The Girl in the Face of the Clock by Charles Mathes Page B

was impossible not to get drawn into his excitement. Judging from the beatific look in his eyes right now, Jane was willing to bet that he was getting ready to tell her again about the clock’s maker, Simon Willard, who had belonged to a family of clockmakers in early nineteenth-century Massachusetts.
    Jane was dressed in comfortable clothes for the long flight, jeans and a long-sleeve cotton rugby shirt. Perry had on his usual dapper outfit: black blazer, gray slacks, robin’s egg blue vest. His only concession to comfort was the ascot he wore in lieu of a tie. Jane had never seen anyone in real life wear an ascot. On Perry it somehow looked natural.
    They were seated at the front of the first-class cabin. Perry had taken the window seat and made “vroom-vroom” noises during takeoff. Jane had sipped her complimentary orange juice and enjoyed the wide reclining seat, about as far from the cramped contraptions in coach as a La-Z-Boy was from a bicycle seat. Two paperback Shaw plays were stashed in a carry-on bag under the seat in front of her, but Jane had the feeling that between Perry Mannerback’s clock lectures and the in-flight movie, she wasn’t going to have much chance to read. Maybe she’d try after the layover that the plane was scheduled to make in St. Louis.
    â€œThe lighthouse clock was Simon Willard’s last invention and is quite rare,” said Perry excitedly. “It was a terrible flop actually, the Edsel of clocks, but now everyone wants one. There’s even one in the White House. Did I tell you about the Willards? There were plenty of great British clockmakers running around during Georgian times, you see, but in America such artisans were rare and the Willards were the absolute tops. They were a whole family of clockmakers. There was Simon—who also invented the banjo clock, of course—Benjamin, Ephraim …”
    â€œWell, hello there, what a coincidence, what a surprise,” shrieked a voice like fingernails on a blackboard.
    Jane looked up in amazement to see the bloated form of Elinore King standing in the aisle beside her, smiling like a hyena.
    â€œWhat are you doing here, Elinore?” Jane demanded, unable to believe her eyes.
    â€œPerry Mannerback, isn’t it?” said Elinore, ignoring Jane, reaching her hand over to Perry, who had stood up politely. He might be an eccentric screwball, but his manners were impeccable.
    â€œRemember me, Elinore King? I was Janie’s dad’s art dealer. I sold you that painting, remember? The big one with the naked girl and the clock?”
    â€œOh yes, indeed,” said Perry, shaking her hand. “I remember very well. We talked about the fleeting nature of existence. Most interesting. And then you gave me that special thingamajig. What was it called? Oh, yes. The discount.”
    â€œWhat are you doing here, Elinore?” asked Jane again, through clenched teeth.
    â€œWell, Janie, after we talked about my daughter in Seattle the other night, I got so lonesome I decided to fly out and see her,” said Elinore breezily. “It’s been ages since we’ve had a visit, and I just love her to pieces. This was the only flight I could get at the last minute. All the direct flights were sold out weeks ago. Of course, I always fly first class, it’s the only way to go. But I want to talk to Perry. Perry, it’s so amazing to run into you like this. I was just thinking about you. You saw this, didn’t you?”
    Elinore passed over a copy of Sunday’s New York Times Magazine , which she had been holding behind her back. It was opened to a half-page reproduction of his painting, the seated nude on the staircase with Grandmother Sylvie’s handless clock between her legs.
    â€œNo, I didn’t,” Perry said, taking the magazine, and pulling out a pair of half-moon reading glasses from his inside pocket with which to study it better. “Why, that’s