in there snapped to her attention when she walked through the door, even the addled Mr. Peel at the reception desk.
“Miss Monica Bisbaine here to see Mr. Bentworth.” She tried to appear aloof as she tugged each finger of her camel-colored kidskin gloves before taking up the pen to sign the register. “A matter of personal business.”
For the first time, Mr. Peel seemed to recognize her and was announcing Everett’s otherwise engagement when Monica stopped short, seeing the name written in the ledger just a few lines above her own. Maximilian Moore.
She glanced up and around, as if the man would materialize from the lobby’s rich paneling.
“Miss?” Mr. Peel was standing now, a long white envelope in his shaky hand. “Mr. Bentworth left this for you.”
Monica kept her own hands cool and controlled as she stepped away from the desk to peer inside the envelope. In it, a short note on a slip of Capitol Bank and Loan stationery.
Monkey —
Sorry for the ugly business in your office last week. If it helps at all, Mrs. B and I had an enchanted evening.
Uncle E
Besides the note, there was a draft for her one-hundred-dollar monthly allowance and a crisp portrait of Grover Cleveland on a twenty-dollar bill. She quickly closed the envelope and struggled to regain a look of composure. It was just a hundred and twenty bucks, for pete’s sake, not a bucket from King Solomon’s mines.
“Thank you, Mr. Peel.”
She glided across the lobby floor to the row of tellers at the back and endorsed the draft with the pen resting in the gilded pedestal at the window. When she slid it across to the anonymous, bespectacled man on the other side, saying, “I’d like to deposit thisinto my personal account,” she made sure to look up and away the moment the teller came into contact with her current balance.
“And if you could exchange this for its value in smaller denominations?”
“Certainly, ma’am,” the teller said with the professional disguise of his thin-lipped smirk.
With her cash safely tucked in her purse, Monica turned away, allotting herself a cleansing sigh of relief. What to do next? Pay off her laundry? A nice warm lunch? Perhaps she’d go shopping for a Valentine’s gift for Charlie. A tie clip or something. Better yet, something for her —for him. A new silk peignoir to wear with her perfume when he came to visit Friday night. Then to the butcher’s for a couple of steaks the landlady maybe would let her fry on the stove in the kitchen downstairs. And then to the bakery for a little cake —strawberry with a buttercream icing. Or chocolate . . .
“Miss Bisbaine?”
The voice cut through her reverie, and she turned midstep to see Max Moore emerging from Everett’s office.
“Monkey!” Everett said, leaving Max’s side to come offer her a peck on the cheek. “Did you get —everything?”
“I did.” She gave him a playful tap on his sleeve with the envelope and shot a glance up at Max. “How did you hear about our trouble at the paper?”
“We must never forget just how small this town is, darling. But it seems all is well?”
Monica couldn’t help noticing the look exchanged between the two men, but she chose to maintain her ignorance.
“You were more than generous, Uncle Ev.”
“Stay warm,” he said with an affectionate tone that surprised her, considering this stranger to them stood so nearby, “and if you need anything, you know where to find me.”
“Of course.” She stood to her toes, reaching up to plant her own kiss on his smooth-shaven cheek.
He turned to Max and offered his hand. “Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Moore?”
Max, who had watched the entire exchange with a bemused expression on his face, told Everett that no, thank you, he’d be fine from here, at which point Everett disappeared back into his office, leaving the two of them in a state of awkward togetherness. At least it was awkward for Monica, because she’d barely had a chance to
“Miss Monica Bisbaine here to see Mr. Bentworth.” She tried to appear aloof as she tugged each finger of her camel-colored kidskin gloves before taking up the pen to sign the register. “A matter of personal business.”
For the first time, Mr. Peel seemed to recognize her and was announcing Everett’s otherwise engagement when Monica stopped short, seeing the name written in the ledger just a few lines above her own. Maximilian Moore.
She glanced up and around, as if the man would materialize from the lobby’s rich paneling.
“Miss?” Mr. Peel was standing now, a long white envelope in his shaky hand. “Mr. Bentworth left this for you.”
Monica kept her own hands cool and controlled as she stepped away from the desk to peer inside the envelope. In it, a short note on a slip of Capitol Bank and Loan stationery.
Monkey —
Sorry for the ugly business in your office last week. If it helps at all, Mrs. B and I had an enchanted evening.
Uncle E
Besides the note, there was a draft for her one-hundred-dollar monthly allowance and a crisp portrait of Grover Cleveland on a twenty-dollar bill. She quickly closed the envelope and struggled to regain a look of composure. It was just a hundred and twenty bucks, for pete’s sake, not a bucket from King Solomon’s mines.
“Thank you, Mr. Peel.”
She glided across the lobby floor to the row of tellers at the back and endorsed the draft with the pen resting in the gilded pedestal at the window. When she slid it across to the anonymous, bespectacled man on the other side, saying, “I’d like to deposit thisinto my personal account,” she made sure to look up and away the moment the teller came into contact with her current balance.
“And if you could exchange this for its value in smaller denominations?”
“Certainly, ma’am,” the teller said with the professional disguise of his thin-lipped smirk.
With her cash safely tucked in her purse, Monica turned away, allotting herself a cleansing sigh of relief. What to do next? Pay off her laundry? A nice warm lunch? Perhaps she’d go shopping for a Valentine’s gift for Charlie. A tie clip or something. Better yet, something for her —for him. A new silk peignoir to wear with her perfume when he came to visit Friday night. Then to the butcher’s for a couple of steaks the landlady maybe would let her fry on the stove in the kitchen downstairs. And then to the bakery for a little cake —strawberry with a buttercream icing. Or chocolate . . .
“Miss Bisbaine?”
The voice cut through her reverie, and she turned midstep to see Max Moore emerging from Everett’s office.
“Monkey!” Everett said, leaving Max’s side to come offer her a peck on the cheek. “Did you get —everything?”
“I did.” She gave him a playful tap on his sleeve with the envelope and shot a glance up at Max. “How did you hear about our trouble at the paper?”
“We must never forget just how small this town is, darling. But it seems all is well?”
Monica couldn’t help noticing the look exchanged between the two men, but she chose to maintain her ignorance.
“You were more than generous, Uncle Ev.”
“Stay warm,” he said with an affectionate tone that surprised her, considering this stranger to them stood so nearby, “and if you need anything, you know where to find me.”
“Of course.” She stood to her toes, reaching up to plant her own kiss on his smooth-shaven cheek.
He turned to Max and offered his hand. “Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Moore?”
Max, who had watched the entire exchange with a bemused expression on his face, told Everett that no, thank you, he’d be fine from here, at which point Everett disappeared back into his office, leaving the two of them in a state of awkward togetherness. At least it was awkward for Monica, because she’d barely had a chance to
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