Free Tiffany Girl by Deeanne Gist Page A

hadn’t wanted to, but because he hadn’t been allowed to. He’d stood at the window of his second-story bedroom and watched the rest of the town skate. His classmates. Other families. Young lovers. Old-timers. But never him.
    To his left, Miss Love removed her piece of paper. Painted onto its borders were tiny figures reading books. A man in a chair smoking a pipe. A young girl in a window seat. A boy stretched out on a carpet. A woman reading to a group of children collected about her feet.
    “What is the last book you read in its entirety?” she asked Mr. Holliday.
    Reeve studied the man, wondering what a girl of sixteen would see in him. He was comely enough, Reeve supposed, and well built, but he was old enough to be the girl’s father and already a touch of gray had begun to show in his thick dark hair and mustache.
    Stroking his chin, he smiled at Miss Love. “ The Last of the Mohicans , by James Cooper.”
    “Oh, I’ve never read that,” Miss Jayne said. “It’s about some girls being captured by Indians, is it not?”
    And so it went, all the way around the table, all the way through dinner. It didn’t take Reeve long to realize Miss Jayne hadmade a careful study of everyone in the house. Her questions were too specific to be accidental.
    Mrs. Holliday had probably made snow angels and ridden in toboggans as recently as last year. He wondered if ice-skating really was her favorite winter activity or if it was simply the one she considered most suitable for a married woman. Though her husband was a photographer, he often had a book tucked beneath his arm and was thrilled to give a synopsis of Mohicans while Mrs. Klausmeyer brought in stew from the kitchen.
    Miss Jayne had stuck to a safe topic with Mr. Oyster and asked what food he’d give up if he were forced to choose one. Mrs. Dinwiddie said the key to a happy marriage was making sure the person you chose loved you more than he loved himself.
    The music master’s favorite holiday was Christmas. Miss Love’s favorite smell was that of honeysuckle, and Miss Jayne confessed her favorite thing to do as a child was to go on walks with her father—even in the rain.
    Turning away, he wiped his mouth with his napkin. What a charmed life she’d led. A mother who garbed her in clothes worthy of a princess and a father who treated her as if she were one. Walks in the rain? He’d never walked anywhere in the rain for the sheer pleasure of it. Never even crossed his mind.
    “Mr. Wilder?” Mrs. Holliday’s bright eyes looked at him with expectation, a notecard in her hand.
    He flushed. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t listening. Is it my turn?”
    “It is.”
    “Could you repeat the question, please?”
    She looked to her husband, as if to ascertain whether Reeve was serious or merely toying with her, but the man nodded his encouragement and she read her paper again.
    “If you were to change one thing about society, what would it be and why?”
    He swung his gaze to Miss Jayne’s. Her expression was one ofpolite interest. Nothing to indicate she’d studied him so thoroughly that within two weeks of moving in she’d sensed the passion he held for the preservation of home and community.
    Certainly, the walls between their rooms were thin, but he had no one in his room to confide in. Any visiting he did occurred in Mrs. Dinwiddie’s room, not his. So, she hadn’t overheard him say anything. Neither he, nor anyone else that he knew of, gathered in the parlor in the evenings. She rode the streetcar to work in the mornings, while he stayed in his room to write. So how did she know to ask him such a question? Unless she’d read his articles. Still, was he that transparent? That easy to see through?
    “Mr. Wilder?” Mrs. Holliday’s tone held a touch of uncertainty.
    “I’m sorry.” He again wiped his mouth with his napkin. “That’s a rather big question. One I couldn’t possibly answer succinctly. What if I told you what my favorite season was