The end of the advertisement noted that women were most likely to conceive during the monthly flow. Strange. Hadn’t Angelina told me that was the least likely time to conceive?
I pulled out The Four Epochs of Woman, hidden at the bottom of my trunk, to see what Dr. Galbraith wrote on the subject. After all, as a medical doctor, she had the most trustworthy credentials.
She said it was a well-established fact that women were most likely to conceive on the days immediately before and immediately following menstruation. At that time, mucus that usually blocked the sperm’s passage to the egg was washed out. She didn’t mention the days during, but it seemed logical to assume she included those, too.
Perhaps I was mistaken about Angelina and had remembered the reverse of what she’d said. It was so hard to keep straight, even with the information right before me in black and white.
April 26, 1908
I spent the entire time at Coney with Angelina. We went to a psychic, and she fell for the whole act. I wonder why she soured on the hat store. Has she soured on me? I’m probably being silly. It’s inevitable that we have our ups and downs. Daisy and I used to have our tiffs, too. Mercy, it’s been ages since she’s written. Has she forgotten about me? I think I had too much sun. My mind is spinning. Must go to sleep. Hope my dreams are sweet.
Joe Spinelli held me in his arms and kissed me so hard, I thought my lips would bleed, and yet I kissed him back just as hard. Our audience stood on the other side of the plate glass, their mouths gaping open in shock. Who cared if we were on display in the store window? Let them all watch! A fire alarm went off. Police sirens wailed. We kept on. Were they coming to arrest us? Let them!
My eyes opened to the clanging of the morning bell. What a ridiculous dream! Kissing Joe Spinelli in public was the last thing I wanted to do.
—
Miss Cohen appeared while I was straightening the shelves. “Shall we have a little stroll around the floor?”
“Yes, Miss Cohen.”
Sadie observed my departure with curiosity. I had no reason to worry, but one never knew what to expect.
“Your sales record has been excellent,” Miss Cohen said as we walked side by side down the aisle. “I’ve observed your dedication to the job and your instinct for customer service. The sample idea worked out splendidly. Clearly, you have a flair for retail.”
“Thank you,” I said, my heart racing with anticipation.
“I want to talk with you about beauty products. You may have noticed how the attitude toward them is shifting. Some still consider making up a sign of vulgarity, but I predict we’ll soon be seeing perfectly respectable women on the streets with painted faces, and we shan’t think anything of it.”
Was she going to ask me to sell makeup? I never wore a speck, and I thought it looked cheap. “I sold rouge to a lady whose address is one of the best on Fifth Avenue.”
“Exactly. Even Mr. Vogel has finally acknowledged the trend. So we’ve decided to move the lace counter down to the basement in order to make room for a line of cosmetics.”
“That sounds like a brilliant idea.”
“I’m glad you think so, because I’d like you to be in charge. Do you know of the Madame du Jardin Salon?”
“I’ve walked past it on Fifth Avenue.”
“Then you know they carry the highest-quality products. We’ll be devoting a counter specifically to her products. In addition to face creams, body lotions, and perfumes, they have a line of cosmetics: face powder, rouge, lip pencils, eyelash paint, kohl, even a colored polish for nails.”
“Why, that’s grand, Miss Cohen. It sounds like just the thing.”
“I should mention you’ll be expected to wear these products. A representative from Madame du Jardin shall teach you how to apply them correctly, and then you’ll be able to teach the customer. I know you aren’t in the habit of making up, but I assure you all these products promote a natural, healthy look. Will that present a problem for you?”
I’d have to stand there in public, looking like some kind of harlot. And teach other women to look like harlots. Aunt Ida would be horrified. Father would’ve forbidden it. But if this was necessary to please Miss Cohen, what choice did I have? “It sounds like this position will involve a lot more responsibility. Shall I be receiving a raise in pay?”
“Didn’t I mention that? Of course. I’m prepared to pay you nine dollars a week. On top of that, you’ll receive a three percent commission on your sales. It’s a substantial raise, but you’ve been underutilized in the store, and I don’t want to lose you to someone else. It also happens that you’re exactly the sort of person Madame du Jardin requires in this position. It’s vital to have someone of your character standing behind these products. Our customers will see that a more sporting look doesn’t have to mean you’re fast. I have the feeling that if we do this right, it will be quite a success.”
Nine dollars a week—and a commission! “I suppose I could adjust to the idea of wearing makeup. But …” I hesitated, afraid to negotiate, yet aware this could be my only chance. I’d hate myself later if I didn’t try. “I’ve heard commissions of seven percent are common in many departments.” The ones that employed men.
“Certainly not to start with. I could speak with Mr. Vogel about raising it to five, but I seriously doubt he’d authorize more than that.”
“I would accept five to begin with.”
“Splendid. We’ll arrange for someone to come next week to show you the products, and then, if all goes to plan, the counter will be open for business the following week. I must warn you, the other girls will be jealous, especially the ones who’ve been here longer. You have the polished manner they all want: poise, confidence, and refinement. Even the best actresses can’t reproduce those qualities. People who know the difference can always spot a fake.”
“Thank you, Miss Cohen. I do appreciate your faith in me.”
“Look at this.” Miss Cohen stopped abruptly in the wide central aisle of the dressmaking department. Salesgirls stood listlessly in front of shelves stacked with bolts of fabric. Hardly any customers occupied the stools along the counters. “The entire dressmaking department should be moved to another floor. Everything is shifting to ready-to-wear.”
“It’s true. Even wealthy women are giving up their tailors. It would make much more sense to use this location to sell toiletries.”
“And that’s my aim. With your help, I’ll show those men upstairs that they need to stay ahead of the times, not behind them. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting in the sample room.” With a swish of her skirts, Miss Cohen turned toward the moving staircase.
As soon as I returned to the counter, Sadie asked, “What’s up?”
“Just a little talk about sales. She wants me to smile more to the customers.”
“Did she say anything about me?”
“Not a word.” Miss Cohen was right—the others would only resent my promotion. I might as well keep my mouth shut so I could enjoy the news before anyone else could spoil it.
—
It turned out my silence was for naught. Two days later, I stood next to Sadie, adding some figures in my sales book, when Angelina came by with a basket of taffy samples. “I heard something exciting,” she said as Sadie took a piece of candy. “Someone’s moving up in the world. They’re putting in a counter especially for makeup, and Miss Westcott here’s been asked to sell it. Got a raise, too.”
“Has she,” Sadie said, narrowing her eyes at me. “Doesn’t that take the cake.”
I blushed, completely unprepared. “Well …”
“And when was I gonna hear about this?” Sadie asked.
“Miss Cohen wanted me to keep it to myself,” I said, glad to come up with any excuse.
Angelina pretended to be sorry. “Me and my big mouth. Guess I ruined her plan.”
Sadie popped the taffy in her mouth. “It ain’t fair. I been working here longer.”
“Maybe you should complain to
Miss Cohen,” Angelina said.
“Fat lotta good that’ll do.”
I gave Angelina a puzzled look. It wasn’t like her to make trouble between me and Sadie.
“Shucks,” she said, “Mr. McGillicutty’s on his way—better shake a leg.”
“But wait,” I said, realizing something else that was odd. “How did you find out?”
“Oh, you know how gossip spreads in this store.” Walking off, Angelina looked back over her shoulder at me with exaggerated innocence. “Isn’t it horrid?”
AMANDA
I SLOWED DOWN while passing the window of Home Cooking so I could check it out before going in. A man on the other side of the glass looked just like Rob Kelly. I froze. A woman walking behind me collided into my backside.
It was Rob Kelly.
The woman swore while detouring around me, so I didn’t bother to apologize. Rob Kelly smiled and motioned for me to come in. I smiled back as if that were a great idea and headed for the door. Crap. Had I even looked in the mirror before going out? And why was he having dinner so late?
If this once was a Child’s restaurant, nothing short of an architectural dig would provide any evidence. The interior had been renovated to the hilt with fake-wood “rec room” paneling and lava lamps. Rob sat on a maroon banquette for two. “What a funny coincidence,” I said, standing next to him as if about to take his order.
“How’d you happen to be going by this time of night?”
Fate? Destiny? Dead spirits controlling every decision I made? “I was just on my way to buy groceries,” I lied, in case he thought I was stalking him. “There’s a great Whole Foods on Union Square.”
“Good old New York,” he said. “Where people go shopping day and night. Would you like to join me? I haven’t ordered yet.”
A large glossy menu splayed out in front of him tempted me with pictures of chicken in a basket and “just like mom’s” pancakes topped with golden pats of butter and maple syrup dribbling down the sides. “Okay, that would be nice, thanks.”
I settled in opposite him, and he turned the menu around for me. I was considering an “astro burger” but craving the pancakes when a waitress wearing a cotton-candy-pink shirtwaist dress came to take our order. Her size two figure made me rethink the pancakes. In a panic of indecision, I asked for the scrambled eggs and then caved with an order of biscuits and gravy. Rob went for steak and eggs.
“And how do you like it?” the waitress asked him. The glint in her eyes made me wonder if she was referring to the meat.
“Medium,” Rob said.
“Hot and red in the middle,” she said, “with a little pink surrounding the center?”
“Sounds good.”
She whisked the menu away. I smiled politely at Rob. He asked how I got interested in vintage clothing, and I told him my mom was to blame. “She took me to flea markets when I was a kid and taught me how to scour thrift stores and attics and even the sidewalks, like when people put their trash out for the garbage trucks. I know it must sound crazy, but I’ve found great stuff that way.”
“I believe it. Tomorrow morning I’m emptying out my grandmother’s storage bin in the basement. It’s like a tomb down there, and I’m sure most of its junk, but you never know; maybe I’ll find a missing Picasso or two.”
“If you see any more clothing, let me know.”
“You’ll be the first vintage clothing store owner I call.”
“Thanks. So what kind of work are you in?”
“I own a bicycle shop. Sales and repair, near the beach.”
“So you’re in retail, too. I didn’t realize.” A bicycle store in Santa Monica? Near the beach? That sounded kind of cool. Maybe I was interested in him. “Is it doing well?”
“Really well. I’m thinking of opening another location.”
“That’s great. And you grew up in Santa Monica?”
“No, I’m from here. Grew up near Gramercy Park, and then after college, I had a place in the West Village.”
“Oh.” That explained the Yankees cap, but the West Village? And no ring? Now I wondered if he was gay.
“I miss New York,” he said “but I shouldn’t complain. Santa Monica is beautiful, the weather is great. I live in a 1930s bungalow near the beach.”
“Do you? That sounds lovely.” Why was I using the word “lovely”? I never used that word. “And what took you out to Santa Monica?”
“Kind of a long story …” He looked out the window and stroked his beard, evidently not in the mood to tell it.
“Speaking of long stories,” I said, “something really interesting turned up when I was going through your grandmother’s clothing. An old diary from 1907, and I’ve been reading it—I hope that’s okay.”
“As long as there’s nothing about me in it,” he joked.
“Don’t worry, your reputation is safe.”
Rob Kelly really wasn’t bad-looking. If he shaved off that beard, he could actually be quite handsome. And Santa Monica wouldn’t be the worst place to live. I’d love a cute deco bungalow near the beach. And there was a great market for vintage clothing out there. “It was written by a woman named Olive Westcott.” It felt odd to say her name out loud, as if she were a stranger. “I’m guessing she was your great-grandmother. Do you recognize the name?”
“Can’t say I do, but that doesn’t mean anything. My grandmother doesn’t talk much about her past. It’s too bad, really. When she’s gone, all her memories go with her.”
“She’s still here, though. You can keep trying.”
“True. The cancer hasn’t affected her thinking. She’s pretty sharp for ninety-eight.”
“She sure is.” Mrs. Kelly had told me her age, but I’d forgotten she was that old. Subtracting her age from 2007, I came up with 1909. It didn’t seem like Olive was about to get married and pregnant, but anything could happen. “I wonder if your grandmother is even aware this journal exists.”
“Yeah, it’s terrible how family history gets lost.”
The waitress returned with our gigantic plates of food. “Need anything else here?”
“We’re good,” Rob said.
“No, thanks,” I added, not that she was directing the question at me.
“Enjoy.” The waitress winked at Rob before leaving. She sure didn’t seem to think he was gay. Thank goodness restaurant etiquette precluded joining your customers at their tables.
I dug in. The eggs were soft and creamy—the biscuits light and buttery. Total comfort, except for the guilty conscience. “This is yummy,” I said. “How’s your steak?”
“It’s done perfectly.”
I was about to say I was glad I’d suggested the place. Then I remembered he’d invited me to come along and I’d turned him down. As we sat there eating, a gap in the conversation began to feel awkward. “So,” I said, “about the journal … I was gonna mention … of course I want to return it, but I was hoping to finish it first, if that’s okay with you.”
“Sure, take your time. I don’t know about my grandmother, but I’d definitely like to take a look at it. I bet my daughter would love to read it at some point, too.”
Damn. “You have a daughter?” I would’ve preferred gay over married. I smiled and stopped eating so he could see I appreciated how wonderful it was that he had a child. I was sure his wife appreciated that he was asking women out to dinner while helping to sell off his dying grandmother’s stuff. What an asshole. “What’s her name?”
“Betsy.”
“I love that name.” Was I a magnet for married men? “How old?”
“Ten.”
“That’s the best age,” I said, as if I knew.
“I’m a little afraid of what comes next.”
“Oh, you’ll be able to handle it. Or your wife will, anyway.” Of course he was taken. And like an idiot, I was giving him a makeover and planning my entire future around him. Why wasn’t he wearing a frickin’ ring? I bet he was gay and his wife was just a beard. That would mean he
had two beards.
“It’s tough, because my wife actually died in a car accident a few years ago.”
“Oh.” I was a jerk. “I’m sorry.” Thank god he couldn’t read my callous, cruel, mean-spirited mind. “That must be hard on your daughter.”
“She’s doing pretty well, considering.”
“It must be rough for you, too.” I put down my fork and gave him a sympathetic look. At least he was available again. And not gay.
“I met my wife in California, and she has lots of family there, but I miss New York. I’m thinking about coming back, especially since it looks like I’ll be inheriting my grandmother’s apartment. Along with my sister, of course, but she likes her split-level house with a pool in Jersey and has no interest in moving.”
Not gay, runs a successful business, owner of prime real estate. “It’s a nice apartment.”
“I just don’t know how well Betsy will adjust.”
“Oh, you know how resilient kids are.” That’s what people said, anyway. “You mentioned growing up in Gramercy Park. Where did you go to high school?”
“Dalton.”
“When did you graduate?”
“1984.”
So he was two years older than I was. I dropped some names, and it turned out we knew a few of the same people. We finished the rest of the meal, trading high school memories. It was possible we saw Debbie Harry perform at CBGB on the same night. When we were done eating, he offered to walk me home.
“You’re on my way, so I’ll walk you home,” I said.
He pulled out his wallet. “Then at least let me get the check.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“I did ask you out to dinner earlier.”
“And I said no. I should make amends and take you out.”
“Now you’re being silly.” He flagged the waitress for the check.
“Thanks, that’s very nice of you.” I wanted to say I’d pay next time, but would there be one?
He opened the door for me, and we walked down Third Avenue. “How long will you be in the city?” I asked.
Astor Place Vintage: A Novel Page 21
