The Discovery, A Novel (15 page)

When Ben arrived at Claire’s house, Mr. Richards’s car was already in the driveway. The rain came in squalls, pouring down heavily for several minutes then easing to a drizzle. The wind caused it to come in almost sideways. Ben waited in the car until the most recent torrent subsided.

He reached in his coat pocket, pushed the box containing Claire’s ring as far down as he could, then got out and flipped open his umbrella. The wind instantly turned it inside out. It was useless. He opened the back door and pulled his suitcase out first. He didn’t dare lift the typewriter case by the handle; it would fall apart. He’d have to make two trips.

“Hurry, Ben, before it starts up again.”

He turned around to see Claire on the porch, holding the front door open. “Coming.” He shut the door and made a run for it. “I’ll just set this down here. Got to go back for my typewriter.”

“Do you have to work?”

“Probably not,” he said. “But my editor may call. If so, I can work from here, not have to go back out in the weather.”

“I’ll bring this inside,” she said, reaching for the suitcase.

“But don’t carry it up the stairs. Let me do that.” He ran back for the typewriter. She held the door open for him. He walked through, cradling the typewriter in his arms. As he entered the foyer, Mr. Richards was coming down the stairs.

“Ben, glad you made it. It’s getting pretty mean out there.”

“Hi, Mr. Richards. I—”

A loud crash. The typewriter fell to the floor, leaving Ben standing there holding the case, now in two pieces. Ben looked down. Apparently, the crack in the bottom had broken through. “Oh no.”

“Ben, are you okay?” Claire rushed over.

“I’m fine. Not sure my typewriter is.” He bent down to survey the damage. She bent down beside him and picked up a few of the pieces of the case that had splintered off.

“It looks okay,” she said.

“It does.” He lifted it up. “I wish I could say the same for the floor.” They looked down at a nice gouge carved into the wood floor where the corner impacted first. “Missed the throw rug by two inches.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Ben looked over his shoulder to see Mr. Richards bending over behind them, surveying the scene.

“Nice thing about wood floors. We’ll rub in a little stain, a little polish, and it’ll be fine, just a little more rustic.”

“Will you still be able to use it?” Claire asked, looking at the typewriter.

“We’ll see.” He walked over to the dining room and set it on a place mat on the table. “Okay if I put it here?”

“For a little while,” Mr. Richards said. “We’ll have to find a more suitable place if you need to work.”

“No, I just want to test it out.”

“Here.” Claire handed him a piece of paper. “It’s not typewriter paper, but will this work?”

“It should be fine.” He rolled it in and started typing. After a few moments, he announced, “Looks like no permanent damage.”

“Glad to hear it,” Mr. Richards said. “I’ll just be in the den until dinner.” He got up and left the room.

“You type fast,” Claire said.

“Twice as fast as when I started.”

“What did you write?” She rested her hands on his shoulders and leaned over to see.

I love Claire;

Claire loves me.

Because of this, I’m so happy.

q-x-y-z!

“Aww.” She kissed him on the cheek then whispered in his ear, “It’s pretty corny, but I love you too. What’s q-x-y-z?”

“Just trying to make sure all the keys work. Where should I put this?”

“There’s a desk in Jack’s old room, the room you’re staying in.”

“Great. I’ll put this and my bag up there, hang a few things in the closet so they don’t wrinkle, and be right back.”

“I’ll finish helping my mother. Dinner’s almost ready.”

“How much time?”

“Maybe ten minutes.”

Ben carefully climbed the stairs and walked down the wide hallway. He paused briefly and glanced in Claire’s room. Centered on her bed were the stuffed animals he’d won for her back in October. Still wearing their same silly grins.

The dinner was delicious. Ben was amazed at Mrs. Richards’s cooking. He could just imagine what she’d put on the table if she had no rationing restrictions. When he had come downstairs wearing a tweed jacket, Claire had asked if he was cold. He’d said he was just trying to rid himself of the chill he got from loading and unloading the car.

That was true, but the greater reason was the coat had better pockets to hold her ring box. If he put it in his pants pocket, she’d instantly know what it was.

“I’m going to light a fire in the den, Ben,” Mr. Richards said. “Want to help me?”

“Sure.”

“You two make it all nice and warm in there,” Mrs. Richards said. “I’ll clear the dishes and Claire will make us some coffee.” The wind howled outside so strong it rattled the windows.

“I hope this storm doesn’t mess up our radio reception,” Claire said as she headed toward the kitchen. “Some of my favorite shows are on tonight.”

Ben walked across the foyer, through the living room, and into the den, which occupied the far left corner of the downstairs. A big leather sofa and three comfy chairs surrounded a Zenith console radio. A finely finished brick fireplace occupied half the back wall. The other two walls were lined with dark, mahogany bookshelves. Mr. Richards was already bent over the fireplace, building a small teepee with twigs.

“Can you hand me a few sheets of newspaper there, Ben?”

“You’re not going to burn one of my stories, are you?”

Mr. Richards laughed. “Only if that’s what you hand me.”

Ben pulled out a few sheets from the classified section, tore them up into little pieces. Once the twigs lit, Ben handed him some pieces of kindling. “While we’re alone I wonder if I could talk to you about something.”

“Sure.” The kindling wood began to catch fire. “We’ll let that burn a bit.” He turned toward Ben. “So . . . let’s talk.” He eased into one of the leather chairs.

Ben took a seat in the adjacent one. “I think you know by now how much I care about Claire. Well, I love her. I’m
in
love with her.”

“I get the picture, Ben.”

“I’d like to ask her to marry me . . . with your permission, of course. I’ve tried to wait a respectable amount of time before bringing this up, but I knew she was the only one for me the day I met her.” Ben felt the little finger on his right hand twitch for some reason. He had to calm down.

Mr. Richards looked at the fire’s progress, then leaned back in his chair.

“I had a feeling we’d be having this conversation soon.”

“You did?”

“I felt the exact same way about Claire’s mom.” He didn’t seem upset, or even on edge. Ben began to relax. “And I’ve watched how you’ve treated Claire these past months. I’ve liked what I’ve seen, and I know how she feels about you.”

“You do?”

“I’m her dad. She’s my little girl. I make everything that concerns her my business.” He said this, still, without any tension in his voice. “Because of that, I hope you don’t mind, but I telephoned your editor earlier this week.” Ben was surprised. “Since I figured this conversation might be coming up, I wanted to know how you were doing over there at the paper, what kind of future you might have.”

“What did he say?”

“He likes you too. Thinks highly of you, in fact. He told me he felt you’ve become quite the reporter and that you have a bright future ahead of you at the News Journal.”

Ben liked the sound of that. He reached into his coat pocket. “I’d like to show you something.” He got up, walked over to the doorway. He could still hear the ladies chatting in the kitchen. “Here,” he said, opening the lid to the ring box.

Mr. Richards got a big smile on his face. “She’s going to love that.” After a few moments Ben closed the lid. “When you going to give it to her?”

“I thought sometime this weekend, since we’ll be shut up here in the house with this storm.”

“No, you don’t want to do that.”

“I don’t?”

“No. You want to make it special. Do something memorable, something she’ll want to brag about to her friends. Not just about the ring but the way you gave it to her. Women love to tell stories like that. Have you ever heard Mrs. Richards tell our story?”

Ben shook his head no.

“And you never will. I botched it up.”

“So what should I do?”

“You’re a smart guy, Ben. Think about it. Something will come to you.”

Ben appreciated the advice, but he was a little disappointed as he put the ring back in his pocket. He’d set his heart on giving it to her tomorrow, or the day after. But he hadn’t given it much thought, other than getting down on one knee.

Mr. Richards got up and carefully set a small log on the fire. “But there’s something I’d like to give you.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s right over here.” He walked across the room to one of the bookshelves. “Something I think you’ll get more use out of than I ever have.” He reached up and pulled a large wooden box down from the top shelf. He blew off the dust then turned and held it out as he walked toward Ben.

As he got closer, Ben knew this was no ordinary box. It was exquisitely hand-carved, on every side and on top, very ornate. Among the shapes carved into the surface was a large tobacco leaf in the center.

Mr. Richards set it down on the coffee table. “The moment I saw that typewriter case fall apart, I thought you could use this. Looks just about the right size. It’s a humidor, made of solid rosewood, hand-carved in Cuba. See the tobacco leaf etched in the top? My father bought it in 1898. Did I ever tell you about him?”

“I don’t think you did.”

“He fought with Teddy Roosevelt and the Rough Riders up San Juan Hill. He picked this up in Havana before they shipped him back home. Dad was quite a fellow, smoked Cuban cigars all his life. Stored them all right in here. Before he died, he gave it to me. But I don’t smoke cigars.”

“What about Jack?”

“Jack doesn’t smoke them, either. I figure you could use it for that typewriter. All you’d need is to screw a nice handle on the side.”

“Mr. Richards. I couldn’t take this. It’s a family heirloom.”

“I guess it is. But you’re going to be part of the family soon.”

“I . . . I don’t know—”

“Go on up and get that typewriter. Let’s see how it fits.”

“You sure?”

“Ben . . . I want you to have it.” He looked Ben right in the eyes and said, “I’m a pretty good judge of character. You’re one of the finest young men I’ve ever met. I know for a fact Claire’s going to say yes the moment you pop the question. And I’d be honored to have you marry my daughter.”

Ben felt a rush of emotion come over him. He got up before it came to tears. “I’ll be right back.” He rushed out of the den, almost knocking Claire over. She was carrying a tray of coffee cups. “I’m sorry.”

“Ben, what’s wrong?” she asked. “Are you okay?”

“I’m more than okay. I love you, Claire.” He leaned over and kissed her. “I’ll be right back.”

As he climbed the stairs, he heard Claire say, “What was all that about?”

“Nothing,” her father said. “We just found Ben a nice carrying case for that typewriter of his.”

Legare Street, Charleston
10:30 a.m.

I had a feeling about this before it became a thought. A string of feelings, in fact, stirring beneath the surface, growing stronger as I read.

That humidor.

I flipped back to the page.

As he got closer, Ben knew this was no ordinary box. It was exquisitely hand-carved, on every side and on top, very ornate. Among the shapes carved into the surface was a large tobacco leaf in the center.

I dropped the page. As I reached for it, I almost knocked the rest of the manuscript to the ground. I lifted it back up on my lap but set the rest of the pages on the wicker table. I leaned forward and read something Claire’s father had said:

It’s a humidor, made of solid rosewood, hand-carved in Cuba. My father bought it in 1898.

And then:

I figure you could use it for that typewriter. All you’d need is to screw a nice handle on the side.

It had to be the same. I shot up, dropped the page in my chair, and hurried across the porch to the front door. A moment later I stood in the office doorway staring down at one thing—the typewriter case. Specifically, at the top. At the large leaf that had been carved in the center
.
And I could tell now, it
was
a tobacco leaf. I’d never paid any attention to the case before. It had always just been Gramps’s typewriter case. But now I could see it for what it really was: a rosewood cigar humidor.

Had it really been hand-carved in Cuba? Brought home by one of Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders in 1898? Did Gramps make that part up? I stepped closer. The case had dramatically increased in value. I unhooked the latch. Slowly lifted the lid, bent over, and inhaled the pleasing aroma.

Just wood, though, no trace of cigar smell.

I knew my grandfather loved this typewriter, and the case. But why write about it? As a writer, I knew what it was to incorporate real-life elements into your story, even things from your life. To spice up a scene or add some interesting details. Is that what he was doing here?

I closed the lid and glanced at my watch. It was too early for lunch but not for a snack. I poured a glass of Coke, grabbed a tube of Pringles, and headed back out to the porch. Reading about Gramps’s typewriter case was the first thing in the book that had drawn me out of the story and reminded me my own grandfather wrote it.

I knew as I finished the book I’d keep an eye out for more of Gramps’s little secrets.