Blake

by Diana Palmer

  “Aw, Ivory, I don’t need a coat. This one’s fine!” His black eyes twinkled as he smiled up at her.

  She remembered that smile from her first day as a volunteer at the homeless shelter, because Tim had been the first person she’d seen when she came with her friend Dee, who already worked there. Ivory had not been eager to offer her services at first, because the place brought back memories of the poverty she’d endured as a child in rural Texas. But her prejudice hadn’t lasted long. When she saw the people who were staying at the shelter, her compassion for them overcame her own bitterness.

  Tim had been sitting on these same steps that first day. He and his mother had been staying at the homeless shelter along with his two sisters. It was a cold day and he wore only a torn jersey jacket. Ivory had sat down and talked with him while she waited for Dee. Afterward, when Dee had asked casually if Ivory would like to volunteer a day a week to work there with her, she had agreed. Now, she almost always found Tim waiting for her when she came on Saturdays. Sometimes she brought him candy, sometimes she had a more useful present, such as a pair of mittens or a cap.

  Tim’s mother loved him and did all she could for him; but she also had a toddler and a nursing baby, and her situation, like that of so many, was all but hopeless. She had a low-paying job and the shelter did, at least, provide a home.

  “I would like a room,” Tim mused, interrupting her thoughts. He’d propped his face in his hands and was dreaming. “And a cat. They don’t let us have cats at the shelter, you know, Ivory.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “I made a new friend today,” he said after a companionable silence had passed.

  “Did you?”

  “He stays at the shelter sometimes. His name’s Jake.” He sighed. “He used to be a bundle boy in a manufacturing company. What’s a bundle boy, Ivory?”

  “Someone who carries bundles of cut cloth to be sewn,” she explained. She worked in the fashion sector. It wasn’t the job she’d dreamed of, but it paid her way.

  “Well, the place he worked closed down and they moved his job to Mexico,” Tim told Ivory. “He can’t get another job on account of he can’t read and write. He shoots up.”

  Her arm around him tightened. “I hope you don’t think that’s cool,” she said.

  He shook his head. “I wouldn’t do that. My mama says it’s nasty and you can get AIDS from dirty needles.” He glanced at her with a worried look that she didn’t see. “Is that true, Ivory?”

  “Hmm? Oh, AIDS from needles? Well, if you used a dirty needle, maybe. That’s something you shouldn’t have to worry about,” she added firmly, thinking how sad it was that an eight-year-old should know so much of the bad side of life.

  He sighed. “Ivory, this is a real bad time to be poor.”

  She smoothed a wrinkle in his cap and wished for the hundredth time that she could do more for Tim and his family. After paying the rent and utilities for her own apartment and sending money home to Marlene, there wasn’t a lot left. Even though she was comfortable now, she remembered the hopelessness of being poor, with nothing to look forward to except more deprivation.

  “There’s never a good time to be poor, I’m afraid, but, listen, Mrs. Horst down the hall from me gave me a plate full of gingerbread and I brought some today. Would you like a slice of it, and some milk?”

  Tim’s face brightened. “Ivory, that would be nice!”

  Kells-Meredith, Incorporated was on Seventh Avenue in the garment district. It was an old business that Curry Kells, the newest mover and shaker in the New York financial world, had bought out and redesigned. Ivory had never seen him in person, but the senior design staff held him in awe. He didn’t have much to do with the day-to-day working of the company, spending most of his day at his corporate office on Wall Street. He looked in occasionally, to see that everything was in working order; but since Ivory had been working for the company, she hadn’t been around during his rare visits.

  She wondered what it would be like to ride around in stretch limousines and eat at the finest hotel restaurants. She had worked hard to improve her speech and her table manners, but she hadn’t had much chance to test her new social graces in high society. Her dreams of becoming an overnight sensation in the New York world of fashion had gone awry from the day she arrived in town fresh out of design school. Winning first place in the design contest had, indeed, secured her a job as a sketcher-assistant to a designer at Kells-Meredith. It was a far cry from the junior design position she’d hoped for. She knew that years of hard work were required for even the smallest promotion, but she’d dared to hope that she was talented enough to go right to the top.

  The big designs, the ones that would be shown in seasonal fashion shows, however, were those of the top in-house designers. Ivory wasn’t permitted to submit designs of her own because the senior designer, Miss Virginia Raines, felt she hadn’t enough experience to think up usable ones. Ivory’s job was to do freehand illustrations of Miss Raines’s designs. She also accessorized outfits for fashion shows—such as the spring showings that had just finished—and made appointments for Miss Raines. Because Ivory was only twenty-two, Miss Raines considered her too young to make contact with buyers and kept that chore for herself. Nor was she receptive to suggestions from Ivory on any designs, despite the fact that nothing new or particularly original ever came from Miss Raines’s mind.

  Ivory was walking briskly to work one morning carrying a portfolio of drawings. She had some ideas for the summer line that would be shown in January—if only she could get Miss Raines to take a look at them. Ever the optimist, she was cheerful even if she knew her cause was probably hopeless.

  She came to a halt in front of the church half a block from Kells-Meredith. A man sat on the wide stone steps, wrapped up in what appeared to be a fairly expensive gray overcoat. He stared straight ahead at nothing with his one good eye. The other was covered by a black eye patch held in place by a band that cut across his lean, handsome face. He looked like a film star, she thought idly, with his wavy black hair and smooth olive complexion and even features. He had nice hands, too. They were clasped on his lap, the nails very flat, very clean. On the right little finger was a ruby set in a thick, oddly Gothic gold ring. A thin gold watch peeked out from the spotless white cuff over his left wrist. His black shoes had a polish that reflected the sheen of his gray slacks. He was leaning forward, as if in pain; and although people who walked by glanced curiously at him, no one stopped. It was dangerous to stop and help anyone these days. People got killed trying.

  Ivory looked at him indecisively, her portfolio of drawings clutched to the front of her buttoned old overcoat. Her jaunty white beret was tilted just a little to the right over her short, wavy golden blond hair. Her gray eyes studied him quietly, intently. She didn’t want to intrude, but he looked as if he needed help.

  She approached him slowly, dodging the onrush of people on their way to work, and stopped just in front of him.

  He glanced up. His one eye was black as coal, and it glittered with anger and coldness. “What do you want?” he demanded.

  The abruptness of the question caught her unawares. She hesitated. “Well…”

  He sighed roughly, sizing up her lack of financial wherewithal in a cold scrutiny that took in her shabby coat with the spots she couldn’t erase on the lapel, and her scuffed, old shoes with their worn heels. He dug in his pocket and handed her a five-dollar bill.

  “Get yourself some breakfast,” he said shortly. “You look like a starved kitten.”

  He got to his feet. She hadn’t realized how big he was until then. His size was intimidating, but not as much so as the look he gave her.

  “I didn’t want anything,” she said, trying to give back the money. “You looked as if you were in pain. I wanted to help…”

  “Sure you did,” he scoffed. He rammed his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and strode off down the sidewalk, muttering every step of the way.

  Ivory smiled iron
ically. “Well, I guess that puts me in my place,” she murmured to herself. “I really will have to get myself a new coat!” She pocketed the five-dollar bill; she could give it to Tim when she went to the shelter on Saturday.

  When she saw the stranger go into the building where she worked, she hung back a little before she entered. She didn’t want him to think she was following him!

  Ivory worked on the first floor of a converted warehouse where seamstresses on an assembly line sewed sample garments. Pattern-makers, markers and junior designers had small offices there; Miss Raines’s office and those of the two other senior designers were carpeted and more luxurious. The executive offices—art, promotion and production—were on the second floor. That was where the vice president and manager of this division, Harry Lambert, worked.

  Adjoining the elegant room occupied by Miss Raines was Ivory’s small cubbyhole. The space was cramped and furnished with cast-off pieces that had apparently been designed to depress the most optimistic of workers. One of the two straight chairs had a loose leg, and the desk had a rough finish marred by careless hands with sharp implements. The curtains were windowless; not that it mattered, because the view was of a rough red brick wall less than twenty feet away. At least Miss Raines had a view of the street outside. She never looked, though, because she said it depressed her. No doubt she hadn’t paid much attention to the furniture in Ivory’s office, or she’d have discovered real causes for depression!

  Ivory had sorted out the accessories that she’d been told to match with the simple outfits for the upcoming summer fashion shows. She was trying to decide which of two scarves to pair with a nice silk suit when her door opened.

  “Miss Keene,” Miss Raines said formally, her cold eyes unblinking behind her stylish glasses, “why were these designs placed on my desk?” She waved the portfolio at Ivory.

  Ivory paused with the scarves held before her like a shield. She hesitated, and then rushed ahead before her courage gave out. “I’d hoped you might like one of them,” she began.

  Miss Raines put the portfolio on Ivory’s desk with the air of someone disposing of nasty garbage. “Hardly,” she said. “As I’ve told you already, the other two senior designers and I make up our new lines each season. Junior designers may contribute, but not someone on your level. Perhaps when you’ve been here a few years, we might consider something of yours. However, you will have to prove yourself first.”

  Ivory wondered how she was going to prove anything by matching scarves and suits. She studied the older woman from her short hair and simply cut but very expensive mauve dress to her polished calf pumps. Miss Raines had never married, and the business was her life. Perhaps it was all she had, Ivory thought, trying to be kind.

  “Kindly keep your…drawings…out of the way,” Miss Raines added as she left, and Ivory’s impulse to be kind vanished at once. “And do clean this place up,” she added as an afterthought. “Mr. Kells is in the building.”

  The door closed firmly behind her. Ivory stared at it with resignation. She’d been here six months, and it felt like six years. Mr. Kells might be in the building, but she was hardly likely to get to see him. She’d had no contact with anyone except Miss Raines, Dee Grier, who was the head seamstress, the seamstresses who made reality of the mental creations of the designers and the various salesmen who frequented the office. Mr. Kells had no reason to come here. There was no suggestion box. Wages were paid, frugally, every other week. Insurance was bare bones. Holidays were, apparently, few and far between. Hard work was the order of the day.

  Ivory toyed with the label of the silk scarf in one hand. Gucci. She wondered how it would feel to be able to walk into an exclusive department store and buy several of these. Even one was far beyond her means, and the outfits that carried the Kells-Meredith label, even in the casual line, were so expensive that the price of one leisure dress would pay Ivory’s rent for a month.

  She put the scarf down and opened the portfolio. She’d designed a collection based on sixteenth-century Tudor costumes, having become intrigued with them when she’d first seen them in her local library back home. Her adaptations had a definition that was like a signature, and everyone she’d shown them to had exclaimed over them. Everyone, that is, except Miss Raines, who had the power to bring them to the attention of those in charge of the company’s lines. She released a long sigh over her favorite, a heavily embroidered gown with mutton-leg sleeves and a square neckline. Ideally, it would be done in silk for summer and a heavier fabric, perhaps satin, for winter evening wear. The long sleeves might be too hot for summer. But, then, nearly every building was air-conditioned now and silk was so summery.

  She closed the portfolio reluctantly and picked up the scarf again, only to be interrupted by Miss Raines, who asked her to take three sample gowns to the showroom where models were doing a special showing for some society matrons. Ivory did as she was told, and in her absence Mr. Kells walked through the sample room. He stayed only briefly and left before Ivory returned.

  “I told you to clean this mess up,” Miss Raines said impatiently when Ivory entered the room. “Let me tell you, Mr. Kells wasn’t impressed. He said that even a sketcher-assistant should have more to do than pile accessories on desks. I agreed with him that you have too much free time, even with my work, so I’m going to let you do alterations, as well. You sew of course?”

  It was like a sudden demotion. Ivory felt sick to her stomach. “Well, yes, but…”

  “Then we’ll get you started first thing tomorrow,” she said. “The regular girls have too much contract work to stop for repairs. This will work out nicely. Mr. Kells thought it would.”

  “Miss Raines, I came here to do design work,” Ivory began.

  “Yes, yes, and you will, one day,” she promised indulgently. “But we must crawl before we can walk, Miss Keene.”

  Ivory sat down at her desk with an expression of pure anguish. If she had to do repairs as well as accessories and illustrations, she was never going to have time to work on her own designs. But what was the use, anyway? Miss Raines was doing everything in her power, apparently, to make sure that Ivory didn’t have any successes. And so was the elusive Mr. Kells.

  Miss Raines had admitted to Ivory early on that she had disagreed with Mr. Kells’s decision to offer a job as a first prize in a nationwide design contest. It had all been a stunt, a promotion, to bring a fading design house back into the limelight. Ivory felt cheated. She’d expected more, somehow, from the description of the prize when it was given to her at graduation.

  “You’ll have a dream job in New York at Kells-Meredith,” Mr. Wallace, the president of the school, had assured her after the award was presented at the school’s graduation exercises. “And a nice apartment, rent-free for the first month until you start drawing your salary!”

  “I’m very honored that I won,” Ivory had told him.

  “And so are we, young lady. It’s a feather in our cap to have one of our graduating seniors do so well.” He’d looked around curiously, because Ivory had come to the awards ceremony alone. “Didn’t your, uh, family care to come tonight, to see you get your design diploma?”

  She hadn’t blinked an eye. “My mother is ill and couldn’t make the trip,” she had lied. “My father died years ago.”

  “You’re an only child, then?”

  She’d studied her feet. “Yes.”

  “Sad for you, especially at holidays, I guess.”

  She’d composed her face and looked up. “The job…how soon will I start?”

  “As soon as you like,” he’d said, beaming. “Next week?”

  “That would be fine,” she had assured him.

  The dream job was less than dreamy, and the promised apartment too expensive for her to keep on her salary. Her present apartment, while clean and comfortable, was hardly a penthouse. It was in a nice part of Queens, though, and not too long a bus ride from work. There was a kitchenette, a living room and a small bedroom with a double bed. It wa
s a furnished apartment, but Ivory didn’t really like the faded yellow-flowered sofa. With one of her first purchases, a sewing machine, she’d made slipcovers for the sofa and chair and a tablecloth for the small round table.

  Ivory had scraped together enough moderately priced dinnerware and silverware to use, and she now had a small, refinished coffee table. It was the best accommodation she’d had in her twenty-two years. Someday, she’d promised herself as she looked around her living room, she would have new wall-to-wall carpeting.

  Even if the apartment was less than elegant, the neighbors were something special. Mrs. Horst was an elderly German widow who had immigrated to the United States just before World War II. She made wonderful breads and cakes and liked making them for Ivory, whom she considered delightful company. Two doors down from Mrs. Horst lived Mr. Konieczny from Wisconsin, who worked as a bank clerk and had a small poodle for company. Mr. and Mrs. Johnson occupied a third apartment. He was a World War II veteran who had to get around in a wheelchair. He had lost his legs at Guadalcanal, but he was cheerful and liked to make wooden toys for the three small children who lived on the same floor down the hall with their parents.

  It would have been nice to have a handsome young bachelor in the building, Ivory had mused wistfully, but she liked her neighbors very well.

  A tap on the door interrupted her thoughts. Dee Grier stuck her blond head in and grinned. “Did you catch hell, too?” Ivory, disconcerted, just stared at the head seamstress.

  “Mr. Kells,” Dee explained. “He came. He saw. He grumbled for fifteen minutes. Everybody caught hell. Miss Raines was almost on her knees trying to placate him.”

  “Did you…?”

  “I hid out in the bathroom,” Dee chuckled. “But I heard him. What a temper! Apparently, we’re sluggish, uninspired and hopelessly straitlaced. Our clothes are being passed over for fresh designs by new designers. Miss Raines actually sputtered trying to think up excuses.”