“Of course I do. What are you implying, Harry?”
He shrugged. “I’m not implying anything, Tooz. We just need to verify you’re the real and rightful owner. You know, red tape and all. If we’re paying compensation, we want it to go to the right people.”
Matt shot to his feet, knocking over his chair. “First you threaten to take the rink and now you imply Granny’s not—”
“Simmer down, Matt.” Harry grinned and patted him on the shoulder. “We’ve got the purchase price in the budget. All we’re asking is for help dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s. It’s in your best interest, Tuesday. See you at the meeting.”
“Granny, where’s the deed?” Matt said when Harry had gone and Spike went to receive a delivery at the back door. “Let’s not give him any excuses to flat out steal the Starlight.”
“He doesn’t need the deed, not with this eminent domain. But if he tries to take the Starlight without compensation, he’ll have a riot on his hands.” Tuesday opened the cupboard and pulled out her old Richardsons. “I think I’ll do a bit of skating before we open. Matt, put on some Glenn Miller, will you?”
6
TUESDAY
NOVEMBER 1934
On Tuesday nights, when everyone had gone, Tuesday Knight skated alone to music from a phonograph.
It was her special night with the Starlight—when she attempted a new figure-skating move or skated as fast as she could without fear of running over a little munchkin and getting ejected by the floor guard. Yes, they ejected her too if she broke the rules.
It was also when she communed with the soul of the rink—if she was allowed to believe such things—and regained any peace of mind robbed by day-to-day troubles.
She’d been a girl when the artist from Italy stood on scaffolding and painted children from every walk of life—all skating toward that pivotal image of a giant man wearing a hat and long duster, his golden brown hair curling into his collar. His eyes, such a vibrant color, seemed alive. She’d looked at him every day since she moved into the rink at fifteen, and without fail, something flipped inside her each time.
“Immanuel,”the prince called him.
The panels were a novelty in 1887, able to roll up and allow the sea breeze to cool off warm skaters. The floor was made from the finest teak, the kind used to build Prince Blue’s yacht. Some parts of the floor were from the shipwreck that brought the humble royal to the southern American state.
The Starlight had been his life’s work. Then it became hers.
Tonight, like every Tuesday night, she’d sent LJ and Dupree home with strict instructions—wash up, brush their teeth, and go to bed.
Of course they goofed around, went home the long way, first walking down the beach, then cutting up through the seagrass to look for treasure. She knew from neighbors that they snuck between houses, tossing pebbles at the bedroom windows of friends
Then they would head over to the Nickles’ place on 321 Sea Blue Way, being as their son Abel was LJ’s best friend, creep into Harriet’s kitchen—Morris never believed in locked doors—and snatch a handful of her molasses cookies.
Finally heading home, they’d peek through the dark windows of the closed shops until they arrived at the Knight house, end of the street and one block south. They’d raid the icebox and eat the last of the pie or cake from the Good Pickens Bakery. They’d wrestle on the floor while listening to the radio, then before the end of the program, Tuesday imagined LJ would say something like,“Off to bed,”to which Dupree would respond,“You’re not the boss of me.”
Eventually they’d push and shove up the stairs to see who washed first. They’d leave wet towels and water on the black-and-white linoleum for her to step in later.
You’re missing it, Leroy. The best part of theirlives.
On this particular night, she skated until her heart was full, then cleaned the skates’ wooden wheels and stored them in the original box. She tidied the office, locked the money bag in the safe, and shut off the lights.
The back door rattled with a fervent knock.
“Hello, anyone there? Mrs. Knight?” A man’s voice pressed through the side door.
“Yes? Who is it?” She settled her hand on the derringer tucked inside her pocketbook.
“Um, ma’am, we’re weary travelers. Sorry to bother you so late, but we saw the lights. ... Folks at the Blue Plate said you could help us.”
Tuesday worked the lock and leaned out. In the glow of the Starlight’s sign, a young family hovered in the chill—husband, wife, and three little ones.
“Please, come in.” She reached for one of the large, battered suitcases and carried it with her across the rink floor and through the blue door under the organ loft. Down a short, narrow hall, she entered a rather large room with storage cabinets, a double bed, and a bath. It wasn’t fancy, but it was enough. After all, this had been her home for four years until Leroy married her.
“Sorry for a bit of clutter.” Tuesday set down the suitcase and moved aside a large box of concession supplies. One day, she planned to sell off the food portion of the business.
