Part 17 (2/2)
Anthony shook his grandfather's hand one last time. ”Thank you,” Anthony said.
And they were gone.
A Night to Forget C. A. Verstraete
Christine Verstraete is a Wisconsin journalist who did see the t.i.tanic t.i.tanic display in Chicago, but doesn't remember anything out of the ordinary happening. She's had short fiction published in the display in Chicago, but doesn't remember anything out of the ordinary happening. She's had short fiction published in the Dragons Composed Dragons Composed and and The Heat of the Moment The Heat of the Moment anthologies, in anthologies, in Mouth Full of Bullets Mouth Full of Bullets, and coming in The Bitter End The Bitter End. She is also the author of a middle grade novel, Searching for a Starry Night: A Miniature Art Mystery Searching for a Starry Night: A Miniature Art Mystery, a 2009 Eppie finalist for the e-book version. Contact her at her Web site: cverstraete.com or stop by her blog, or stop by her blog, candidcanine.blogspot.com.
The building's faded brick and dirty windows made Jessica Adams question whether she'd found the right place.
She eyed the ad once more before exiting the car. Matt should've come and checked the place like he promised. Would've saved her a trip, and a ton of aggravation, she muttered.
Her mood sour, Jess inched closer and tried to peer beyond the layer of dirt in the front window. The inside of the store was dim, its secrets well hidden. She rubbed the dirt from a section of a pane of gla.s.s, her effort providing a slightly improved view of the items piled haphazardly on the window ledge. The collection included a faded cruise program, a black-and-white image of a woman in an elegant, ankle-length dress, and a pair of lady's gloves, the tiny pearl b.u.t.tons dull with age, the cloth's once pristine white a memory.
The quaint scene seemed better suited to an antique shop than a place offering the kind of vacation she had in mind. She'd envisioned a private beach in the Caymans or a secluded cabin in the woods, just the two of them. Instead, Matt had begged off, telling her he was too busy for vacations. So, a little peeved, she went alone to investigate the new agency he'd seen advertised in the paper. She had half the mind to book a vacation for herself.
Her bravado faded now that she was here. She read the small, hand-lettered sign tucked into the bottom window pane and scoffed: TIMESHARES-ADVENTURE FOR THE AGES. The place was as likely to book her dream vacation as she was to win a million dollars. It sounded, well, kind of odd and a bit too good to be true.
”Good old Matt,” she groused. ”He did it again.”
Disappointed, Jess refolded the newspaper page and shoved it in her bag. She needed a good strong cup of coffee. Maybe someone at the coffee shop could recommend another travel agency so the trip wouldn't be a total waste.
She was about to leave when a flicker behind the gla.s.s caught her eye. Had the owner arrived? Guess she could at least see what the place offered and hope that the pickings weren't as slim as she expected.
Finding the door open, she stepped inside. ”h.e.l.lo? Anyone here?”
She blinked several times, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dimness. The view was staggering-row upon row of shelves stuffed with old books; faded ma.n.u.scripts covering the walls and stuffed in baskets. Then there was the art: paintings, the varnish brown and cracked, hung in every available open s.p.a.ce.
What a mess.
Still, the more she looked around, the more her curiosity grew. Each painting had a note tucked into the frame with the t.i.tle, name, date: The Battle of the Bulge, Napoleon, Cleopatra.
Annoyance gave way to fascination as she wandered around. Was the owner branching out? Probably a good idea from the look of the place, she thought, as her finger rubbed a layer of dust off a painting.
Her questions about the missing travel agent faded at sight of the next painting. She studied the majestic ocean liner streaking through the mist: Maiden Voyage, The Maiden Voyage, The t.i.tanic, the paper said. Not that she needed a note. She'd know the image anywhere. t.i.tanic, the paper said. Not that she needed a note. She'd know the image anywhere.
The tragedy of the t.i.tanic t.i.tanic had captured her imagination since she was a child, thanks to her mother. Besides cla.s.sic children's stories like Jack and the Beanstalk or Mother Goose, her mother's favorite, often-told tale had been about how her great-aunt had boarded the had captured her imagination since she was a child, thanks to her mother. Besides cla.s.sic children's stories like Jack and the Beanstalk or Mother Goose, her mother's favorite, often-told tale had been about how her great-aunt had boarded the t.i.tanic t.i.tanic as a child. She had perished with many of the other immigrants traveling in the bare-bones quarters in the s.h.i.+p's bowels. as a child. She had perished with many of the other immigrants traveling in the bare-bones quarters in the s.h.i.+p's bowels.
Jess had repeatedly studied the faded photo of a young, unsmiling Polish girl dressed in a matronly long dress, babushka on her head, and clunky, old lady shoes on her feet. The patched, battered carpetbag she held accented the girl's poverty.
She'd always suspected that the story of how the poor girl made it to England and onto the t.i.tanic t.i.tanic was just that-a fable. Family legend said the girl's uncle won the third-cla.s.s ticket playing dice (her mother said others insisted he stole it) and gave it to her in hopes of giving her a better life. So the story went. was just that-a fable. Family legend said the girl's uncle won the third-cla.s.s ticket playing dice (her mother said others insisted he stole it) and gave it to her in hopes of giving her a better life. So the story went.
Jess had begun her search for answers when her sixth grade teacher made everyone research and write an essay on a historical topic. To her surprise, she not only discovered that her mother's story was true, but a helpful librarian led her to a list of t.i.tanic t.i.tanic pa.s.sengers-which included her great-aunt. pa.s.sengers-which included her great-aunt.
Despite her continued research, she never learned more about the girl. Not that it mattered. That someone she ”knew”-at least through stories-had been involved in such a tragedy made the event more personal. Ever since, she'd felt a strong emotional bond to the vessel.
An unexpected voice broke Jess's musing, making her jump. ”What're you doing sneaking up on people!” she cried. Her outburst trailed off as she eyed the stooped little man behind her. He barely reached five feet and stood wringing his hands, his face sheepish.
”I'm sorry, miss, I didn't mean to frighten you.” He gave her a timid smile and pointed at the painting. ”That's always been my favorite,” he said, his voice soft.
She returned his smile and turned back to the painting. ”Mine, too. Someone in my family died on the t.i.tanic t.i.tanic.”
”You don't say?” The man stroked the silvery mustache that draped the outer edges of his lips like antique lace. ”I'm a.s.sumin' you've seen the doc.u.mentaries on the raisin' of the s.h.i.+p. Been to the exhibit?”
”Yes, I watched it on TV, but I haven't been to the exhibit yet.”
”No? Well, it's somethin' you should see, especially with your connection. Hmm, I've just the thing if you're interested, something no t.i.tanic t.i.tanic fan would want to miss, I'm sure.” fan would want to miss, I'm sure.”
His smile and oily tone made Jess pause, but the bad feeling pa.s.sed just as quickly as it appeared. She pondered the idea. Maybe she could take a trip and see the exhibit at the same time, something Matt would hate. That made it even more attractive.
”Well . . . maybe it's a possibility. I'd like to go someplace different, and if I can see the exhibit, that'd be great.”
He clapped his hands in delight. ”Excellent, excellent! Any particular place you would like to visit?” He leaned toward her, his face anxious. The tip of his tongue licked his lips.
The image of a snake unfolded in her mind. Jess recoiled slightly, surprised at the thought. She'd better finish and take a break. Maybe she wouldn't be so jumpy once she ate. Blood sugar must be low.
”I've thought of going overseas or renting a cottage on Martha's Vineyard. I've never been there.”
He scurried around the table, grabbed a giant black book from the shelf, and blew off the dust. She sneezed and tried to see the book's t.i.tle but failed as he flipped it open. He began to scan the pages of small writing.
”Hmm, no, there's nothing t.i.tanic t.i.tanic-related going on out east right now. Wait, yes, here we are. A new exhibition is opening at Chicago's Museum of Science and Industry.”
Jess swallowed her disappointment. Romantic visions of floating down Venice's ca.n.a.ls in a gondola, staring at Mona Lisa Mona Lisa's smile, visiting the British Museum, or even celebrity watching at Martha's Vineyard faded.
Nothing against Chicago, of course. She'd visited her cousin there as a child, and never forgot the thrill of seeing the perfectly furnished miniature Thorne Rooms at the Art Inst.i.tute on Michigan Avenue. She still treasured the book her cousin bought her. But her dreams of actually seeing parts of the t.i.tanic t.i.tanic had always been linked in her mind with a much more exotic setting. had always been linked in her mind with a much more exotic setting.
”Here,” the little man said, pus.h.i.+ng an envelope into her hand. ”Take a peek at the tickets and itinerary. You won't be disappointed.”
Her questions about how he'd gathered everything so fast disappeared like fog on a sunny day as she opened the envelope. She slid out the ticket dated April 14, then glanced at the schedule and felt a surge of excitement. A limo would pick her up at her home in Wisconsin and take her downtown. There were stops for lunch and snacks at first-cla.s.s restaurants. Shopping sites and other attractions along the route were listed. If she preferred, a private plane was available for an extra fee.
”You can stop anytime. Turn it into a several- day or all-week excursion if you want. We have connections at the finest accommodations. You'll find the suites fully furnished, complete with a new wardrobe, our compliments.”
Her eyes widened. ”A wardrobe? B-but that isn't necessary. I have my own clothing. How much does that add to the price?”
”I know our surroundings here . . .” he waved a hand, ”. . . are less than satisfactory, but this is one of our oldest branches. Still, we believe in pampering our guests to the utmost. The smallest detail isn't too small. Everything is taken care of for you at no extra charge.”
He handed her a handwritten bill and nodded.
”Everything is included, hotel, travel, museum admission, drinks, and meals. The garments as well. Inclusive.”
She glanced at the itinerary again. ”Okay, I'll take it.”
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