Tiffany Girl

by Deeanne Gist

  The woman shook her head. “Even if we fill his, I can’t afford a dollar a week. Not after the Trostles left me in such a bind. And what if Miss Love leaves, now that her rent will double?”

  “But Annie Belle’s won’t double. Not if room is included as part of my pay.”

  “You can’t stay in Miss Love’s room. I’ll not have servants living in the house. You’ll need to move to an attic room.”

  Flossie blinked. She hadn’t really thought of herself as a servant, just as someone helping out until she could find another job. “I need to earn something. I have debts to pay because of the Trostles.”

  Mrs. Klausmeyer blew a tendril of hair off her forehead. “You’ll have to clean plus help in the scullery, then. And I can only pay you fifty cents.”

  “Seventy-five,” Flossie countered.

  “Sixty, plus meals and a room in the attic. That’s the best I can do.”

  Flossie picked at her fingernail. “Can it be a dollar a week once Mr. Wilder’s room is filled?”

  “It can be a dollar a week once all the rooms are filled—Wilder’s, the Trostles’, and Miss Love’s if she leaves.”

  Flossie glanced at the windows up by the ceiling, then wiped her hands on her skirt. “All right. It’s a deal.”

  Nodding, Mrs. Klausmeyer gave the pot a stir. “Your meals will be taken in here, not in the dining room.”

  Flossie lowered her chin to her chest. “Of course.”

  Mrs. Klausmeyer looked around the kitchen. “Well, I guess you can start by scrubbing the vegetables, then I have a pile of pans and utensils that need scouring.”

  Flossie surveyed the carrots, potatoes, and onions lying on a table. She didn’t see any dishes, but she assumed they were in the scullery. “I’ll need to change first, and move my things.”

  “You can change, but you won’t have time to move your things until after supper is over, the dishes are washed, dried, and put away, and the kitchen is clean.”

  Swallowing, Flossie pointed behind her with her thumb. “I’ll go change, then, and be right back.”

  “You have fifteen minutes.”

  Keeping her expression neutral, Flossie left the kitchen. It would take her fifteen minutes just to undo all the buttons on her gown. Lifting her skirts, she scurried to her room.

  26TH WARD YMCA BROOKLYN 36

  “Reeve took a room at the new YMCA in Brooklyn’s East New York, just a couple of blocks up from his home.”

  CHAPTER

  68

  Reeve took a room at the new YMCA in Brooklyn’s East New York, just a couple of blocks up from his home. He’d wanted to be where he could keep an eye on the cottage. Only after he’d gone over to see if Mrs. Gusman needed any help had it occurred to him that Mr. Gusman might mistake his motives. So he’d turned back around without ever knocking on her door.

  He tried to remember the name of the saloon Mr. Gusman frequented. She’d mentioned it on Reeve’s first visit, but he couldn’t recall it. Something German, but then, a lot of the saloons around here had German names. Still, if he found the right one, maybe he and Mr. Gusman could work out a deal.

  He placed his inkwell and pen onto the desk in his room, then positioned Flossie’s metal figurine beside it. It had survived its flight across the room without any damage. Slipping his hands into his pockets, he studied its detail. It was the first and only gift he’d ever received on a day that wasn’t Christmas. And the first one he’d received since his grandparents’ deaths in ’86.

  Cat meowed and did figure eights between his legs. Reaching down, he picked her up. It had taken some fancy talking to convince the Y that Cat should be allowed admittance, too, but for an additional fee they’d finally acquiesced. He glanced at the bed on the other side of the room and wondered what his roommate was like.

  Normally, Reeve paid for a room by himself, but the Y didn’t offer solitary lodging. He’d chosen the Y because it furnished young men such as himself with a club life that mimicked the larger, expensive clubs only men of affluence could join. It had a reading hall, a public hall, and a game room. It offered its members fireside talks, a chess and checker club, Bible studies, receptions, and even concerts.

  What had captured Reeve’s imagination the most, however, was the gymnasium with flying rings, climbing ropes, parallel bars, and a side horse. It had a second-story track running along its perimeter that was mostly used as a spectators’ gallery.

  He lowered himself to his cot. Somewhere between Grand Central Station and Washington, D.C., he’d admitted Flossie was right. It was time—past time—to make some friends. Nothing as intimate as what he’d had with her. Never again would he risk that, but he couldn’t go back to total isolation. It simply no longer offered the peace and relief that it used to. So, when he’d left Klausmeyer’s, he’d come to the Y.

  For now he’d attend a few lectures, join a Bible study, lift some weights, and maybe even sign up to play baseball. At least, that’s what he needed to do. That’s what he should do. That’s what he’d come here to do.

  His neck and shoulders began to tense. It wasn’t what he wanted to do. The thought of all those activities scared him to death, especially the team sports. Yet they were also the most alluring. During his entire twenty-seven years, he’d never participated in a ball game. Oh, he’d watched plenty from afar. He knew all the rules, and he’d played ball with nothing more than a wall, but pretending a wall was a person was completely different from doing the real thing.

  He took a deep breath, then slowly released it. No need to do everything all at once. Just having a roommate would be a start. When he’d adjusted to that, there’d be plenty of time for lectures and baseball teams.

  CHAPTER

  69

  We want you to come home.” Mother stood in stiff disapproval while Flossie took the linens off Mr. Oyster’s bed. “This is simply unacceptable. Neither your father nor I will have it.”

  For the first time in her life, Flossie did not have the proper attire for what she was doing. Even if Mother had had the time to make up black dresses with crisp white aprons, Flossie would have refused them. So she wore the old striped shirtwaists she’d used when she’d helped Mother in the garden.

  “I’m not going home.”

  “Why?”

  Flossie shook out the sheet and let it drift onto the bed. “You know why. I owe you money and I owe the . . . boarders money.” She’d almost said the other boarders, but her assumption of domestic chores had changed everything. She was no longer a boarder, she was a servant. And everyone in the house, other than Annie Belle and Mrs. Dinwiddie, treated her as if she were beneath them. She was even required to address Annie Belle as Miss Love or risk losing her job.

  Flossie shook her head. Those she’d once considered family, and then friends, now acted as if she were invisible. They ignored her when they passed her in the hall and when she carried in dishes of food for dinner. They spoke in sharp tones if she didn’t keep their chambers exactly the way they liked. Annie Belle might help her clean behind a closed bedroom door, and would occasionally leave a book from the library in her attic room, but things were strained between them, especially when others were around.

  Only Mrs. Dinwiddie treated her as before, regardless of who was or wasn’t present. The woman would sit in a rocker by her window and tell Flossie about the new boarders and the old and ask her how she was and if there was anything she could do. She slipped Flossie cookies and tarts. She’d even climbed the stairs once to visit her in her tiny, hot, attic room.

  Mother rounded the bed and began to tuck in the sheet on the opposite side, bringing Flossie back to the present.

  “I don’t want your money,” Mother said. “I refuse to take it. I’ve told you that a thousand times. What I want is for you to quit this ridiculousness.”

  Flossie handed her mother a pillow slip while she, in turn, shook out a blanket. “I know what you said. So I’m putting aside five cents a week and when I have it all saved,
I’ll give it to you in one lump sum.”

  Mother slammed the pillow onto the bed. “I don’t want it.”

  “Then you can give it to a charitable cause once I’ve paid it back.”

  “There is no need. I’ve told your father about it.”

  Flossie froze. “You told Papa? About the money you’d secreted away?’ ”

  “Of course I told him. He was going out of his mind trying to figure out why you wouldn’t come home.”

  Flossie hugged the blanket to her. “What did he say?”

  “He was furious. What do you think he said?”

  “Did he have a wheezing attack?”

  “That was the least of what he had. And do you know what else?”

  Flossie shook her head.

  “He was more angry with me for giving you the money than he was for me secreting it away.”

  Flossie looked down. “I’m sorry, Mother. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”

  “Well, you can make it up to me by coming home.”

  Flossie laid the blanket on the bed and began to smooth it out. “I appreciate all you and Papa have done. I truly do, but you are barely making ends meet. You’re better off with me here than there with you.”

  “Your father has said I could keep the money I earned.”

  Flossie straightened. “What?”

  “Once he got over his anger, he thought about how I’d saved all that money over the years, and how he’d probably have gambled it away if he’d known about it. So, he told me to keep mine and not let him have it unless I knew what it was going to be used for.”

  Flossie touched her fingers to her throat. “He said that?”

  “He didn’t even want to know how much I was making—said it would be less tempting for him that way.”

  Flossie shook her head in wonder. “I’m stunned. I’ve never heard of a man doing such a thing.”

  “Your father is a wonderful man. He just went through a bad spell, is all, and we’d both like for you to come home.”

  “I’m sorry, Mother. I’m thrilled Papa has turned over this new leaf, but the money you saved was to counteract the very situation you are now in, and I squandered it away. You would never have had to move to that awful place if I hadn’t run to you with my hands stretched out for more, more, more.”

  “Awful? You live in an attic room and you think our place is awful?” Mother rolled her eyes. “And we don’t mind that you want more. We love giving you more. I’d have given you twice the amount if I’d had it.”

  She tightened her jaw. “You’re missing the point. I’m paying you back. Every blessed penny. And I’ll not take advantage of the roof and food you’d provide while I’m doing it.”

  “I don’t want it!” Her mother snapped. “I want you to live at home until you are well and safely married.”

  Flossie tucked in the blanket. “What about all that talk about me being an artist?”

  She heaved a sigh. “Oh, Flossie, your paintings are very nice. I’d thought it would be a great boon if you were to sell your painting in that gallery, but my goodness, you’re a woman. It was never our intent for you to be an artist the rest of your life. We always assumed you’d only do that until you found a nice young man and married him.”

  Flossie slowly straightened. Reaching behind her, she steadied herself against a dresser. A long silence followed.

  Finally, Flossie took a breath. “You lied to me? All these years? On purpose?”

  Mother gave her an incredulous look. “I have never lied to you. What on earth are you talking about?”

  Anger began to simmer just below her skin. “I’m talking about telling me I’m an incredible artist. I’m talking about telling me I would achieve great things. I’m talking about all the accolades you and Papa inundated me with throughout the years.”

  Mother’s face crumpled. “Those weren’t lies. We were encouraging you. Giving you a boost. My goodness, you all but walked on air after we told you those things. When we saw how much joy it brought you, we simply continued. That’s not called lying, that’s called loving.”

  A bittersweet sadness crept over Flossie. “Well, I actually believed you, Mother. I actually thought I was the little genius you said I was. I didn’t know I was average until I got the job at Tiffany’s.”

  Mother rushed around the bed and hugged Flossie to her. “Hush your mouth. You are not average, and don’t you ever let anyone tell you otherwise. You are the most special girl on God’s green earth.”

  Flossie rested her head on her mother’s shoulder, tears filling her eyes. She wasn’t sure if she choked up because it felt so good to be held or because her mother had just lied to her again.

  Mother patted her on the back. “There, there. Are you ready to come home, now?”

  Breaking loose of the hug, Flossie swiped her eyes. “You’d better go, Mother, or you’ll get me in trouble.”

  Mother cupped Flossie’s arms. “I will? Do you think I might get you fired?”

  Flossie pulled up a corner of her mouth. “Good-bye, Mother. I’ll come home Sunday for supper, but for now I need to get back to work.”

  Mother’s face hardened. “I’m not taking your money. Not now. Not ever.”

  “I understand.”

  “What a stubborn, ungrateful girl you’ve turned into.” With a huff of displeasure, she turned and strode to the door. “You’ve not heard the last about this.”

  “I’m sure I haven’t.”

  And then she was gone.

  For the rest of the day, Flossie’s shoulders sagged, her legs felt weighted. Her parents had known she wasn’t the most talented girl they’d ever seen? All this time? Then why had they pretended otherwise? Was it too much to ask for them to be proud of the fact they had an average daughter?

  She didn’t know. But no matter what they did or did not do, Flossie was through pretending. She was an average painter, an average stained-glass cutter, an average chambermaid. There was absolutely nothing wrong with that. Somebody had to be average. Besides, what if all parents told their children they were the most brilliant and talented children on earth? It was statistically impossible for everyone to be the best of the best. Some of them had to be average.

  She shook her head. In a way, being average was a great relief. She’d still need to do the best she could, of course, for it was when she did her best that she produced average results, at least in everything she’d tried so far.

  As for oil painting, even if the results were average, it brought her tremendous joy. Reeve was right about that. Somehow, someway, she needed to find time to paint. The problem was, she didn’t have a penny to spare. Once her canvases, turpentine, and paints were gone, she didn’t know when she’d be able to afford new ones.

  Swallowing, she knelt down on the floor of the hallway, dipped her dust rag in wax, and began to polish the baseboards.

  Mr. Oyster rounded the corner and let himself into his room. A moment later he stepped back into the hall. “Come here at once,” he snapped.

  “Is something the matter?” she asked.

  He pointed toward his room. “There certainly is. You left a pile of rubbish beneath my desk.”

  She frowned. “I thoroughly swept your room earlier.”

  “Well, you did a slapdash job.”

  Setting down her dust cloth, she entered his room, crossed to his desk, pulled out his chair, and peeked under it. Before she could question what trash he was talking about, he grabbed her from behind.

  Without thinking, she swung around, elbow up, and caught him in the jaw. Pain ricocheted up her arm.

  Howling, he grabbed his face. “You wench! How dare you strike me?” He cuffed her across the cheek, then caught her by the arms and crushed his mouth against hers, groping her.

  She bit his lip, stomped her heel into his toe, and kneed his groin, then raced from the room, looking over her shoulder.

  Instead of running to the attic, where she’d be alone and without protection, she fl
ed to the scullery. She hid behind the door, her heart beating so fast it nearly leaped from her chest. But no sound came from beyond. No one had followed her.

  Her legs shook. Her hands trembled. Her stomach felt nauseated. Working her mouth, she touched her jaw, then looked at her fingers. No blood, thank goodness, but she could feel it bruising already.

  Her first instinct was to tell Mrs. Klausmeyer, but Flossie had heard enough stories from her mother’s clients to know that it was always the servant girl’s fault, no matter what the circumstances. She couldn’t afford to lose another job.

  She could tell Mrs. Dinwiddie. She had no doubt that woman would bring the wrath of God upon him, but then Mrs. Klausmeyer would hear and she’d be in the same pickle.

  No, there was nothing to do but hold her silence. Tears sprung to her eyes, not just from the pain, but from the betrayal. How could she have been so naive all these months? How could she have ever thought of Mr. Oyster as a family member? No wonder Reeve portrayed Marylee in such a despicable way at first. The girl he based the character on was an idiot. A senseless, foolish idiot who believed anything anyone told her.

  Sliding down the wall and onto the floor, she rested her head on her knees and cried.

  CHAPTER

  70

  Marylee’s story was picked up by newspapers all over the country. Chicago, San Francisco, St. Louis, Philadelphia, everywhere. Suddenly, Reeve had more than enough money for a down payment on the cottage.

  He sat on the edge of his bed, rubbing the cat figurine with his fingers. Just today a new payment had come in from a newspaper clear over in Oregon, but he hadn’t walked over to the Gusmans’ with an offer. For as badly as he wanted that house, how could he live there with a clear conscience knowing he purchased it with dirty money? Money he’d gained by exploiting the one girl he’d ever loved?

  He knew that now, knew he loved her. It didn’t matter that she’d renounced him, that she didn’t even like him. He still couldn’t bring himself to use the money. So, it had accumulated in the Wells Fargo bank. But lately he’d been weakening.