Tiffany Girl

by Deeanne Gist

  She glanced at the mantel clock. Usually she found the tick-tock of clocks a comforting and soothing sound. Today, however, it offered no such solace. Only reassurance from Mr. Wilder would give her relief. Reassurance that the boy was going to be all right and that Mr. Wilder didn’t loathe the sight of her—though she knew he didn’t. Still, she felt it would be good for him to say so. That way, he’d know it, too.

  It was another hour and a half before the door finally opened. She whirled around. Mr. Wilder stepped inside, his shoulders slumped, his face grave. Her throat closed. Oh, no. Oh, no. Please tell me the boy will be all right.

  He hung his hat on the hall tree, his dark-blond curls more pronounced than usual. Peeling off his gloves, he stuffed them into his coat and closed his eyes in what looked to be exhaustion. Without opening them, he unbuttoned his coat, but instead of removing it, he simply stood with head down, arms at his sides.

  Her heart squeezed for him. She took a step forward. He lifted his head. Their eyes connected, hers pleading for understanding, his hardening.

  “The boy’s finger?” she asked, barely able to voice the words.

  His lips tightened. “Still intact, but if infection sets in . . .”

  She swallowed. “I owe you an apology. It was my fault—is my fault.”

  “And that’s supposed to make everything okay? Just like that?”

  “Well, it . . .” She looked around in confusion. It wouldn’t heal the boy’s finger, of course, but she’d hoped an apology would smooth things over between him and her.

  His eyes thunderous, he whipped off his coat and crammed it onto a hook, followed by his scarf. “Did I not make myself perfectly clear on the ice, Miss Jayne?”

  She clutched her hands. “You did, but you didn’t mean it. You know you didn’t.”

  Narrowing his eyes, he jutted out his jaw. “Oh, I meant it, Miss Jayne. I meant it. And I expect you to honor it. And so there is no confusion, I’m not interested in speaking to you. Not now. Not at dinner. Not even in the hallway. I’ll let you know if and when that changes.”

  She shook her head. “Please, I said I was sorry and I am, truly, I am. I’d give anything to—”

  Spinning, he stormed down the hall, never allowing her to finish.

  Reeve slammed his door, anger whooshing through him all over again. He could not believe she had the nerve to tell him what he meant and what he didn’t mean. Or maybe he could believe it, for it was typical of a New Woman. Typical of her.

  He’d planned to fall straight into bed and escape for an hour or two in sleep, but there was no chance of that now, not with the rage she’d roused up. Once again, Miss Jayne had interfered with his plans.

  Loosening his tie, he whipped it free, wadded it up, and threw it against the wall. It slithered to the bed. He kicked off his shoes. Next came his jacket, his shirt, his trousers, all of them damp. Plopping down into his desk chair, he ripped off his soaked stockings and held his toes, trying to warm them.

  His heater had run out of fuel since he’d not returned in time to fill it, so his room was freezing. He couldn’t go into the parlor to warm up, not with her in there. Shivering, he crawled under the covers and curled up. Not to sleep, but to try and get warm.

  You’re dying to get out there, she’d said. Don’t worry, I’ll be right beside you the whole time, she’d said. Thou doth protest too much, she’d said.

  His anger rose even further. He’d told her no politely. Then firmly. Then outright. Still, she’d insisted. I am not leaving this pond until you have at least made an attempt.

  He flipped onto his back. Not only was she a New Woman, she was exactly the kind of boarder who gave boardinghouses bad names. The kind journalists and novelists loved to satirize. He flung an arm over his eyes. Maybe he should write a novel. He could populate it with a condescending singing master, a disreputable bachelor, a mismatched married couple, and a nosy New Woman whose main goal in life was to wear trousers. It’d be the easiest money he’d ever make. Probably even run in the front section and earn him a huge wage.

  Possibilities ran through his mind. He’d name her Merrily. No, Marylee. Wait, Marylee Merrily. That was it. She’d be bossy, nosy, and impossibly sure of herself. She’d drive her fellow boarders to the brink of insanity. She’d bring calamity down onto the entire household, then be summarily tossed out onto her very delectable backside.

  His chest rose and fell. His mind continued to churn. Finally, he tossed aside the covers, pulled on dry trousers and shirtsleeves, fueled his heater, then sat at his desk with a fresh piece of paper.

  MRS. GUSMAN 15

  “Mrs. Gusman tapped the spoon against the side of the pot, then turned back around.”

  CHAPTER

  25

  Reeve’s childhood home was for sale. He stared at the Brooklyn address printed in all capital letters. 85 GEORGIA AVENUE. He’d lived in many places throughout his life. He’d spent his youth at his grandparents’ house in Princeton Junction, a year at his stepmother’s house in Seattle, a couple of years in a college dormitory, and the rest of his days in a smattering of boardinghouses. But of all the places he’d lived, he’d only had one home, and now it was for sale.

  He tried to recall everything he could about it. His most vivid memories were of the front parlor where his mother had been laid out. They’d pushed back all the furniture and brought in the kitchen table for her coffin. When the funeral was over and the table returned to its proper place, Reeve had refused to eat at it. Instead of making him, his father had taken their plates out to the front porch steps.

  Reeve reread the advertisement. It didn’t have a price listed. He was a saver, though. Once he’d finally paid off college, the only thing he ever bought was books, and only then on rare occasions.

  The cat jumped up onto the windowsill, then down into the room. Leaning toward the floor, Reeve wiggled his fingers.

  “Hello there, little lady. Where have you been? I saved some fish for you.”

  Tail up, ears perked, she pranced to him. He slipped a hand inside his jacket pocket and removed a few bits of fish meat wrapped in three handkerchiefs. She ate her offering right from his hand, then curled up at his feet and began grooming her whiskers.

  “I bet you’d like a home, too, wouldn’t you, girl?”

  After one more glance at the ad, he pushed it to the side and began to work on his article, but his gaze drifted back to the newspaper. 85 GEORGIA AVENUE. Even from here the words jumped out.

  He turned the newspaper over. He put it under his chair. He stuffed it in the desk’s drawer. But his mind would not leave it be.

  He couldn’t afford a house. At least, he didn’t think he could. But what if the sellers were in a desperate situation? What if they were selling it cheap? What if somebody else got to it before he did?

  Expelling a breath, he tore out the ad, pushed in his chair, and gave the cat a pat. “Don’t wait up for me, girl. I’ll probably be late.”

  Reeve approached the cottage-like house, paint peeling from its sidings. He remembered it as being a lot bigger. A row of shrubs plucked bare by winter’s hand flanked its facade. Beneath a covered door stoop, a worn white rocker had icicles dripping from its arms.

  He stared at the steps he’d sat on with his father and tried to picture eating their meager meals. Had his father even known how to cook? He must have, for they’d eaten something. Reeve had no recollection of whether it was any good or not. Either way, it had been summer then. Now it would be too cold to eat outside.

  The front door opened. A woman with a faded but clean blue gown stood at the threshold, a baby on her hip and a boy old enough to start school clinging to her skirt.

  “Can I help you?” she asked. He wondered how long she’d lived there. Was it her childhood home, too? Had she grown up within its walls, then married and birthed her own babies right there in his parents’ room?

  He held up the newspaper clipping. “I’m Reeve Wilder and I was hoping to speak to your
husband about the house.”

  The baby grabbed a chunk of his mother’s blond hair and yanked. Without even acknowledging the pain, she clasped his hand and unfurled his fingers. “He’s not here.”

  “I see. Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  She glanced up the street, black rings shadowing her eyes. “Won’t matter. He won’t be in much shape to talk when he does get home.”

  Reeve took a moment to absorb the implications. Maybe the house was cursed. Maybe no one had ever found happiness there. Maybe he was better off without it. He gave himself a mental shake. He didn’t believe in curses, and the happiest moments of his entire life had been spent inside that house.

  “Clive’s asking eight-hundred ninety-nine for the house,” the woman said.

  A wave of disappointment crashed through him, then was quickly followed by uncertainty. Was she expecting him to discuss the terms with her? He’d never done business with a woman before.

  “We’re selling it cheap because we’re wanting to go south. We got family there.” She made a motion that encompassed the porch. “We keep a good place.”

  He studiously avoided looking at the peeling paint, the uneven boards on the left side of the landing, and the water stains on the eaves. It could’ve had gaping holes in its sides and he’d still have wanted it. “How long have you lived here, Mrs. . . . ?”

  “Gusman. Since ’88. Clive bought it from an old-timer who’d lost his wife, and his wits, as well.”

  Somebody else’s wife had died in that house? He sighed. After all these years, he supposed it was inevitable, but he didn’t like hearing about it.

  “You want to see the rest of it?” she asked.

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Nope.” Turning, she disappeared inside, leaving him to follow or not.

  He climbed the steps. Hello, Dad.

  At the door, he removed his hat, stomped the snow from his boots, took a deep breath, and stepped across the threshold. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. It was tiny. A rag rug sat in front of the fireplace, anchored by a rocking chair, a kitchen chair, and a miniature-sized chair, almost as if Silver Hair’s three bears had been living there.

  He looked to the spot where his mother had been laid out. There was no furniture there, just a wall with dark rectangular patches on it, making him wonder if they’d recently held framed images that had been sold to make ends meet.

  “Kitchen’s through here.” She walked into a connecting room, the little boy eyeing Reeve. His delay in following his mother caused her skirt to stretch.

  “You like it here?” Reeve asked, his voice low.

  Mrs. Gusman tugged on her skirt. “Come on, Archie.”

  The boy scurried after her without answering.

  Reeve made it no farther than the doorway when he came to an abrupt halt. Light poured through a storm door and side window whose frame held fluttering red-checked curtains. Cabbage simmered on the stove, its aroma filling the little ten-by-ten room. A hip bath sat propped against one wall. A lump of bread dough rested atop a well-used cabinet dusted with flour. It held one bin, a cutlery drawer, and a removable chopping board.

  He tried to picture his mother in here, but had only fleeting glimpses that vanished before he could fully grasp them. Still, he was standing where she’d stood. Walked where she’d walked. He again tried to feel her, get a sense of her, but it had been too long.

  Mrs. Gusman slipped the baby into a chair. Someone had modified it with rails to keep the tot from slipping out. “Climb on up in your chair, too, Archie, and I’ll give you some dough.”

  A yearning slammed into Reeve. Had his mother ever done that for him?

  Archie took the bit of dough his mother tore off for him and began to roll it into a snake. Reeve watched in fascination.

  “Would you like some coffee, Mr. Wilder?”

  “What? Oh, no.” He rotated his hat in his hands. “I, you, um, you wouldn’t know where your husband is, would you?”

  “I imagine he’s at Krummenacker’s Saloon down at Pennsylvania and Jamaica.” Her voice held no bitterness, only resignation. She plucked an apron off a peg, then threaded the sash behind her waist to tie it on. “You thinkin’ you might be interested?”

  “I’m interested.”

  “You got the money?”

  He hesitated again, unused to discussing such things with a woman, but under the circumstances, she might be the only one capable of it. It was hard to fathom. “I don’t have eight-hundred ninety-nine dollars, if that’s what you mean. And with all the banks broke and no one lending money, I don’t think I could come up with it, either, but I might be able to take on the payments for you.”

  Her shoulders wilted. “We’d need more than the payments. Like I said, we’re heading to Tennessee. Clive’s going to start fresh out there. We can’t go empty-handed.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “How much do you need?”

  “Bottom dollar would be two hundred, plus picking up these last two years of payments.”

  It was an amazing deal, and bespoke their desperation if they were willing to let it go so cheaply. Still, a heaviness pressed against his chest. “I’m afraid I don’t have that much.”

  Turning toward the stove, she stirred the cabbage. “How much have you got?”

  “Forty-eight.”

  The baby gurgled, waving his hands and making spit bubbles.

  Mrs. Gusman tapped the spoon against the side of the pot, then turned back around. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wilder. If we had to, we could come down to one seventy-five, but not to forty-eight.”

  He glanced into his parents’ room on the right. The room he was born in. The room he’d slept in. The footboard of a sturdy wooden bed with a patchwork quilt was just visible. He could have the only home he’d ever known for one seventy-five and two years of payments.

  It might as well have been a hundred thousand for all the good it did him. He looked down. A bit of snow had fallen off his boot and made a muddy smudge on the wooden floor. It wasn’t the first time he’d ever tracked mud into this house, but he was sorely afraid it would be the last. He released a long breath. “Well, thank you for your time. I’m sorry to have troubled you.”

  “No trouble.”

  With a nod, he let himself out the front door, the lump in his throat so big he couldn’t swallow, much less breathe.

  TIFFANY GIRLS’ WORKROOM 16

  “Worrying her lip, she glanced about the room. Aggie wrapped foil around cut pieces of glass, using beeswax as adhesive. Mary, the daughter of a portrait painter, worked on a new cartoon. Ella, who drank enough tea for the entire British Empire, selected glass for a window while Elizabeth worked as her partner cutting it.”

  CHAPTER

  26

  We are behind, girls.” Mrs. Driscoll rose from the table, then began to pace. “With Louise married, Lulu home sick, and Theresa’s hand stiffening up again, we are losing a lot of ground.”

  Flossie glanced about the studio. They might have only completed five windows, but they’d made inroads on five more and it was just a matter of time. Still, there were a dozen to do in all and every single one involved thousands of steps, thousands of pieces of glass, and thousands of hours.

  “Must I remind you how much is at stake here?” Mrs. Driscoll stopped and grabbed the back of her chair. “What we are doing is of great significance. Millions of people from all over the globe will be attending the fair. Imagine what it will do for our sex if we accomplish our goal. Then imagine the damage if we don’t.”

  Flossie hadn’t thought of that. She’d been so focused on her own goals she hadn’t really thought of the bigger picture. Still, she was growing weary of everything always being about gender. Did every move they make always have to be viewed through a lens that focused on how females were compared to males?

  Mr. Wilder’s articles had been particularly fierce this week in his denunciation of the New Woman. She supposed that was inevitable, all things consi
dered, but it saddened her just the same.

  “I know you are working hard.” Gripping the chair more firmly, Mrs. Driscoll leaned in toward them. “But you must work faster. The fair starts in one month. It is clear we will not be ready, but we mustn’t be any later than we absolutely have to be.”

  Mona Van Ness, their errand girl, hurried into the workroom, her long black braid bouncing. She handed Mrs. Driscoll a note, then chatted quietly with Grace near the front.

  Sighing, Mrs. Driscoll handed the note back. “Thank you, Mona. Mr. Mitchell told me to send you to the showroom next time I saw you.”

  “I’ll go find him right now, then.” The girl waved to the rest of them, them hustled back out.

  “It appears I need to go out to the factory in Corona.” Mrs. Driscoll shook her head. “I’ll probably be gone the entire day, so when I return tomorrow, I will be reviewing what each of you did and how quickly you did it. I challenge you to surprise me.”

  Returning to their stations, each Tiffany Girl picked up her weapon, as it were, and answered the call to battle. Flossie wasn’t sure how to cut the glass more quickly yet still adhere to the shape of the paper template. Her arm and hand muscles had gained strength over the weeks, but some of the pieces were tiny and the cuts intricate. Still, she put her head down and bent her mind to the task.

  Nan also sped up her work. Normally, she’d pass anywhere from a half to a full dozen colored sheets of glass in front of the easel before deciding on one. Today she simply chose the first sheet she tried. Flossie had long since learned that the selection wasn’t just about color, it was also about texture and transparency. Mrs. Driscoll even had the selectors stack their glass pieces behind each other sometimes in order to achieve the perfect color, or to project a third dimension, or to alter the transparency.