made a note to bring the radio from Patrick’s house. It would keep me company.

The bell above the door jingled.

“Well, hello there. I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d pop in to see what’s news,” said John Lockwell.

I leaned on the broom. “You seem to be in the neighborhood a lot these days.”

“Yes, did I tell you I have a place over on St. Peter?”

“Several times.”

He looked around the shop. “Are you closing?”

“It’s temporary. We’ll reopen after Christmas. The owner passed away, and Patrick is visiting his mother in the West Indies.”

“How bohemian of him. But then literary folk always are. Great for parties, always good to have a few eccentrics on hand to entertain the stuffy Uptown crowd. So, you’ll be needing a job, then. Sure you won’t reconsider? Some nice dresses, and you’d be a little clothes pony in the office. You’d have your own desk, typewriter, and of course cocktail privileges with the boss after hours.”