Man Behind The Voice. Lisa Bingham

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СКАЧАТЬ it’s Babs.” The familiar, recorded voice spilled into the silence, filling the room with its warmth.

      Barbara Worthington, the owner of The Flick, was a quick-witted, energetic woman who spent her days with her small son, Philip, and her husband, Tom, then worked during the evening hours.

      Five years earlier Barbara had reopened the restored movie house under the guise of providing healthy snacks and even “healthier” movies—the films selected from a variety of classics and modern releases that Babs felt were “art.” Because of her dedication to avant-garde films, original promotional ideas, guest lecturers and community college involvement, Babs’s original idea had developed a cult following. Her devoted customers guaranteed nearly full houses for its evening shows and healthy numbers of customers for the matinees, as well.

      “We’ve got a shipment of canola oil coming just after eleven. Tell them I won’t take that generic stuff they keep trying to foist on us. As far as I’m concerned, it tastes like axle grease. I want the good stuff, just as we advertise. The best they’ve got. After all, the Bell’s Angels will be coming from the Bell Retirement Villa for the two-o’clock showing of Magnificent Obsession. I can’t have any of them dropping in the aisle from a coronary because they ate the popcorn. Other than that, take care of the usual jobs—stocking counters, filling towel dispensers, whatever else needs to be done. Brian will be in to help you about ten-thirty. He’ll take care of the cleaning and check the projectors. ’Bye.”

      Replacing the recorder where she’d found it, Eleanor grimaced and reached for the wraparound apron hanging on the back door. Yet another fascinating day in the world of the cinema was about to begin. She didn’t have time to think about who might be following her.

      Later.

      She’d think about it once she’d gone home.

      ELEANOR WAS JUST CLOSING the front door to the brownstone when she heard the flap-flap of Minnie’s slippers. Minnie invariably exchanged her shoes for fur-edged mules whenever she entered the house, while Maude remained in her support oxfords until she retired for bed. Thankfully, such idiosyncrasies allowed Eleanor to tell the women apart.

      “Hello, Minnie.”

      There was a heartfelt sigh from the direction of Minnie’s door. “I’m so glad you’re home. I wasn’t sure you would make it in time.”

      Eleanor frowned. “In time?”

      Minnie took her hand, the elderly woman’s fingers slightly cold and soft as a baby’s. “These came for you.”

      Eleanor ran her palm over the familiar shapes of three thick books.

      “The art department from the university sent them. They said that you’d agreed to evaluate them for their art history classes.”

      “You should have refused their proposal, Eleanor.” Maude’s voice chimed in from the depths of their apartment. “You’re looking much too tired lately.”

      “I’m fine, Maude,” Eleanor insisted, raising her voice to be heard. But even as she uttered the words, she resisted the urge to sigh. She had agreed to do this for the university, but it had been so long since the request had been made, she’d forgotten all about the arrangement. If the truth were known, she’d been sure that they would never call. Since her father was a dean at the same university, she’d suspected that the offer was made through good-natured arm twisting and not from any real need.

      “A reader will be coming at seven,” Minnie continued, “and it’s almost that now.”

      Maude added, “You’ll have to hurry, dear, if you want time to run a comb through your hair.”

      “A reader?” Eleanor echoed, wondering how all of these arrangements had been made without her input.

      “Yes. Evidently there’s some rush. Something about purchase orders and grants and funding. I really didn’t listen too much to that part. But I did write down that a volunteer reader would be here at seven.” She patted Eleanor’s hand. “I met your reader earlier today. We had a cup of tea together and chatted for a few minutes.”

      Eleanor scowled in irritation. She’d been assigned several volunteer readers from the university over the past few months. After dealing with the young students, she’d come to the conclusion that she preferred to choose her own assistants. Some of the kids sent her way could barely read themselves, others had annoying voices or distracting habits. A reader was much like a car. It needed to be test-driven before becoming a permanent part of one’s life.

      But Minnie wasn’t to blame for the situation, so there was no sense in Eleanor venting her irritation.

      “Thank you for your help, Minnie,” she managed to say. “If you’ll just stack the books on my arm.”

      The collection of art history texts weighed nearly ten pounds, but Eleanor was able to make the climb to the third-floor landing without too much difficulty.

      Because the four-story brownstone had been altered from its original one-family dwelling into a two-apartment complex, Minnie and Maude had the first two floors for their own use, and Eleanor had the top two.

      Twisting the knob, Eleanor entered the living room and dumped the books and her purse on the couch by the door. Although she was not a vain woman, she wished she had more time before the reader was expected. One of the volunteers she’d used a few months ago had commented on the “dustiness” of Eleanor’s furnishings. Until that encounter, Eleanor hadn’t paid much attention to her living quarters. She kept her belongings neat out of necessity, but dusting wasn’t her strong suit.

      Her fingers ran lightly over the chair rail along the wall as she hurried into her bedroom, brushed her hair, twisted it into a French knot and secured it with an ornate clip her mother had given her years ago. Then she threw off the sweater and maternity jeans she’d worn to work, exchanging them for a lighter cotton dress. Minnie and Maude liked their apartment to be warm—almost tropical. Even with her own thermostat off, Eleanor’s rooms tended to get quite hot.

      She was making her way to the bathroom to attempt a bit of blush and eye shadow when the doorbell rang.

      “Blast it all,” she muttered under her breath. Why hadn’t the university at least called to see if this evening would be convenient for such an activity? The last thing Eleanor wanted that night was hours of listening to some gum-popping, barely out-of-high-school teenager stumbling her way through an art history tome.

      The doorbell rang again, then was followed by a sharp rap on the panels.

      “Coming,” she called out impatiently. If first impressions were worth anything, Eleanor was ready to send the woman packing. After all, this was Eleanor’s home. She shouldn’t be summoned to the door as if she were some sort of inconvenience to this girl’s valuable time.

      Piqued, Eleanor threw the door open. “Listen, I realize that you’re new at this, but if the two of us are going to work together, there are a few ground rules you’ll need to follow.”

      “Fine.”

      The voice wasn’t that of a woman. It was very dark, very low.

      And very male.

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