Penelope Page 6

  “But you’re bound and determined to succeed, right?”

  “I’m trying, Penelope,” she said.

  “Only there’s one thing I don’t get,” I remarked. “If I’ve got a soul mate out there, why do you keep pushing me to marry anyone who can lift the curse?”

  She smiled, a little sadly. “Just because he’s out there, Penelope, doesn’t mean you’ll ever find him.”

  Through the window into the music room, I saw Jake, and I switched on the microphone system.

  “I’ll be ready at ten, Jake.”

  “Very good, Miss Penelope.”

  I then went to my room, to change my clothes and brush my hair. My mother liked me to do this before interviews. Even though I wouldn’t be seen, she thought I’d come across as more appealing if I looked as good as possible. Today, for once, I wasn’t going to argue with her.

  When I returned to the dining room just before ten, she was already there with Wanda, and telling Jake to bring in some sandwiches at lunchtime so we wouldn’t have to take a break from interviews. Jake looked at me with raised eyebrows. I just shrugged.

  “Are you ready, Miss Penelope?”

  “Yes, Jake.” He left the dining room. A moment later, he entered the music room and stood by the open door. A middle-aged, elegant-looking gray-haired man in a fashionable blue suit entered.

  Behind me, my mother and Wanda were stationed at each shoulder. “Ooh, he’s distinguished,” Jessica said. “Not very tall, but he has excellent posture. Is that the Frenchman with the château?”

  “No, I believe he’s the Swiss banker.”

  “Well, I think he looks nice,” my mother noted.

  “Yes,” Wanda agreed. And then she said, “So does he.”

  Another man entered the room—the tall, blond German with the muscular build. He was followed by a swarthy, mustached man wearing something black and Italian, and then a seriously tanned fellow with an open shirt revealing a multitude of chains came in.

  “Penelope!” my mother exclaimed. “I don’t understand. What’s going on?”

  I clamped my hand over the microphone. “I’m interviewing them all together, Mother.”

  “But this is ridiculous, Penelope! Why in the world would you want to do that?”

  “Because I want to get it all over with.”

  Wanda threw up her hands in despair while my mother shrieked, “Franklin! Get in here right this minute and talk some sense into your daughter!”

  Calmly, I turned back to the window. The room was filling up now, and I gauged the expressions of the candidates. A few of them looked confident, even cocky, others were clearly uncomfortable, and a couple of them looked very nervous. I heard several languages, and I wondered if they were talking about me. And how much they’d heard about me. Not that it mattered. Most of them probably didn’t want a wife; they wanted green cards.

  In accordance with my instructions, Jake brought in trays of coffee and bagels. The event was taking on the appearance of a brunch, and I decided it was time to get the show on the road.

  My father entered the dining room, and my mother frantically began explaining what I’d done. I put a finger to my lips, and she rolled her eyes, but she stopped talking as I turned on the microphone.

  I was about to begin speaking when a latecomer appeared. I wasn’t sure why he drew my attention—maybe because, unlike the others, he looked neither cocky nor nervous. He looked… tired.

  His shaggy hair was in need of a cut, and it was tousled in that just-woke-up way. There were deep, dark circles under his eyes. While the others were in suits, he wore jeans. At least he wore a jacket and tie with the jeans, but the jacket was too big for him, and the tie didn’t go with his shirt. While the other men varied in appearance, they were all well groomed. This guy looked scruffy.

  But cute. Very cute. So cute that I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

  No one else paid attention to him as he moved across the room. Then he did something else that was odd—while the others had remained standing, he sat down in the one comfortable chair and closed his eyes. He was certainly relaxed, I thought.

  It was time to begin. And then, suddenly, for no reason that I could identify, I made a new decision. I turned off the microphone and stood up.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” I announced to my parents and Wanda.

  “Thank goodness,” my mother said, and Wanda looked relieved, too.

  “I’ll go in and make separate appointments with each of them,” she said, and started toward the door.

  But I moved faster, too quickly for anyone to stop me, and disregarded my mother’s cry of protest as I crossed the room and opened the door to the music room.

  “Good morning, gentlemen. I’m Penelope.”

  I was greeted pretty much as I’d expected, with a dead silence. The expressions ran the gamut, from shock to terror. The response times varied, but within seconds there was a crush at the other door as they all tried to get out of the room at the same time. I turned and went back out the way I’d come in.

  My mother was sobbing, her face buried in her hands. My father, as usual, was patting her shoulder. Wanda was clutching her head, massaging her temples as if she had a massive headache.

  “Why, Penelope?” my mother was moaning. “Why, why, why?”

  “Like I told you, Mother, I wanted to get it over with. What was the point of dragging it out? They were all going to run, sooner or later.”

  Wanda was looking out the window. “Someone didn’t run.”

  I joined her there. Sure enough, the cute, scruffy guy was still in the armchair, and now he was gazing around curiously. As I watched, he rose and began exploring the room. First, he picked up a china figurine, examined it, and then put it back down. An ashtray briefly attracted his attention next, and then he looked at a silver candy dish, turning it over in his hands before putting it down.

  He made his way over to the ornate bookcase and perused the shelves. He seemed to select a book at random, and I was intrigued, because it was a book I recognized by its cover. He opened it and turned a couple of pages. He looked to the left, and to the right. And then he slipped the book inside his jacket.

  I turned on the mike. “Are you interested in the work of George Rockham?”

  He didn’t appear to be startled by the sound of my voice. In fact, he looked directly at me—well, not really at me, but that’s how it felt. I shivered, even though I knew he was actually looking into the mirror that made up the other side of the window.

  “Aha!” he said. “So that’s it. A one-way mirror. Like the ones they use for police lineups.”

  “And are you so very familiar with police lineups?” I asked.

  He had the courtesy to look abashed. “No. All evidence to the contrary.”

  “You didn’t answer my question. Do you like George Rockham?”

  “Who’s George Rockham?”

  “The author of the book you just stole,” I said. “Look, I know it’s an autographed first edition, but it’s not worth all that much. You could do a lot better.”

  He took the book out of his jacket and put it down on the table. “So, this one’s not valuable.”

  “Not really. If you’re looking for something that’s worth big bucks, there’s a first edition of Moby Dick on the third shelf.”

  “Moby Dick, huh? But this one,” and he nodded at the one he’d taken earlier, “this is your favorite.”

  I was taken aback. “How did you know?”

  He just grinned. I looked at Wanda’s list of candidates. Since this guy didn’t have any kind of foreign accent, I was able to hazard a guess at his identity.

  “You must be Max Campion.”

  “I must be.”

  He was still smiling. I liked his smile. Then he yawned.

  “Tired?” I asked.

  “Yeah, kind of. I was up late.”

  “So you’re a party animal.”

  “Oh yeah, absolutely,” he said in a way that made it
clear he wasn’t.

  “Well… maybe you need to go home and get some sleep.”

  He nodded. “Sounds like a good idea.”

  And then, impulsively, I asked, “Do you want to come back tomorrow?”

  He cocked his head to one side, and looked at me—into the mirror—thoughtfully. “Yeah. Okay.”

  Then he was gone.

  I’d forgotten anyone else was with me in the dining room until I heard my mother murmur in awe, “Ohmigod.”

  “Why didn’t he run?” I wondered out loud. “He must have seen me when I went into the music room. Wanda, didn’t he see me?”

  “I don’t know,” Wanda said, and there was wonderment in her voice, too. “I presume so. Unless he’s blind.”

  I got up and went into the music room. The book he’d tossed on the table was still there, and I picked it up. My father came into the room. “What have you got there?” he asked.

  “The book that guy took off the shelf. The Magic Inside, by George Rockham. The story about the invisible princess. You gave it to me when I was twelve, remember?”

  “I remember,” he said. “You loved that book. You read it over and over.”

  “I felt like I could have been the princess,” I said, “the way no one could see the real her. I carried this book around with me.” And when I opened it, I saw a confirmation of that. In my twelve-year-old handwriting, I’d written: “Property of Penelope Wilhern. This is my favorite book.” I shook my head ruefully “So that’s how he knew.”

  “But even so,” my father said, waving a hand at the bookcase. “From all those books, he chose that one. Maybe it’s an omen.”

  “I don’t believe in omens,” I said. But deep in my stomach, or somewhere else inside, I felt something. A strange little flutter, a thrill, something totally unfamiliar, and yet… I thought maybe I knew what it meant.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lemon maneuvered the van into the same space he’d used the day before. He turned around and faced Max.

  “Are you ready? Is the camera working?”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Show me.”

  Max lifted his left arm. Nothing happened.

  “It’s under your right arm,” Lemon reminded him.

  “Oh, okay.” Raising his right arm, a little click sound was barely audible.

  Edward spoke nervously. “Are you sure you’re going to remember that? I still can’t believe you didn’t get a shot of her yesterday.”

  “Slipped my mind,” Max muttered.

  “You took long enough not taking a picture,” Lemon grumbled.

  “Yeah,” Edward said. “When all those other guys came running out, I thought you’d be with them. How could you stay in the same room with her all that time? Weren’t you freaking out, seeing her for the first time?” He shuddered at his own memory. “She’s grotesque.”

  “I don’t scare easily,” Max said. “Look, I wouldn’t have been able to get a good shot of her yesterday anyway. There were too many people. Today, it’s just going to be me and her.”

  Lemon frowned. “Couldn’t you at least have shaved for the girl?” He handed him the same tie and jacket he’d lent Max the day before. “You look like hell,” he commented. “Were you up all night again?”

  “I’ll bet he blew the whole five grand at the card table,” Edward said.

  “What do you care?” Max asked. “I don’t look any worse today than I looked yesterday. And she invited me back, didn’t she?”

  “Of course she invited you back,” Edward said. “She’s desperate.”

  “You can’t stay too long,” Lemon warned him. “I’m worried someone from the house might look out and see me.” He shuddered. “I don’t want that mother coming at me again. I need the one eye I’ve got left.”

  Max nodded. “Yeah, okay.”

  “Besides,” Lemon said, “it’s not like you want to lead the poor girl on and make her think you really care. No point in hurting her. She hasn’t hurt anyone.”

  “She tried!” Edward yelped. “I told you, she attacked me!”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just get the photo, Campion, okay?”

  “I will.” Max got out of the van and started up the walkway to the Wilhern house.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I felt like I’d been holding my breath all morning. Would he really come back? And if he did … why? Maybe he was just being nice. Maybe he felt sorry for me.

  I was alone today. I’d barred my parents and Wanda from the dining room, hoping that might take the edge off the weirdness of it all. Jake came into the music room and spoke in my direction.

  “Miss Penelope, you have a visitor.”

  I turned on the microphone. “Testing, testing, one, two, three.”

  Jake nodded. “It’s working. Shall I show the gentleman in, miss?”

  “Yes, please. Thank you, Jake.”

  Jake left, and returned a moment later with Max. “Mr. Maxwell Campion, Miss Penelope.” He left, and Max looked at the mirror.

  “Hi.”

  For some reason I didn’t say anything.

  “Are you there?” he asked. After a few seconds, he shrugged and ambled over to the bookcase like he’d done the day before. “Now, let’s see, where was that first edition of Moby Dick?” he asked aloud. I remained silent.

  After he examined the shelves for a while, he moved over to the piano. He stood there, gazing at it for some time before he lifted the lid to expose the keys. With one hand, he picked out a few notes.

  “Do you play?” I asked.

  He whirled around and grinned. “I knew you were there all this time.”

  “How?” I asked. “Could you hear me breathing?”

  “No. I just… knew.”

  That fluttery feeling was coursing through me again. Had he just sort of sensed my presence? I tried very hard to suppress any response that might sound sentimental, and spoke matter-of-factly.

  “You could play something if you like.”

  He shut the lid. “No, thanks.”

  “But you do play the piano,” I said.

  “Used to. What about you? You play any musical instruments?”

  “My parents made me take piano lessons when I was a little girl,” I told him. “But I didn’t have any musical talent and I got tired of it.”

  “I’ll bet you’ve got some kind of talent,” he said.

  “I’m good with plants,” I admitted.

  “Yeah? You got a big garden?”

  “It’s a conservatory,” I said. “Indoors.”

  He nodded. “I guess it’s too cold out right now to do any gardening.”

  Did he really think it was the weather that kept me indoors? “I… I don’t get out much.”

  “Really? That’s too bad.”

  “Why?” I asked. It was probably a dumb question, but I was curious about what he would say.

  “There’s good stuff out there.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well…” He thought for a minute. “There’s a nice park in the center of town. I spend a lot of time there.”

  “What do you do there?”

  “Sit. Look. Think.”

  “Think about what?”

  “Stuff. What do you think about?”

  “Oh, books I’ve read. Movies.”

  “So you go out to movie theaters?”

  “No. I wait till the films are on DVD so I can watch them at home.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  I must have sounded like a real drip. “And I think about what’s out there,” I said quickly. “What I’ve never seen. Tell me more about the park.”

  “It’s big, a couple of square miles, I think. It takes up a big chunk of Midtown.”

  “Midtown,” I repeated.

  “The center of the city, where the businesses are. Skyscrapers. And hotels, restaurants, nightclubs, places like that. The park’s the only real green space in the area. There are a lot of trees. A lake, and a boathouse, where you can
rent a canoe.”

  “Have you ever done that?”

  “No. Wouldn’t mind, though. I like watching the canoes. My favorite bench is by the lake. There’s a children’s playground at one end, with a merry-go-round. I loved riding it when I was a little kid. My old man used to bring me there on Sunday afternoons.”

  I imagined my own father taking a younger me to the park. People pointing, staring, laughing … I would have scared away kids like Max.

  “In the spring,” Max said, “there are a lot of flowers lining the paths.”

  “What kind of flowers?” I asked.

  “Tulips, I think.”

  I caught my breath. “I love tulips. Especially yellow ones.”

  “Yeah? I’ll have to remember that.”

  Was he suggesting that he might bring me a bouquet some time? That shivery thrill was fluttering through me again, sixty miles a minute.

  “The park’s really nice at night, too.”

  “It’s not dangerous?”

  “Nah, there are lights, and people take walks through it. It’s kind of romantic. There’s a big fountain, too, with a statue of an angel. People throw coins in the water for good luck. And there’s a stand where you can get the best hot dogs in town.”

  “I’ve never had a hot dog,” I told him.

  “You’re kidding! Huh. You ever have a beer?”

  “Of course I’ve had a beer.”

  “A special Cloverdilly draft?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Then you’ve never had a real beer. And you can only get a Cloverdilly special draft at the Cloverdilly Pub, over on Orchard Street.”

  “Is that a nice place?”

  “It’s not fancy, if that’s what you’re thinking. Just an old-fashioned pub, packed with regulars. Good vibes.”

  There was a moment of silence. I tried to think of another subject. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  He hesitated, almost as if he wasn’t sure. Then he said, “No. You?”

  “No. That’s something we have in common. It’s not easy being an only child, is it? Lots of expectations.”

  He was looking uncomfortable. “Yeah, right.”

  My heart sank. I could tell that he wanted to leave. But just as I was about to tell him his time was up and give him an excuse to get out of here, he asked, “Do you play chess?” He was looking at the ornate, carved ivory set that was on the coffee table.