Tiffany Girl

by Deeanne Gist

  She leaned her face into his hand, her eyes closing, her heart hammering.

  “Watch out!” An out of control skater headed toward them.

  Reeve shoved her behind him, then grabbed the youth’s arm and steadied him, before sending him on his way. She smiled to herself. Imagine that. Reeve protecting her on the ice.

  He turned around and she drank her fill. The wide cut of the frock coat across his shoulders tapering down to his trim waist. The windblown curls peeking out beneath his hat. The green of his eyes, so brilliant in the sun. The curve of his lips, more alluring than she remembered.

  “You’ve become quite good on your skates,” she said with a breathy sigh.

  “Thank you.”

  She brushed a bit of snow from his shoulder, relishing the task. “You’ve gotten broader.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  She grabbed a curl at his nape, then let it spring from her grasp. “You’ve grown your hair out.”

  “It needs a cut.”

  “You’ve . . .” She stopped herself.

  “I’ve what?”

  Become more handsome, she thought, but it wasn’t just his looks. He’d always been attractive. It was something else, something deeper, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. She realized with a start that if her feelings for him had changed at all, they’d become stronger, not weaker.

  “I’ve what?” he asked again.

  She shook her head, refusing to put her thoughts into words. The voices of the other skaters faded. The scraping of blades against the ice diminished. Her chest rose and fell, her breath fluttering her sailor collar.

  “Will you watch the sunset on Klausmeyer’s roof with me?” he asked.

  Her heart squeezed. “I’m sorry.”

  Confusion filled his eyes. His lips turned down. “Why not?”

  “Because if I go on that roof with you, I’ll succumb to what my heart wants instead of what my head wants. And it’s too soon, Reeve. It’s too soon.”

  He didn’t deny it, for they both were cognizant of the connection they’d once again felt in each other’s arms. Something they’d gone without all these many months.

  “Then dance with me one more time. After that, we’ll go find the Hollidays and I’ll pay my respects.”

  This time when he took her in his arms, she closed her eyes and gave herself completely over to him.

  “Cinched in by an overly wide band of ivory satin at her waist, her skirt was draped with four strips of exquisite scalloped lace bordered with rose designs and tied by true-lovers’ knots.” 41

  CHAPTER

  84

  Winter passed and spring blossomed. The affection and love Reeve had for Flossie multiplied exponentially as he courted her with single-minded determination. Much to his surprise and pleasure, she responded to his wooing with equal amounts of warmth.

  He stood in the Public Hall of the Y with her, humbled and heart full. Her mother and Maman had overseen the hall’s transformation into a bower of pastel blooms and noble palms. An array of food along the east wall drew a crowd of men. A display of gifts along the west wall drew the women.

  Two years ago he wouldn’t have had a single friend to invite to his wedding. Today the room was filled with men who lived at the Twenty-Sixth Ward YMCA, teammates from his basketball and baseball teams, fellows from work, Holliday and Nettels, and even a handful of new neighbors.

  The Tiffany Girls arrived in full force, Mrs. Driscoll included. Miss Love, Mrs. Klausmeyer, Flossie’s art-school mates, and many friends of Flossie’s parents all made appearances.

  He’d been hugged, clapped on the back, and poked in the ribs. He’d been congratulated, badgered, and toasted. The melee was much more than he was comfortable with, but the party had only begun. It would be past noon before he could abscond with his wife.

  IT WAS EVERYTHING FLOSSIE had dreamed of and more. Papa had spared no expense and Mother had outdone herself on the dress. Cinched in by an overly wide band of ivory satin at her waist, her skirt was draped with four strips of exquisite scalloped lace bordered with rose designs and tied by true-lovers’ knots.

  Mirroring her waist, a tall collar of lace encased her throat, a bouquet of orange blossoms pinned to its left side. Softly draped satin sleeves of great width gathered to her elbow, then hugged her arm, extending low on her short white gloves. She fingered a slender branch of her wedding day chatelaine made up of orange blossoms and falling artfully along the right side of her skirt. It was the only time in a woman’s entire life when she could wear orange blossoms. Flossie couldn’t believe her day had finally come.

  Reeve rode a hand along the lower curve of her back, staking his claim and looking marvelously handsome in his black cutaway and double-breasted formal white vest. He smiled, he greeted, he thanked people for coming, but she could tell he’d have preferred a quick ceremony and an even quicker getaway with his bride.

  She smiled at him, appreciating his sacrifice in letting her have her day.

  He gave her a wink, then squeezed her waist. “For a magpie, you’ve been awfully quiet.”

  “For a newlywed groom, you’ve been awfully patient.”

  His eyes darkened. “Only because I’ve been thinking that once I get you to myself, I just might forgo all the fuss of a train ride and honeymoon and simply keep you locked in my house for the next thirty days.”

  Her eyes widened, goose bumps skittering over her body.

  “Mrs. Wilder, you are the loveliest bride I have ever seen—second only to my own, of course.” Her former boss approached them.

  Flossie placed a hand against her throat. “Mr. Tiffany. My goodness, how do you do? Thank you so much for coming.”

  “My pleasure.”

  She’d done a lot of growing up at Tiffany Glass and Decorating Company. She’d learned what it was like to be a New Woman on her own. It wasn’t exactly what she’d been expecting. Oh, she’d been free from the normal restrictions put on the fair sex, but with the lifting of those restrictions had come responsibilities.

  The responsibility of taking care of herself on a streetcar full of resentful men. Of walking home alone in the dark during a snowstorm. Of paying her rent when hard times came. Of realizing that she couldn’t take everyone at face value simply because she wanted to believe the world was full of good people.

  She’d take away the lessons she’d learned at Tiffany’s and enter into life as a wife and, hopefully someday, a mother, with joy instead of resentment.

  One thing was certain, she would always be proud to have been a Tiffany Girl. She felt sure it would be something future Wilder generations would be proud of, too. And if that weren’t enough, she still had her painting. She’d always have her painting.

  Reeve extended his hand. “Reeve Wilder.”

  Mr. Tiffany pumped his hand. “It’s an honor. I confess my daughters were quite envious of me and made me promise to ask for an autograph from Mr. Claire, if I could be so rude as to impose.”

  Reeve pasted a smile onto his face. “I’m certain that can be arranged.”

  Flossie bit her cheek. Somehow word had leaked out that Reeve was the one and only I. D. Claire. It was inevitable, since everyone at 438 had known his identity after the big argument she’d had with him that long ago day. Annie Belle had heard their quarrel through the wall and had wasted no time in informing the rest of the boarders.

  More recently, with the huge success of Beneath a Sheltering Tree, the men he worked with at the newspaper had somehow found out. But it was the fellows here at the Y who gave him the hardest time—throwing in as many “I declares” as possible into their conversations.

  Reeve tolerated it as best he could, but she knew he hated to call attention to himself, and even more, he hated the pseudonym. Still, it wasn’t every day Mr. Tiffany asked for an autograph.

  A bit after one o’clock, when only Mother, Papa, Mrs. Dinwiddie, and their very best friends were left, Reeve helped her up into a carriage complete
with white horses.

  He shook Papa’s hand, kissed Mother’s cheek, and pulled Mrs. Dinwiddie up into a bear hug. The woman whispered something into his ear that made him laugh. He put her down, kissed her flush on the lips, joined Flossie, and shook the reins.

  Twisting around, she waved at her parents as the rice they threw pebbled the carriage.

  CLAPBOARD HOUSE 42

  “Reeve pulled the horses to a stop in front of a clapboard house with a white picket fence and a shaded front porch.”

  CHAPTER

  85

  Reeve pulled the horses to a stop in front of a clapboard house with a white picket fence and a shaded front porch.

  “Oh, Reeve,” she said, catching her breath. “It’s beautiful.”

  Her parents had seen it, Mrs. Dinwiddie had seen it, his friends had seen it. Only she hadn’t seen it. It was his wedding gift to her, and she’d not been allowed to have her first glimpse until she shared his last name.

  The yard was more dirt than grass, but there were three bushes, a good-sized shade tree, and he’d built the place with his own two hands. A sense of well-being rushed through her. This would be the house she’d live in for the rest of her life. The house she’d birth their babies in. The house she’d welcome their grandchildren to. Of a sudden, she wanted it to be the house she consummated their marriage in.

  “How much time do we have before our train leaves?” she asked.

  Setting the brake, he hopped down. “Hours, I’m afraid. I didn’t want you to be rushed at the reception, so we won’t need to leave until almost dark.”

  Placing his hands on her waist, he lifted her from the carriage. She’d not changed into her traveling gown, but still wore her wedding dress. He’d told her in advance that he wanted to be the one to remove it. Mother had been quite scandalized, but it was the only request he’d made. He’d allowed Mother, Flossie, and Mrs. Dinwiddie to plan everything else. So she’d stood firm against Mother’s objections.

  At the door, he swooped her up into his arms and crossed the threshold. “Welcome to our home, Mrs. Wilder.”

  With her arms about his neck, she surveyed the living area. Two rockers sat before a red brick fireplace. One large and brown. One dainty and upholstered in a flowery brocade. Cat had curled up on the brown one, not deigning to even acknowledge their intrusion.

  “She thinks it’s her chair.”

  She bit her lower lip. “It’s good to see her. I’ve missed her.”

  “Well, don’t bother calling. She won’t budge unless bodily moved.”

  On the mantle, right in the center, her Christmas card held center stage. Her heart warmed and she wondered how long it had been there. “You never replied to my Christmas card.”

  “That’s because I was busy writing the novel that very card demanded.”

  “I didn’t demand it, and you could have at least acknowledged the candy and fruitcake.”

  “I did. Don’t you remember in chapter eight of the book? I ate them rather enthusiastically while I watched Miss Cherie flitting about her garden.”

  “Miss Cherie.” She rolled her eyes. “That woman was always so cheerful. Everyone loved her, she never did anything wrong. I thought it an awfully high bar to live up to. Couldn’t she have been average? You know, flawed?”

  His kissed her forehead. “She was flawed, but the story was about him.”

  “I see.” She adjusted his collar. “Speaking of Cheery Cherie and Marylee Merrily, I do declare but I’m stating here and now that I will choose the names of all our children.”

  He chuckled. “All? How many are you planning on having?”

  “At least ten.”

  He shook his head. “We’ll only need nine.”

  She leaned back to better see his face. “What’s wrong with ten?”

  “Nothing, but we only need nine players to field a baseball team.”

  She smiled. “What if we have some girls?”

  “Then we’ll put them on the team, too. After all, their mother was a New Woman. By the time our little ones are ready to play ball, women will probably be wearing trousers.”

  She snorted back a laugh.

  Giving her a squeeze, he turned to the right and carried her to an empty bedroom. “This is your art studio.”

  Her easel stood next to a window in the barren room, but it was the portrait sitting on it that captured her attention. It was of a woman leaning against a railing, her red hair flowing in the breeze, the sea behind her blue and sparkling. F. Jayne was scrawled across the bottom corner.

  Her hands loosened. “Let me down, please.”

  He placed her on her feet.

  At first, she simply stood, absorbing the unexpected surprise. “Where, how did you find it?”

  “I hired a detective. I’d hoped to find the Trostles and Bourgeois. Make them answer for their crimes.”

  She placed a hand against her neck. “And did you?”

  “No, but the detective did find your painting at a shop on the East Side.”

  Her eyes watered. “I can’t believe it. I . . . I thought it was lost forever.”

  “So did I.”

  She approached it, studying it. It really was one of her best pieces.

  Reeve shifted his weight. “I used the money I’d earned from Marylee’s story to hire the detective.” He looked at the tips of his shoes. “I want you to know, I never used that money for myself. Only for others.”

  “Oh, Reeve. You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I didn’t use it for this house, Flossie. Not the house or the property or the furniture. All of that was purchased with money I earned on the Sheltering book and my articles.”

  “What things did you use it for, then?”

  He studied her. “I used it to pay off your debts.”

  She took a shuddering breath. “You? You paid them?”

  “Yes.”

  She looked to the side. “I had no idea. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I guess I was afraid it would make you feel beholden to me and that’s not why I did it. Not at all. It was my pleasure to pay them off.”

  Tears stacked up against her throat. “Thank you. I don’t know what to say. You didn’t have to.”

  “There’s lots of that money left and more coming in. I donated some of it to a settlement in Greenpoint. Some of it to buy Christmas gifts for the kids at the Sheltering Arms orphanage in Manhattan. I bought Maman a Tiffany hat pin with it—but that was back when she was just Mrs. Dinwiddie. Since she became my Maman, I’ve only used my money for the things I buy her.”

  “The money from the Marylee story is your money.”

  “It’s dirty money.”

  “It’s not. It’s . . . wait a minute.” She went into the parlor and pointed to her trunks amassed against the wall, waiting to be unpacked. “Can you open this one for me?”

  He took down the trunk stacked on top of it, then unlatched the one she’d indicated and held open the lid.

  She rummaged through it, then pulled out her scrapbooks. The first one she opened held the story of The Merry Maid of Mumford Street. “I saved all of the installments. I’ve read them over and over.”

  He took the scrapbook, turned the pages, then closed his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

  She put the scrapbook back in the trunk. “Don’t be. It’s a story I will cherish for as long as I live. I will read it to our children, to our children’s children, and even to their children, if I live long enough. So do not ever again let me hear you refer to it as dirty. Do you understand?”

  Throat working, he nodded. “Don’t move.”

  He crossed to a desk facing the window and opened the roll top, then removed a cigar box. Inside were stacks of tiny slips of papers. All had questions written on them. All had her artwork on their edges.

  What is your favorite winter activity?

  What is your earliest childhood memory?

  What was your last thought before going to sleep?

 
She pressed a hand against her throat. “You saved them?”

  “Every single one. Even the ones people left behind on the table.”

  “I never saw you take them.”

  “I asked Mrs. Klausmeyer to save them for me.”

  Closing the lid of the box, she hugged it to her. “Oh, Reeve. We’ve wasted so much time.”

  “I know.” He shook his head. “I know.”

  He returned the box to his desk while she walked back to once again peek inside the studio, still trying to comprehend that she’d have the room all to herself for painting.

  Stepping up beside her, he slipped a hand into his pocket. “If you want to sell your paintings, I want you to know, I’d never take your earnings away from you.”

  “Oh, Reeve, I’m not a good enough painter for that kind of thing.”

  “You’re not hearing what I’m saying. I’m saying that if you ever earn any money, it’ll be yours, not mine.”

  She studied him. “You know what I’d really like?”

  “What?”

  “I’d like it to be our money—not mine, not yours, but ours.”

  He looked out one of the curtainless windows lining the side wall. “I suppose we could do that, but if we did, then it seems like we should do that with what I earn, too.”

  She sucked in her breath. “You’d let your money be our money?”

  “I would.”

  She stared at him, stunned. Never had she heard of a man doing such a thing. Gratitude filling her chest, she ran her hands beneath his lapels, grasped them, and brought his lips to hers.

  He stilled for but a second, then pulled his hand from his pocket and wrapped her in his arms, deepening the kiss. “I’ve been wanting to do that all day.”

  “Me, too.” She slid her fingers up the back of his neck and into his hair. “Thank you for my art room—for everything.”

  He kissed her again, his hands slipping lower, pulling her closer. Her knees weakened.