Keely needed help; her mind was reeling. She needed sensible advice from a no-nonsense person she could trust. She hurried back to The Copy Cup. At the counter, she talked to a manager.

“Um. Hey. I was here earlier, and a woman waited on me.”

He answered with an Irish accent. “Is it her you want?” He waved over the young barista, who approached and scowled at Keely.

“What can I do for you?”

“Sorry.” Keely turned back to the manager. “No. Someone else.” Keely drew a blank. “With a funny name like a hat.”

Again the manager gestured to the barista. She was totally fuming.

“And your…name?” Keely asked.

“Tiara.”

“Oh. Sorry.” She turned desperately to the manager. “I’m sorry, but no. Tall, blond. Hat name.”

The manager waved a male worker over. He was tall and blond, and just happened to speak with a German accent. “Hello. I am Helmut.”

*                                  *                                  *

Emmett had returned to the house determined. The walk through the neighborhood had revealed something to him. Viewing the streets through the eyes of a stranger, Emmett had to acknowledge the passage of time, and had begun to feel its crushing weight. For Emmett there had always been tomorrow, and as much as he appreciated the luxury of life without deadlines, he’d also been living without urgency, without accountability and without accomplishment. It suddenly struck him that maybe those three were related.

Rauf had already gone when Emmett returned, which was just as well, because he needed to act decisively without any distractions. He got his parents in the kitchen, sat them down at the table, and stated his case.

“I want the house,” he said, then immediately raised his hand to stifle his Dad’s sarcasm. “I don’t want it given to me. I know I have to earn it. What I want is just six months. Give me six months to get the money together, and if I can’t do it, sell to whoever you want.”

His parents just stared back at him for a few seconds, then looked at each other for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, his dad said, “That’s the first sign of responsible behavior out of you in eighteen years.”

“Technically, sixteen —”

“Shut up!” his dad bellowed. “You’ve got three months. You show you might actually do it, we’ll give you three months more.”

*                                  *                                  *

Keely had gone from The Copy Cup directly to the PATH station with no sign of Donal’s limo. At the turnstile, fumbling through her purse to find the billfold that held her Metro card, Keely had found the small box that Donal had secreted in her bag. She’d opened it and a two-carat yellow diamond had winked at her. The card said, “I’m not insane, I’m just in love.” Now she stood, perplexed, on the platform waiting for a train that could conceivably take her back to him. Keely raised her eyes to the steel rafters. What was she supposed to do? Wasn’t there a voice — anywhere — that could tell her what to do?

“Miss Twain! Miss Twain!”

It was a soft voice! Echoing throughout the station. But where was it coming from? Keely looked around. “Yes?”

“Miss Twain!”

Then another voice, harsh and sarcastic, like an angry Mel Blanc: “You won’t miss twain if you go down to da pwatfaum. Huh-huh-huh-huh!”

Keely ran down the platform and up to the turnstiles. There she was: tall, blond, pretty and Russian.

“Hey, Sombrero. How’d you find me?”

“This is Manhattan train. Is not adwanced calcoolis. You came to see me?”

Ugh. This is humiliating, Keely thought. But, out with it! “You dealt with me pretty straight.”

She raised an eyebrow, but not unkindly. “You vant adwice?”

Keely shrugged reflexively. She held the ring box out and opened it.

“Is beautiful,” she conceded. “But I do not love you, and already I have green card.”

“No,” Keely stomped. “It’s from a coworker.”

“The man you want lock door against?”

Keely nodded, thinking, When you put it that way. But, “He might really love me.”

“And the other? Pretend business man with pretend business?”

“I don’t know,” she sighed. “I hear sometimes things that aren’t seriously regarded can turn out pretty special.”

The Russian — Fedora! — pursed her lips pensively. She reached into a totebag and pulled out a 500 sheet box of stationary.

“Five hundred copies. Resume redux ultimate final revision re-edited.”

Keely’s eyes widened as she scanned the sample on the box cover.

“Oh. Em. Gee! It’s gorgeous. I’m so qualified!”

“You now have mad ski-ills.”

“How can I thank you?”

“Thirt-seven dollars, seven eight cents.”

“Of course.” Keely went diving for her billfold again and pulled out two twenties.

“Keep the change. Delivery fee.” She caressed the sample sheet with her fingertips. “I could totally take Manhattan.”

Fedora jammed the bills into her pocket. “You know, Hoboken, it’s not so bad.”

Not so bad at all, Keely concurred. But before she could say anything, a mechanical voice shattered the mood. “Stand clear of the closing doors.”

“I gotta go,” she blurted. “Thanks, Gift from Above.”

“You velcome, Thin from Starfing.”

Keely ran down to the platform and caught the train just as the doors closed. She sighed in relief as the train rumbled out of the station. Then Keely shifted her weight and felt her left side collapse onto a flat foot. Good-bye, stiletto. Oh well, fate had intervened to settle her choice of footwear. The rest would be up to her.

© 2011 by Kevin Rush, all rights reserved

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