Page 66 of P.S. It’s Always Been You
Holding the brush to the dim light, he regards it as if it’s Aladdin’s lamp, full of mysteries and wonders. “This is the best one. Come to think of it,” he says, stopping to scratch his jaw, “it shouldn’t be out here for sale. You can’t buy this one.”
We can’t record the letters for possible use on the show, and we didn’t even get to take a photo of the letters for personal reference this time, and I’m desperate for another hit of their love story. “But what about the letters? The letters in there. Do you know Edward and Greta’s love story?”
A scoff the size of the Empire State Building flies from his mouth. “Do I know it? What do you take me for? Some sort of fool? Of course I know it. Of course I’ve heard it. And of course I get it. Now, are you here to buy or just to blabber on about love letters? Because the letters aren’t for sale.”
“Did their children ever find them?” I ask. “Did they get to see this story Edward and Greta wrote for them?”
Pat cocks his head, scratches his jaw. “Now that’s a damn good question.”
“Do you know the answer?” God, I hope the children found them. I hope they understood what their parents went through to be together.
“I know lots of answers,” he says with the same twinkle in his eye that was there when he opened the door.
But in a flash, it’s gone, and he’s waving a hand dismissively. “I don’t have all day. I have things to do, places to be. I have a date with my wife, Janice, tonight, and I need to get ready for it. Even old men still take their women for a night on the town. Are you going to buy something? That moon-pie sign is awfully nice,” he says with a you should buy it now grin.
Hunter doesn’t hesitate. “Sure. We’ll take it.” Hunter dips into his wallet, fishing for bills.
“Smart man,” Pat says, then gives him the price for the sign. “You seem like a smart man.”
Hunter cocks an eyebrow. “A few minutes ago, I seemed stupid. Now I’m smart?”
Pat winks. “I guess we’ll see.”
Hunter hands him the money, and when Pat heads for the register, desperation grips me one more time. I need answers. I can’t leave without them. “Do you know where their last show together was? Greta and Edward? We need to find out. It’s important.”
An ancient drawer in an antique register groans open as Pat glances back. “Why is it important?”
“We need to go there. We have to find the final letter.”
“You have to?” he asks.
It will feel like death if I don’t find the next letter. The death of their love story. “I do,” I insist.
Hunter slides a hand around my waist. “We do. It’s necessary. Can you help us, Pat?”
Pat counts the change and hands it to Hunter, who surely doesn’t care right now about the change or receipt he stuffs into his wallet. “Last show, you say?” Pat says. “Edward Valentina? The great explorer? Founder of the Exploration Society?”
“Yes.” If it sounds like I’m begging, it’s because I am.
“The businessman whose investments funded his explorations? He had a last show?” The arch in his gray eyebrow screams skepticism.
Then it hits me. He might not know. We didn’t know they were performers. No one knew. That’s the secret part of their history. “You haven’t read the letters?”
Pat doesn’t answer me, he just scoffs again, like he has a surplus of scoffs to throw around. “The man who traveled to the Amazon? The woman who was a patron of the arts? Who loved going to museums, theater, and the ballet? You think they were performers too?”
A patter of laughter comes next. He’s not laughing with us. He’s laughing at us.
“They were,” Hunter says, coolly confident in the face of Pat’s doubt. “They were secret circus performers. They kept it hidden, and we’re following the letters they left behind. Corinne knows we are.”
“Ooh, secret performers. Next thing you know, you’ll be telling me they found buried treasure.” He shakes his head. “Listen, kid. Some things are just folklore. Thank you for coming in. I hope you enjoy the moon-pie sign. Maybe you’ll find a secret compartment in it.” Gesturing to the door, his hands signal vamoose as his lips say, “Have a great day.”
30
Hunter
This moon-pie sign must have a secret hatch somewhere.
Outside the shop, I inspect it closely, studying every square millimeter.
News flash: there is no secret compartment.
“Damn. I was sure a letter would fly out of the sign,” I remark dryly.
Presley bumps her shoulder against mine. “You know what Freud said. Sometimes a moon-pie sign is just a moon-pie sign.”
“Hmm. But is it?” We walk down the block, past the Firelight PlayHouse. “There has to be something about this sign, what with the way he was dropping hints.”
