The Pieces We Keep(62)
Anxious to reconcile her debt, she anticipated the workday would slog until clock-out. Fortunately, she was wrong. Every officer on post suddenly had an incoming call. The switchboard blinked with the incessancy of a pinball machine.
Name, please. Name, please. No time to say, Thank you.
At one point, Luanne tapped Vivian on the shoulder, announcing their shift was over. Vivian was astounded. It seemed the day had just begun.
She shed her equipment and ambled toward the door, where her supervisor sat at her desk. “Have a good evening, Mrs. Langtree.”
“Hmm? Ah, yes. Good evening.” Although the woman had recently returned, her vigilance had lessened, her thoughts often wandering. Part of Vivian missed the staunch figure who appeared to have passed with her son.
The bus rolled its way through the borough.
On the path of their evening loop, Vivian kept watch for the Brooklyn Botanic Garden and the famed museum of art. After being cooped up in a room all day, she welcomed the sites she and Gene liked to frequent. Sometimes Luanne would join them, calling herself a third wheel, to which Vivian would remind her that without one any tricycle was doomed to collapse.
This evening, the missing wheel would be Gene. A work assignment required he stay overnight at Pine Camp, up in the North Country.
Bemoaning this, Vivian disembarked from the bus. She followed the group toward the stoop of the brownstone as they discussed plans to leave at six. Several of the girls had sweethearts stationed at faraway bases. A distractive evening was much needed. It was opening night of Yankee Doodle Dandy, and bowling or a diner would be sure to follow.
The idea sparked a memory. Vivian had almost forgotten the cafe again.
“Good grief,” she muttered.
“What’s wrong?” Luanne asked.
“I have a quick errand to run. But I’ll be back in plenty of time.”
Luanne smirked. “Viv, your errands are never quick.”
“Oh, shush,” Vivian said lightly, and hurried down the steps.
“If you’re late,” Luanne warned, “James Cagney and I will be spending the evening without you.”
Vivian waved her purse in acknowledgment.
Minutes later, she spotted the glass window of the shop. The bell jangled as she entered and a sense of nostalgia surprised her. The aroma of baking dough was so warm and inviting, she felt reunited with an old friend.
“Bonsoir, Vivian.” Mr. Bisset set down his newspaper and emerged from the cashier’s counter. He wore the same vest and tie from her last visit, making it seem as though no time had passed. “I was beginning to worry, chérie.”
“Yes, well, it’s been rather busy these days.”
“No, no. You must never be too busy for the desserts of life, my dear.”
“I’ll try to remember that,” she said with a smile. “Have you been well yourself?”
“I cannot complain.” He smiled in return, but in a manner reminiscent of Mr. Harrington. The kind tinged with concern for loved ones, and for good reason. Nazis had occupied Paris now for almost a full year. “Allor, your seat is waiting outside. I shall bring you a fig tart, new to the menu. Soft and sweet, warm with butter.”
“I do wish I could. But I came by just to pay my last bill.” She retrieved the coins from her sweater pocket. “I’m truly ashamed of how long it’s taken me.”
He raised his palm in refusal.
“Mr. Bisset, you have to accept. I’ll feel terrible if you don’t.”
He mulled this over and said, “We will trade. I shall take these”-he scooped up the change-“and you sample the tart, on the house. Now, go, go.”
Between his quiet worries and her inexcusable delay, she saw no way to decline. What’s more, his description of the pastry caused her stomach to grumble. She had eaten only half of her lunch due to the flood of calls.
“I’m not sure how this comes out fair for you,” she pointed out.
“In times like these, Vivian, it is more than fair.”
As he moved toward the display case, she admired him wistfully. She could always skip changing clothes for tonight, even meet the group at the theater if necessary. Luanne would understand.
Out in the courtyard Vivian treaded toward her table. An old somberness returned, as if released from the cobblestones by the weight of her steps. Two couples at separate tables dined nearby, their faces dappled with light from the setting sun.
She lowered into her seat, tucked away by the wilting flowers. A graveyard of memories. This, she knew, would be her last visit. Closure would come from this final indulgence. It was the ending of a chapter, the relinquishing of grief. She closed her eyes to wholly absorb the sounds and scents, etching them into the recesses of her mind.