Final Masquerade (16 page)

"I haven't seen you here before,” he said.

The fact that he didn't remember her halted the adrenaline rushing through her system. Why didn't he remember? They'd stood within a yard of each other, both on the sidewalk and moving back into the building. Of course, he might not equate the gowned creature at the theater with the sneezing one in the bookstore.

Paige forced a smile. “I'm holding down the fort for Mr. Baxter. He had an appointment and asked me to stay because he was expecting a customer. Since he obviously couldn't be in two places at one time, here I am. I'm usually on the other side of the counter.” Paige didn't know why she was so anxious for this man to know she didn't work in the shop.

"I believe I'm the one you're waiting for.” He pointed in the general location of the front of the room. He gestured for her to proceed, then followed.

She fumbled the key in the tiny metal lock, eyeing his reflection in the glass: high cheekbones, longish sideburns, gray eyes—she'd never actually seen anyone with gray eyes before—and a round gold earring in his left, or was that right, ear? Just then, he looked up and caught her staring. Paige took out the book feeling a blush shoot up the back of her neck.

She passed him the book, noting he wore no wedding band. “That'll be $125."

He drew a checkbook from inside his jacket then indicated a pair of first editions also in the case. “Can I see those also?"

She unlocked the case again.

"I believe the total comes to $330,” he said.

"Correct."

As he bent to write the check, she noticed the small bald spot on his head, a spot that, due to his height, most people wouldn't notice. So, he wasn't perfect after all.

"Well, you seem to have recovered from your attack of the dust bunnies. I'll be on my way. I hope to have the pleasure of meeting you again.” He laid the check in her open palm, letting his long, slender fingers linger just a second longer than necessary, and walked out of her life.

For an extended minute, she stared from her palm and out to the empty Pennsylvania Avenue sidewalk.

"You idiot! You bleeping idiot!"

"What did I do?” Shamus asked, entering from the back alley. He carried two heavy looking cardboard boxes. Paige collected herself and took the topmost carton. He repeated his question.

She grinned sheepishly and set the box behind the counter. “Sorry, I was chastising myself. I just let a ringer get away."

"Does that mean what I think it means?"

She opened the register and, before slipping the check under the drawer, memorized the header: Burton David Palmer, Post Office Box 72, Sugar Creek, Missouri. “Where's Sugar Creek?"

"Little burb east of here. Everything go all right while I was gone?"

"Yes, fine."

"Mr. Palmer show up?"

"Yes, he also bought
Moby Dick
and
A Tale of Two Cities
."

"Wonderful. You're a great salesperson."

Paige didn't bother telling him that all she'd actually done was gawk at the man and get caught to boot.

Shamus handed her twenty-four dollars for her pay, and asked shyly, “I wonder if I could impose upon you to do this on a regular basis?"

With thoughts of Burton David Palmer at the front of her mind, she nodded and squeezed the elderly man's hand.

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Sunday, September 22nd dawned bright, crisp, and clear. Paige left her apartment at ten and headed north on Wornall Road intent on doing some shopping. The traffic was stop and go and it wasn't long before she discovered why. Giant banners spanned the Nichols Parkway intersection���71st Annual Plaza Art Fair.

Stretched before her was a sea of white canopies. Lively music and the aromas of lighter fluid and hot charcoals floated up the street above the traffic.

She settled her purse strap securely on her shoulder and ducked into the fray. Hundreds of vendors of crafts, glassware, lamps, and wood furniture lined up side-by-side and back-to-back. Paige took a breath and prepared for a shopping bonanza. She'd meandered half way along the Pennsylvania Avenue side before buying anything, but here, a jewelry booth stopped her dead. She leaned forward for a better view of the glittering items protected by a sheet of heavily fingerprinted glass, and fell in love with a braided silver necklace and matching earrings.

When she told the silversmith, “These will go perfectly with my blue evening gown,” he nodded knowingly and lovingly wrapped them in silver tissue paper.

Oozing from under the next canopy was the most delicious scent of Greek cooking. It brought mouth-watering memories of
Pavlako's
back home. She and Stefano had eaten there often. His favorite appetizer was
tarama salate
, Greek caviar served on tiny wedges of bread. She shed thoughts of Stefano with a shake of her boyish bob. Paige watched from the side as people were served heaping Styrofoam containers of
moussaka
. She examined another heavenly scented dish and asked the counterman what it was.

"
Anginares
,” he replied in a divine Greek accent. “Artichokes in lemon and egg sauce."

Somehow Paige managed to escape without buying anything there, not even the tiny sliver of baklava that seemed to have her name on it.

Her attention was next drawn to a colorful array of quilts piled atop each other. She fingered the calico fabrics, running her hands over the expertly pieced patchwork and delicate hand quilting.

"You made this yourself?” she asked the woman behind the table, who smiled proudly.

"Do you sew?” the woman asked.

Paige's laughter was muffled somewhere in the piles of cotton. “Heavens no. I wouldn't know where to begin."

"It's utterly contagious. Before you're finished with one project, your mind is busy planning the next.” She took a business card from a holder on the table. “My name is Joy Danson. I own Quilt-A-Holics Anonymous. Why not come and sit in on one of our classes? No obligation. Just see if you can walk away from it afterward."

Paige stowed the card in the back pocket of her jeans. “Thank you for the invitation. I just might take you up on it.” She ran her hands over a simple pattern with the title Bear Claw design before turning back to the sidewalk. As she did, she bumped squarely into the back of a man, causing him to drop his packages.

Amid profuse apologies, she bent to help him gather his things. When she again stood erect, she was face to face with Mr. Burton David Palmer, Post Office Box 72, Sugar Creek, Missouri.

"Well, we meet again,” he said with a smooth elegance that bespoke of culture and education.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't looking where I was going."

"I can see that. Why don't you explore that quilting class? I wager you'd enjoy it."

"You were watching me?"

His gray eyes twinkled, becoming almost teal color in the afternoon sun. “I was just about to get something to eat. Would you care to join me?"

"Only if you allow me to buy, to repay you for my clumsiness."

He hesitated a mere second before agreeing. “I saw an Armenian booth somewhere. What do you think about that?"

"I've never had Armenian food. It's not spicy, is it?"

He shrugged, “Some is, some isn't. What say we give it a try?"

Settled on the grass with plates of
yalanchi
, the Armenian version of stuffed grape leaves and
kofta
(stuffed meatballs), he introduced himself. “I'm Burton David Palmer."

The food did a somersault in her throat and she began choking.

He reached across and pounded her on the back. “Are you all right?"

She nodded and swallowed, knowing her face was a brilliant shade of scarlet.

"My name doesn't usually garner a humorous response from people. So,” he tilted her head to meet his eyes. “Would you kindly tell me what's so funny?"

She stabbed her fork into the food before saying, “Hello, Burt, it's very nice to meet you. My name is Ernestine Yates."

Burt thought a minute, then grinned. “I get it. Burt and Ernie.” He extended a long, uncalloused hand. “Here's to a less tenuous relationship than theirs."

Burt and Paige spent the remainder of the day exploring the fair. He walked her home, his arm through hers. In front of her building, she bid him good night. “Thank you for lunch. Armenian food isn't at all what I expected. Where have you had it before?"

"The people who tended that booth have a restaurant here in the city. I go once in a while. Can I see you again?"

No! No!
screamed every one of her senses, but her mouth wasn't paying attention. “Yes, I'd like that,” it said.

"You said you were new in the city. I'd love to show you around. What about tomorrow night?"

She'd agreed to meet him at seven-thirty tomorrow night and remained on the sidewalk, waving until he disappeared from view. She practically danced on the pavement. Handsome Burt, who enjoyed good food and theater, had asked her out. How much better could life get? He was distinguished and intelligent. She loved the way his temples were speckled with gray, and the way his jaw tightened when another man smiled at her. Wait, the jaw tightening hadn't been Burt, that was Chris.

Four steps further along the sidewalk, Burt had grown a handlebar mustache, and his hair had turned from black to brown. With each succeeding step, his face emoted further into Chris'.

She couldn't go out with Burt. She just couldn't.

But she did go out with Burt—several times over the next week—to the Kansas City Renaissance Fair, the Indian Arts Show, and the Greek restaurant downtown. Every time she sat in his Audi and saw that multi-gauged dashboard, she was reminded of the one in Chris’ truck with about a million gadgets, buttons, and knobs.

But Chris was gone: a heady memory of her past and something that had to be left behind.

Last night, for the first time, Paige allowed Burt to get take-out from a tiny place in the even tinier village of Sugar Creek, and take her to his home. He'd unlocked the front door of his enormous Tudor, ushered her inside, and actually said, “Ta-da!"

He placed their bags of food on an oblong Queen Anne's table set beneath an ornate mirror as he followed her gaze up the wide mahogany stairway. “I bought this place cheap back in ‘68. I've been renovating it ever since. You wouldn't believe what it looked like. I almost backed right out the door it stank so bad.” He turned around as if seeing the place for the first time also. “I don't think it came out too bad, if I do say so myself."

"What I see is very nice."

This prompted him to escort her on a tour of the downstairs while their take-out cooled in the hallway. She viewed the huge dining room, almost as large as the one in Stefano's mansion.

"I use this room once a year, on my birthday."

"Do you have a party?"

Burt's cheeks reddened through his ruddy skin. “No, I eat alone, right here.” He tapped the carved teak chair at the head of the long table, above which hung a glittering chandelier.

Was he telling the truth? Did he really spend all his time alone? That wasn't normal.

What was so different about her lifestyle?

Yes, but she was on the run. Had to be careful of every Tom, Dick, and ... Burt.

Paige acted dutifully impressed by the house. It wasn't her style, but was very tastefully and expensively decorated. She acted impressed that is, until Burt opened the door to what he called his denfry. “My library slash den slash office,” he explained.

She took in the magnificently tall ceilings, wainscoted walls, and highly polished antique desk set before an enormous picture window. The whole place had a glorious view of the city. The full moon had risen. It turned the dusky sunset and the towering silver-gray buildings into noble black silhouettes; a subject Monet would have had a devil of a time ignoring.

No, he'd never married, he told her when she asked. Yes, he thought he would someday, but wasn't in any hurry. He liked his independence.

Yes, she could call her self-imposed lifestyle ‘independence’ too. It sounded far better than escapism.

Then Burt mumbled something she had to ask him to repeat.

"I said I seem to have this habit of choosing the wrong woman."

"Bad experience?"

"One after another. I once read a book on human psychology that told why people tend to select the same person time after time."

"What was the reason?"

He laughed. “I can't recall, but I do remember exactly fitting the profile. Why don't we eat? I bet we'll have to reheat everything.” He led her down a hallway to the kitchen that had a bow window with the same vista as the one in Burt's denfry.

He showed her the huge pantry, with shelves only about a hundredth occupied by neatly stacked cans and boxes of food. He laughed. “I eat out most of the time."

The couple sat at the small table near the window. Enough moonlight poured in that Burt shut off the overhead light. They ate in silence, each lost in private thoughts, gazing at the panorama of Kansas City spread before them.

After dinner he gave Paige the tour of the upstairs. Six bedrooms, only two of which had been redecorated. Two had identical views of the city. One had a ladder and myriad tools stacked on a worktable in the center of the room.

"This is as far as I got. I can't seem to motivate myself to do the rest.” He shrugged as though it didn't matter, but she had the distinct impression it did. For a second, Paige's heart went out to him.

She quickly reeled it back in.

Paige watched the blinking lights of a passing jet, its white trail of fumes the only murkiness that marred the scene. Burt walked up behind her and placed his arms around her waist. He nuzzled his cheek against her hair.

She ducked from his touch and turned to face him. “Burt..."

"I know, you've made it perfectly clear you don't want a physical relationship. I really wish you would talk about it. Getting it out in the open would make it easier on you."

"No, it would only make it easier on you."

"Not true. If I can't touch you...

"Would you take me home, please?"