The Ghost of Greenwich Village: A Novel by Lorna Graham Read Free Book Online Page B

silence followed, during which Eve found the notepad she’d been using for their work. She placed it on the bar and waited. Finally, he began. “The glove was thick and snappy, like a surgeon’s. It stretched and loomed, high above Gotham.…”
    As she scribbled, Eve wondered if the story was as odd as it appeared or whether she was taking it down wrong. The words on the page looked at each other as if even they knew they didn’t belong together. She was just about to interrupt when the puppy made a noise. The sound began in the back of her throat, a low, pained murmur. Eve stiffened.
    Donald, of course, was unaware of anything but his own brilliance. “… The glove’s fingers are bulbous, dangling ominously above the Chrysler Building.…”
    “Hang on a moment—”
    The dog’s mewling grew more pained and intense. Eve knelt down on the floor, trying to tune out Donald and soothe her.
    “I know, I know, you’re in a new place and it’s scary.…”
    “… The citizens of New York look up to the sky, wondering if the glove came from Bloomingdale’s.…”
    “Donald, please. Give me a moment.”
    Eve reached out to pet the dog but she leapt away, hitting her head on the coffee table. Her yelp filled the room.
“Arauuu!”
    “Oh, sweetheart. Let me see what’s wrong—”
    “—The glove is expanding, as though someone is blowing into it. Now it covers Central Park, now the Upper West Side—”
    “Shhhh.”
    As Eve reached out again, the dog threw her neck back like a coyote under a full moon. There was a dramatic pause before she let out a heartbreaking yowl. Perhaps it was a delayed reaction to losing the only family she’d ever known, if four sloppy, thoughtless boys counted as family.
    “Arauuuuuuuuuuuu. Arauuuuuuuuuuuu.”
    “Quiet, doggy, now—”
    “—The glove is beginning to block out the sun, shadows fall darkly on the island—”
    “—Donald—”
    “Arauuuuuuuuuu.”
    “—Everyone is running for a taxi—”
    “Arauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu.”
    “—But the taxis have all turned red—”
    “Arauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu.”
    “—Red, the color of death—”
    Eve sat down heavily on the floor, covering her face with her hands. There was absolutely nothing, she decided, as wretched as the particular loneliness wrought by the wrong sort of full house.

Chapter 4
    T he little pearl-faced clock on the nightstand read five-thirty in the morning. There was just an hour and a half until
Smell the Coffee
. Eve’s arm itched; something was tickling it. She opened one eye and saw the dog, curled up next to her in a tight ball, her breathing deep and rhythmic. How had the tiny pup even gotten up onto the bed? Surely it was too high. Yet here she was, sleeping deeply, presumably exhausted from her fit the previous evening. Eve looked at the dog’s trusting chin resting on her forearm and felt a tug of affection. She disengaged herself carefully and stumbled toward the kitchen to make coffee. Cup in hand, she gazed out the window at the buildings across the courtyard. The light was just starting to come up, a thin sapphire front pushing away the blackness across the east.
    It was funny that Eve should be getting up at dawn; when Penelope had lived in New York, as she’d dreamily confided to Eve, she’d never come home before it. The city of her youth had been a place of literary salons and poetry readings, cigarettes and jazz. She and her friends would hop from the Café Carlyle to the Stork Club, then down to the Village, to someone’s loft or basement, during long nights fueled by liquor, intrigue, and repartee,returning home only when the first rays of sun hit the slate sidewalks. The night simply hadn’t been long enough to contain their revelry.
    These images danced in Eve’s mind as she hunted through the dim kitchen for something to nibble, but the breadbox and pantry shelves were empty. Quite a contrast to the bright
Smell the Coffee
studio with its bouillabaisse