Mystique (3 page)

"Listen, Misty, don't worry. The
clients you've sent to me have a lot of friends. My business is really picking
up.

I've hired two women to sew, and"—he
paused, clasping his hands together—"there's a good chance I might get
into that building I was telling you about, the one uptown. I could live in the
apartment off the main room."

"Oh, Morey, that's great!"
Misty gave her friend an enthusiastic hug.

"Now, don't get too excited. I
haven't talked with the bank yet, and Manhattan Stuyvesant is tough on this
sort of thing, especially since my only collateral is my talent."

"But that's very big
collateral," Misty assured him.

Morey's expression became momentarily
woebegone. "I hope the bank thinks so." Then he brightened.
"Come on, get undressed. I want to see this stuff on you."

When Misty arrived at the Terrace Hotel
for work that evening she was already bone tired. Morey had pinned, pulled, and
draped material on her until she couldn't stand another moment. But by the
middle of next week their efforts would pay off when she became the proud owner
of two lovely silk gowns. The cost wouldn't even put too much of a hole in her
savings. She shouldn't let Morey sell the dresses to her too cheaply, she
thought as she took a black satin gown and matching pumps from her carrier. But
she also realized she would never be able to afford them if he didn't give her
a good deal. He was such a good friend.

That evening she played for a smaller
Christmas party than the night before. "Thank God, this is the last of
them," Willis commented wearily during her break.

"Amen to that. Only three days to
Christmas, and I haven't put up my tree or finished my shopping."

Willis laughed and shook his head.
"My wife takes care of that."

"Lucky you."

Misty left the hotel at two-thirty the
next morning. Her head was throbbing painfully because she'd skipped dinner.
Fatigue clung to her like wet cement, making every movement an ordeal.

At home, she barely took time to hang up
her clothes and put away her dress carrier before she tumbled into bed and
down, down into the well of sleep.

Hours later, the insistent peal of the
telephone jarred her awake. She blinked at the clock on her bedside table and
was stunned to see that it was four in the afternoon. Her day off was almost
gone. At least she had the evening to herself. '"Lo?" she said
groggily.

"Misty, it's Morey. The bank turned
me down!" Her friend's anguish came through to her with painful clarity.

"Oh, no! They couldn't have. How
could they be so stupid?" Misty sat up in bed and pushed back her thick
hair. "Did they give you a reason?"

"It seems I need more collateral
than my talent." Morey tried to laugh, but Misty heard the heartache in
his voice.

"Listen, Morey, don't give up yet.
I'll put up my apartment as collateral. It's the least I can do after all your
kindness to me. Let me help you out. Please."

"Misty, I can't. Your apartment is
all you have."

"Please let me. I'll become your
silent partner. Weinstein Couturiers must survive. Please. I want to do
it."

"Misty..." Morey's voice
cracked. "Except for Zena, you're the best friend I've ever had." As
soon as his business was well established, Morey planned to marry Zena, who
worked as an assistant wardrobe mistress in a downtown theater.

"It's too late to go to the bank
today," Misty went on, "but we'll be there waiting when the doors
open tomorrow."

When they walked into the awesome foyer
of the Manhattan Stuyvesant Bank early the next morning, Misty stared
admiringly at the three-story vaulted ceiling decorated with mosaic tiles in
intricate patterns. Offices on the second and third floors opened onto a
horseshoe-shaped balcony that afforded a clear view of activity on the main
floor, with its long row of tellers' windows and intimate groupings of
officers' desks and chairs. The open space and hum of subdued voices created a
hushed, formal atmosphere.

"The silence is intimidating,"
Misty whispered with an uneasy smile.

"If you think you're intimidated
now, wait until you meet Mr. Watson." Morey ushered her over to a chair.
"We have to wait our turn," he explained.

Twenty minutes ticked by. Misty began to
fidget. She kept getting the feeling that someone was watching her. But when
she glanced around the bank and up to the second-and third-story balconies, she
saw no one looking her way.

Finally, after they'd waited for
thirty-five minutes, Mr. Watson ushered them to his desk on which a discreet
sign said: Loan Information. They all sat down. "Now then, Mr.
Weinstein," Mr. Watson began, "you said you wanted to see me again. I
must tell you, however, that I don't think we can change our minds on
this—" The phone rang, interrupting him. "Excuse me." Morey and
Misty exchanged glances as Mr. Watson picked up the receiver. "Ah, good
morning, sir." Mr. Watson sat straighter in his chair. "Yes, yes. A
loan. Ah, no collateral." Mr. Watson shot a quick glance at Morey.

"But he has collateral—my
apartment," Misty exclaimed, jumping out of her chair and leaning across
Mr. Watson's desk.

Mr. Watson appeared to be taken aback by
her forwardness. He quickly covered the mouthpiece of the phone and directed a
quelling look at Misty, then spoke quickly. "Ah... I'm sorry, sir. No,
there's no need for you— You want me to what? You're coming down here?"
Mr. Watson finished weakly and stared at the receiver with a baffled
expression. "He hung up," he muttered.

"Who?" Misty asked, still
standing.

"Huh? Ah... never mind. What were
you saying about your apartment? There could be extenuating
circumstances." Mr. Watson took the papers Misty handed him and began
perusing them, but his thoughts were obviously elsewhere. Several times he
looked anxiously up toward the second-floor balcony. Then abruptly he jumped to
his feet, his gaze going past Misty and a disconsolate Morey to a distinguished-looking
man in a three-piece suit. "Mr. Damon, sir. Did Mr.—"

"Never mind, John, I'll take care of
this," the man said. "Perhaps you could attend to the next person.
Why don't you use another desk?"

"Of course." Mr. Watson sprung
away from his chair and hurried toward an elderly couple sitting nervously some
distance away in the cavernous lobby.

"Hello, I'm Lester Damon," the
man greeted them. He shook Misty's hand, then Morey's. "Sit down, please,
Miss

Carver. I'll just take a look at Mr.
Weinstein's papers." Silence fell as Lester Damon perused the sheets in
front of him. At length he paused and looked up. "Miss Carver, do you plan
to put up your apartment as collateral, so that you will, in effect, become
partners with Mr. Weinstein?" he asked.

"Yes." Misty met Lester Damon's
direct gaze without flinching, but she had a terrible feeling that he was going
to rum them down. Why hadn't he let Mr. Watson consider their loan application?
Why was he stringing them along? Her temper was beginning to rise.

But to her surprise, Lester Damon said,
"Fine. Everything seems to be in order." He pushed the papers toward
Morey. "You have your loan, Mr. Weinstein."

"I do?" "He does?"
Morey and Misty croaked in unison.

"It's all set," Mr. Damon
assured them, shaking their flaccid hands. "If you have any problems, Mr.
Weinstein, please call me. Don't bother going through Mr. Watson. But I don't
think you'll run into any difficulties. Pick up your check from Miss Edwards at
the cashier's desk. Good day." Mr. Damon smiled at each of them, then
strode swiftly away.

Morey fell back into his chair. "I
think I'm hyperventilating," he wheezed, loosening his tie with trembling
fingers.

"I'm having a little trouble
myself," Misty whispered back. "Come on," she said, urging her
friend to his feet. "Let's get out of here. Don't forget that stamped
paper. Let's pick up the check; then we'll call Zena and celebrate."

"Lord, Misty. Maybe Zena and I can
get married this year after all," Morey said in trembling tones as they approached
a smiling woman behind a desk.

Minutes later, they left the bank arm in
arm. Misty had the feeling that at any moment Mr. Damon would come rushing
after them and declare that it was all a mistake. "Hurry, Morey." She
urged him along the street to the bus stop, not pausing to take a breath until
they were on the bus and several blocks from the Manhattan Stuyvesant Bank.
They called Zena from Morey's apartment and agreed to meet her for lunch at a
nearby deli.

Morey insisted on buying the lox and
cream cheese. Zena sniffled all through the meal.

"Zena, honey, stop crying,"
Morey pleaded. "There's a policeman over there who keeps staring at
me."

"I will, I will," she promised
tearfully, kissing his cheek and turning grateful eyes to Misty. "You're
the best friend we ever had, Misty. Thank you."

"Thank you. Not many people will
have the privilege of saying 'I knew Morey and Zena Weinstein before they were
famous.' But I will." She grinned happily at her two friends.

After lunch, Misty shopped for Christmas
presents. She was delighted when she found a scarf for Aileen, a word game for
Mark, and a stuffed animal for Mary. For Morey and Zena she bought a starter
set of china in a pattern they had admired. She sent a poinsettia to her aunt
and uncle at their new home in Florida. Since her mother and father had
returned every gift she'd sent them, she planned to mail them a check. For her
sister Celia she bought a chess set; for Marcy she bought tapes of the latest
rock music; for Betsy, the youngest, she'd already bought a hand-crocheted vest
at a church bazaar. Though she always tried to choose gifts her sisters would
enjoy, she never really knew if they liked them. Her mother's terse thank-you
note never provided details. Misty had buried her hurt so long ago that she
rarely dwelt on it now. On her way home, she selected a small Douglas fir tree
from a corner vendor.

Back at her apartment she just had time
to set the tree in a container filled with water before she had to get ready
for work.

The Edwardian Room was crowded that
night, only two days before Christmas. A sense of anticipation filled the air,
and Misty willingly immersed herself in her music. Then, abruptly,
unaccountably, she stiffened and raised her

eyes.

Lucas Harrison was sitting at a table
directly in her line of vision. His eyes met hers for a brief, intense moment
before she looked hastily away. From then on, whenever she looked up, she found
his gaze riveted on her.

During her break she gestured to Willis
with a shake of her head. "Isn't it a comedown for the director of the Manhattan
Stuyvesant Bank to be here?" she asked.

Willis gave her a knowing look.
"He's been here three times since the Christmas party. Last night, when he
heard you were off, he left right away. Usually he asks for a table in the back
where you can't see him."

Misty was stunned. "He's been here
every evening since the party?" she repeated incredulously.

"Yes. For at least an hour each
night." Willis moved away to greet a couple who had been hovering at the
entrance to the Edwardian Room.

Misty continued to play, but her head was
filled with the fact that Luc Harrison had come to watch her play the piano
several times.

During her break she strolled to the
powder room, then to her usual place at the Elm Bar. She had just sat down when
she felt the press of silken material against her bare back.

"Let me buy you a drink,
Mystique."

She didn't bother to turn around.
"All right. I'd like mineral water with lime, please."

Luc Harrison gave the bartender her order
and his own for an Old Bushmills on the rocks. Once the drinks were in front of
them he said casually, "You play very well."

"Thank you." Misty took a gulp
of the cool drink and coughed when it went down the wrong way.

"Are you going to face me at
all?" the voice asked, "or are we going to converse by looking at our
images in the mirror?"

Misty's eyes flew to the reflection over
the bar and caught the saturnine look on his face. "It's not necessarily a
bad way to converse," she said.

"No, but I prefer the more personal
way—face to face." He moved between her stool and the waitresses' pickup
station. They were so close that their legs bumped. She only had to lift her eyes
a few inches to meet his gaze.

Misty took a deep breath as his eyes
scanned hers. A tingling sensation ran through her body. "I... I was in
your bank today, the main one downtown. It's beautiful."

"Yes. It's an architectural
marvel—or so the brochures describe it to sightseers."

"My friend procured a loan to move
his business to a better location," Misty explained, glad to have found a
safe topic of conversation.

"Is he your lover or just a platonic
friend?" Luc queried smoothly.

The question surprised her. "What
difference does that make?"