Miss Mayhern hadn’t given any more thought to Milton until she entered
the tearoom and saw him sitting at “her” table. Her already straight backbone
stiffened even straighter. What was Mrs. Little thinking, giving this stranger
her table? Mayrose decided she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of
reacting as Mrs. Little escorted her to a table to the right of the
alcove.
She took a chair that allowed her to turn her back to Milton, which
really annoyed her because now she was looking at the kitchen passthrough where
the food orders were served up, instead of the soothing décor of the tearoom.
As she gave her order to Mrs. Little through clenched teeth, she thought about
not ordering the bran muffin and thereby shortening her time in the tearoom,
but she was not going to play his ridiculous game. She would not change her
routine, not one iota.
As Mrs. Little passed by Milton on her way back to the front counter,
she shot him a look. He raised his eyebrows and hunched his shoulders as if to
say, what did I do? She had warned him not to take that table but he insisted,
saying it would be a funny little joke and he would give it up when she came
in. Mrs. Little tried to tell Milton that as far as she could determine Mayrose
Mayhern had no noticeable sense of humor and that he should just leave well
enough alone. And if he thought he could trick Mayrose into paying attention to
him, then he was about three bricks shy of a chimney.
Milton realized that Mrs. Little was right, so he went over to
Mayrose’ table with the intent of apologizing to her and assuring her that he
would never play that trick on her again. But she was mid-ritual and would not
be interrupted. Mayrose would soon find out that Milton could be just as
determined as she was. He stood there, motionless, patient, while she drank her
tea and finished her muffin in exactly twenty bites. She wiped each corner of
her mouth, folded her napkin in a perfect triangle, laid it beside her teacup
and looked up at him, her eyes, bright blue flint, challenging him to say
something sincere that would make his breach of etiquette all right with her.
If Miss Mayhern were prone to the vernacular, she would be thinking, “fat chance”.
Milton walked away, realizing this was a battle he would not be winning.
When Milton left the tearoom, he did not notice the smartly dressed
figure of Alpaca Finn following him around the corner. He was on his way to
Williams’ Brothers Stationery and Haberdashery to look at their selection of
typewriters. Milton loved everything about the stationery side of the store. He
was also in search of a new pen, always in search of the perfect pen. A few
weeks ago he had bought the new Eversharp Skyline and found it way less than
perfect. It wrote in fits and starts and was not at all dependable. Milton was
lost in a display of pens when he heard someone clear her throat several times.
He finally looked up and there stood Alpaca on the other side of the display
counter. He nodded and went back to looking at all of the lovely pens, but
Alpaca was never one who could suffer being ignored. She came around to
Milton’s side of the display and lightly touched his arm. Milton took a step
back and Alpaca removed her gloved hand from his arm.
“I’m Miss Alpaca Finn, sister of the late Reverend Trout Finn. Your
sister-in-law, Celia, pointed you out to me one day when we were in Steele’s
Hardware. You were busy, so I told Celia I could meet you another time. It’s
good to meet someone else new to Chanceville," said Alpaca. She was 5’ 11
1/2” and enjoyed being able to actually look up into someone’s eyes and
Milton’s were a warm brown. She imagined that the corners of his eyes crinkled
when he smiled, but right now he just seemed to be puzzled by her
presence.
“Um, nice to meet you, too," Milton finally managed to mumble as
he went back to looking at pens. He wasn’t seeing anything new that caught his
fancy (in more ways than one) and was ready to move on to the typewriter
displays.
“Excuse me, " he said as he tried to move past Alpaca, but she
was playing defense and blocked the aisle.
Eighty-five –year-old Mr. Williams, The Younger, came over and asked
Alpaca if he could help her. He knew Milton could find his way around the
store.
“No, thank you," said Alpaca. “I was looking for a specific brand
of notecards that I don’t believe you carry," Alpaca sniffed.
“If you’ll just tell me the name of the company, I’m sure we could
order them for you," said Mr. Williams.
“Oh, is that the time?” Alpaca said, looking at her watch. “I need to
talk to Mr. Matthews for just a minute and then be on my way to an appointment.
Could you please excuse us?”
Mr. Williams, The Younger, stroked his pencil thin mustache, nodded,
and walked away. He hadn’t worked with the public since he was a boy without
learning to read people. He knew when he was being dismissed.
Alpaca, resisting a sigh, looked up at Milton and tried gazing deeply
in his eyes, but he was looking at something over her shoulder. She started to
lay her hand on his arm again and thought better of it.
“Excuse me," Miss Trout, it was nice meeting you, but I would
really like to go over and look at the typewriters.”
“It’s Miss Finn," she said, trying to keep the annoyance out of
her voice. “Are you a writer? That’s very exciting,” she said before he could
answer.
At this point, Milton was only seeing her as an obstacle and just
wanted her to move. As he had demonstrated earlier in the tearoom, he was
normally a man of great patience, but this was starting to wear thin. He bobbed
to his left and she shifted to her right. He bobbed to his right and she
shifted to her left. He was actually thinking of picking her up and moving her,
when she finally came to the point.
“I was wondering if you would like to come to my house for dinner one
evening soon,” she asked.
“I’m afraid I’m busy that night," said Milton, thinking of
pivoting and doing an end around the pen display.
“I didn’t say WHICH night.”
“Oh,” Milton said softly. “It’s just that I’m working on a big
project and won’t be available for quite some time. I do appreciate the invite
though.”
The bell over the door tinkled and Alpaca was distracted just long
enough for Milton to make a beeline for the typewriters. Alpaca followed
him and told him that she wished him luck with his project and left it at
that.
“Uh, huh," Milton said, clearly distracted by the beautiful new
Underwoods and Remingtons.
Alpaca exited the store, but by no means was she close to exiting Mr.
Milton Matthews’s life. Oh, no, not by a long shot.
