Today's Reading
"I mean to keep that promise, Tuesday. But for now, I wondered if this would do." Lee stepped onto the porch and took a rolled document from his worn travel bag and tossed it to the old, scarred table. "Read it." He puffed up like he'd done something extraordinary.
Tuesday set her skates on the floor and reached for a parchment-like document. "It's a deed... to the Starlight." She peered up at him. "Lee, what is this? I don't understand."
"I got you the Starlight, Tooz."
"You...you bought the Starlight?" She scanned the ornate deed with gilded edges and calligraphed inscriptions.
Prince Rein Titus Alexander Blue, of the House of Blue, to Miss Tuesday Morrow, on this day, the twelfth of June 1916 AD.
The prince's titled signature, in his lovely penmanship, stretched across the bottom of the parchment.
"It's signed by the prince."
"Yeah, ain't that something? Anyway, I'd heard Hoboth decided to scratch his itch to see the world. You know running a skating rink weren't his idea of a good time." Leroy shrugged, leaving Tuesday to figure out the rest of her husband's noble deed.
"Goodness, I figured he'd leave one day, but we were just talking last week about how Mrs. Elkins made me the most delicious silk cake for my birthday. He said, 'How old are you now?' I said thirty-two, and he got this smarmy expression and said he had something to do." She read the parchment again. "Leroy Knight, you best not be joshing me. This doesn't look like a county deed. And my married name isn't on it."
"Got me, Tooz. I handed him money and he handed me that-there deed.
Maybe he forgot your married name."
"The date is 1916."
"Hoboth is missing a few, if you know what I mean." Lee tapped the bottom of the document. "But it says whoever's name is on this piece of paper is the pure and true owner of the Starlight. That's good enough for me. But ask the boys at county records when you file the deed."
"Where did you get the money? How much did it cost?"
"Listen, doll, when a man gives his wife a gift, he doesn't tell her how much it cost. Do you like it? Are you happy?"
"Leroy Knight, you almost make me sorry I badgered you about never being home. This...this is the greatest thing anyone has ever done for me. I feel like...a princess. With her own little kingdom."
"I promised you a diamond ring, but—" Leroy tugged her curves against him. "How about a little starlight for now?"
CHAPTER TWO
HARLOW
MARCH 1987
MANHATTAN, NEW YORK CITY
About a month ago, she'd started referring to herself in the third person. Harlow Hayes should do something about her life. Harlow Hayes should take a shower. Harlow Hayes should get a haircut. Harlow Hayes, Harlow Hayes, Harlow Hayes.
That's when she realized something had to change.
But how? She had become a joke. To the world. To herself. Friends pitied her. Comedians made her a punch line for their late monologues. Last month, Saturday Night Live's Victoria Jackson played Harlow Hayes while wearing a ridiculous wig and some sort of fat suit.
But when the love of her life crushed her without so much as an "I'm sorry," Harlow Hayes gave up and gave in.
Maybe living in the third person wasn't so bad. And the dark "cave" in which she dwelt most of the time was comforting. Her small, narrow bedroom—which was probably once a Gilded Age butler's pantry—allowed no expectations and thus no failures. No letdowns. No feckless laughter from late-night audiences.
But it's all sticks and stones, right?
Harlow flicked an empty box of Cheez-Its to the floor, ignoring the few crumbs that scattered over the small rug. She'd clean it up later. On her twin bed, she tried to sleep while Jinx—make no mistake, this was her apartment—blasted the six o'clock news.
Chuck Scarborough's smooth news voice reminded America that presidential candidate Gary Hart withdrew from the race due to his affair with Donna Somebody, and then recapped the aftermath of a Belgium ferry capsizing, killing 193 passengers and crew.
She shivered with the cold of the news as well as her room. The old window in the exterior wall allowed in the heat and the cold. But Harlow didn't care as long as she had a place to escape, a place to sleep, and let's be honest, a place to eat.
This excerpt ends on page 21 of the paperback edition.
Monday we begin the book It's All Relative by Rachel Magee.
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