Barbara Gale - Picking Up the Pieces

“Perhaps the lovely lady likes to stay current with the latest styles.”

Startled by a deep voice, they turned to find a huge man standing in the doorway. Not particularly handsome, yet with a presence that was unmistakable, his dark skin fortold his African heritage. The wide smile that reached his twinkling brown eyes told of his good nature.

“Hello, Harry.”

Harry’s mouth curved into a sulk. “Leonel. It’s about time you showed. I was going to call your office, again.”

“I missed you, too, pal.” Smiling faintly, Leonel’s long stride made the trip to Harry’s bedside in five quick steps. “Here you go. A little something to cheer you up.”

Dropping a scrawny bunch of yellow carnations on Harry’s bed, Leonel turned the full force of his charming smile on Althea. “You look familiar,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Leonel Murray, Harry’s editor at Torregan Publishing.”

“And erstwhile friend,” Harry muttered, but they both politely ignored him.

“Hi, I’m Althea Almott, an old friend of Harry’s. I was at the airport when he collapsed.”

“Ah, yes, the model,” Leonel said with a snap of his fingers, “and Good Samaritan. A lucky thing for Harry that you were there. A real pleasure, Miss Almott, a real pleasure. And Harry’s right, by the way, that shade of lavender becomes you.”

“Why, thank you, Mr. Murray.”

“Leonel. Please, call me Leonel. And as for you, my invalid friend… ‘Erstwhile,’ is it?” He laughed. “Is that in the dictionary? It sounds more like an island in the Caribbean.”

“Yeah, well, you think the world begins and ends in the Caribbean.”

His laugh warm and rich, Leonel explained Harry’s remark to Althea’s puzzled look. “I was born in Antigua. I miss it, that’s what Harry means.”

Althea’s brow smoothed. “Oh, I’ve been to Antigua, it’s absolutely lovely. I don’t blame you for being homesick. The people, the weather, the flowers, the beaches, the food.”

“I can see you’ve been there.”

“Many times.”

“Me, too. I go back whenever I can. As a matter of fact, my parents still live there. I’ve asked them many times to come here, but they’ll never move. The idea of snow appalls them. They—”

“Excuse me?” Harry piped up feebly. “I hate to interrupt, but is anybody here to visit Harry Bensen, the patient in Room 826?”

“Ah, yes,” Leonel said with a wink to Althea as he turned to Harry. “Harry, old man, how are you? I got your message, and here I am, ready to spread cheer. How are you feeling?”

“Lousy,” Harry said, clearly in a sulk.

“Well, that’s good, that’s good,” said Leonel with a smile. “Why else would you be here? And, yes, I got your message. You have some film for me. Hiding the cannisters under your pillow, laddie?”

“They’re in that locker in my duffel bag. My God, what took you so long? They could have been stolen, for all you care.”

“Now, who would want to steal a hundred canisters of film?” Leonel asked, the metallic locker door jangling his words. “It’s not like they have any value except to you and Torregan Publishing.”

“Leonel, did the possibility of their being damaged never occur to you? My cameras are in there, too, and six thousand dollars worth of lenses. They could have been stolen. Take that stuff home with you, will you, for safekeeping?”

“No problem.” Carefully, Leonel removed Harry’s heavy duffle bag from the hospital locker and began to search through its contents. The camera and satchel of film were easily found. “Tell you what, Harry,” Leonel said, as he placed the bags by the bed, “how about I treat you to the film development? As a get-well present.”

“Tell you what, Leonel, you’re supposed to pay for the development. It’s in my contract.”

Althea watched as the two men traded bantering quips, obviously enjoying themselves. Something told her it was not the first time, either.

“Tell you what,” Leonel said as he shouldered the heavy satchel filled with Harry’s camera equipment and film when a nurse came to tell them visiting hours were over. “You take your medicine like a good little boy, and I’ll have the proofs ready for you in a few days.”

“Is that a promise? Seriously? I’m anxious to see what I have.”

“Me, too. I have a Pulitzer in mind for you.”

Tired as he was, Althea could tell that Harry was pleased by Leonel’s announcement. “A Pulitzer prize?” she marveled. “Is Harry that good?”

“Harry’s that good.” Leonel promised, suddenly serious, “and it’s about time the rest of the world knew it. He did some terrific stuff on volcanic activity two years ago at Mauna Loa, and I’m hoping that this next series is every bit as good, if not better. As long as I get the dedication, he can have the prize.”

Althea must have had a hundred errands to run, but, desperate for distraction, she decided to treat herself to a trip to Soho, to check out the designer boutiques. February Fashion Week was approaching, and the store displays would change as a result. A business call, she told herself, to see how up-to-date New York was, in terms of fashion.

She hadn’t been to New York in over a year; Paris had spoiled her. Spending the morning skirting slush and piles of dirty snow, she browsed through the stores, fingering the latest silk imports, talking trade with the store owners and admiring their displays. She needn’t have worried, New York was still the fashion capital of the world. Wending her way to Prince Street, she was just about to enter the Prada flagship store when she heard a soft voice call her name, the southern drawl familiar to her ears.

“Althea Almott, as I live and breathe. It is you, isn’t it?”

Althea disliked autograph hounds, but she was never, ever rude to her fans. Pasting on a practiced smile, she turned around to find herself staring into the past.

Benicia Ericson had been a close childhood friend back in Alabama. Living on the same street, they had gone to the same schools, shopped at the same stores, attended the same birthday parties and shared their most intimate, girlish secrets. The pair had been inseparable. Things had only started changing when they were midway through high school and began fantasizing about their future. Althea dreamed of going to New York and searching out the bright lights. Less adventuresome, Benicia had felt threatened by her best friend’s plans to leave and when Althea left, it was on the heels of Benicia’s adolescent anger.

Ten years later, standing on Broadway, they eyed each other warily. Looking down at the tiny brown-skinned woman, Althea was hard put to recognize her old friend. A floppy, gray wool hat nearly hid Benicia’s entire face, but that familiar high-pitched laugh was a giveaway.

“Benicia Ericson! Of all people to meet in Soho.”

“Birmingham does seem a long way away,” Benicia agreed, as they shared an awkward embrace.

“Two thousand miles and two hundred years. How are you, Benicia?”

“Oh, I’m fine, thanks. But I don’t have to ask how you’re doing.”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Althea said quickly. “My goodness, though, what on earth are you doing in New York?”

“I live here.”

Althea was surprised. “No! How come I don’t know that?”

“Maybe because we don’t eat in the same restaurants?” Benicia teased, then turned serious. “And maybe because I never called you. You’re such a big star, I just couldn’t bring myself to…impose.”

A little embarrassed, Althea shook her head. “Well, it’s good to see you, Benicia. Do you ever get back home? To Alabama, I mean.”

“I haven’t been back in years,” Benicia admitted. “But I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”