Finally, there it was, Frank’s house. Libby turned in through his gate and hurried toward the front door. As she did, she saw the man stop on the pavement in front of the house, watching her. Libby felt a surge of rage flood her body.
“Why the hell are you following me?”
The words were out of her mouth before she realized what she was doing. He was still staring at her, his face expressionless.
“Is this how you get your kicks, following women and scaring the hell out of them? Because if it is, you’re sick.”
“I’m not following you,” the man said, but then he started to walk toward her.
“Stay back!” Libby shouted. “My friend lives here and he’ll call the police.”
The man tilted his head to one side. “Frank?”
“Yes!” Libby paused, suddenly confused. “What? You know Frank?”
“I do.”
He reached into his pocket and she lurched backward in case he was about to pull out a weapon. But instead his hand emerged holding a key.
“Excuse me,” he said, and it took Libby a moment to realize what he wanted. She stepped sideways, out of his way, and the man slid the key into the lock and opened the door. He walked in without so much as looking at her, leaving the door hanging open.
Libby hovered on the front step, still out of breath from racing here. She peered into the house, but all she could see was a dim hallway with several doors leading off it. She was about to call out for Frank when one of the doors opened, and he stepped into the hallway.
“Libby! What are you doing standing out there? Come on in.”
Libby was unsure if she wanted to walk into the same building as that horrible man. But Frank was watching her expectantly, so she stepped in and pulled the front door closed behind her. There was a musty smell in the hallway, combined with a slight burned aroma.
“Come on through,” Frank said, and Libby followed him as he shuffled into the front room.
It was a large space, crammed to the rafters with furniture, ornaments, and pictures. As Libby looked around, she saw a full suit of armor leaning up against a grandfather clock, and a giant stuffed bear, and the head of someone who looked like Henry VIII. It was like the strangest, most chaotic museum she’d ever seen.
“Souvenirs from my acting days,” Frank said with a proud nod. “I always make friends with the props and costume departments on a play, and they often let me take a little souvenir home at the end of a production. I’ve gathered quite a collection over the years.”
“It’s incredible, Frank.”
“Here, look at this one.” Frank reached across to a tall coat stand and lifted down a dusty black bowler hat. “This was worn by Sir Laurence Olivier in a production ofThe Entertainerwe were in together in 1963.”
“You worked with Olivier?”
“Mine was only a small part, of course; he was the star. And what do you think of this?”
Frank picked up an ornate hand mirror and passed it to Libby. “That was a prop used by Jean Simmons inA Little Night Music. She was a wonderful actress, I tell you, and very beautiful. Although not as beautiful as my girl on the bus, of course.”
Libby handed the mirror back to Frank and he stared at it for a moment. “You know, when I was onstage all those years ago, I used to look out into the audience and wonder if she was out there. I could never see her, of course; with all the bright stage lights, the audience are mere shadows to us actors. But I used to imagine that she’d be sitting out there, watching the play, and that maybe she’d remember me as the boy on the bus.”
“Maybe she was, Frank,” Libby said gently.
He put the mirror down and moved toward the far wall. “This is what I really want to show you. My favorite thing in the whole house.”
He lifted down a small picture frame, carefully brushing some dust off the glass before he handed it to Libby.
It was a pencil sketch on a piece of paper yellowed with age. The lines must have faded over the years, but Libby could still make out a young man with a tall quiff of hair, a long Roman nose, and almond-shaped eyes. It was a beautiful sketch and unmistakably Frank.
“Is this hers?” Libby asked.
“The very one. It’s good, isn’t it?”
“It really is. I can’t believe she did this on the bus.”
