Joe, Catherine’s Apartment, a Gift

Where was it?

She’d wrapped it, pulled the scissors along the crinkly ribbon strands to create a curly explosion. It wasn’t a small box; it should be noticeable even if her apartment was a mess.

The dinky couches were going away. A larger sofa coming in their place, one side a long, extra cozy chaise. ‘No excuses, Vincent,’ she imagined saying.

She resumed her search. There it was, under the table by the door. None too soon. Joe would be arriving to help any minute.

A KNOCK!

“Happy birthday, Joe!”

“What’s that, Radcliffe? A basketball?”

How did he know?

Rebecca, the Staten Island Ferry, a Winterfest Candle

Rebecca only took the Staten Island ferry once a year.

A short walk then to Fort Hill Park, to the stone bench in a nestle of ivy-bound trees where she would linger. The house nearby might have been hers now. Possibly was. She’d never know.

Windy, cold, growing colder.

Better go.

She trailed her hand along the bluestone-capped wall to the block loose in its mortar. She’d replace the Winterfest candle there with a new one, bright with color.

But this time, the candle was missing; in its place a ring, loose in a small jar.

The ring she remembered.

Kipper, the Museum of Natural History, a Pair of Ice Skates

His own chamber.

“You’re old enough,” Father said.

Now Kipper looked around at his new digs.

“Kipper?”

Vincent was dripping mud.

“What happened?”

“Long story. Would you take a message to Catherine? Tell her … not tonight.”

He emerged at the Winterdale Arch so he could run past the Museum of Natural History on his way to Catherine’s. Sometimes people left neat stuff on the steps. They were bare though. Not even a paperback book left behind.

Wait! What was that? Draped over a trash bin, glinting in the cold. Ice skates, a pair.

Those pompoms would have to go though.

Pascal, the Underground River, A Bright Light

He was two levels down when he heard it, the tapping. Faint, rhythmic. Not a code he knew.

He didn’t tell his friends. He didn’t leave a note for his dad. He just … went.

The tapping started, stopped, started again. He knew the pipe now, followed it deeper than he’d ever gone before.

Water. A wide, black river.

Now he followed it and the pinging pipe.

Was that torchlight? A bright beacon.

He rounded a bend.

Vincent. Alone. Circles drawn on the pipe like targets. A handful of pebbles that he tossed one after another. A bull’s eye every time.

Catherine, the Chamber of the Winds, a Key

“How many levels are there?” she shouted.

One had to shout in the Chamber of the Winds.

She stopped him. “Why have you waited to long to– I mean, you know–”

“I’ve always known.”

“And you’ve always had the key?”

“No. I discovered and later demanded it.”

He led her up the sweeping staircase to the third level, fourth archway. He raised a torch and the shadows dissipated.

On a table, a small box, crusted with tiny shells, shards of green marble.

“Your mother’s?”

“I only know it was left with me.”

He handed her the key. “Catherine, will you–“

Jamie, Father’s Library, a Flower

Jamie found another one, outside her chamber door. A single stem in an old green pop bottle.

Yesterday, a pink carnation.

The day before a dandelion.

The day before that, a trailing spring of ivy.

Today she didn’t recognize the fuschia-colored blossom.

She carried it to Father’s library. He’d have a book that could tell her exactly what the mystery flower was.

She recalled a class discussion of the language of flowers. Was this delivery some kind of message?

Mouse popped up from behind Father’s desk.

“Bringing Father flowers? Pretty!”

She always could read his face. He wasn’t her admirer