You're the Cream in My Coffee

by Leo, Jennifer Lamont

  I stepped back and looked at my work with satisfaction. If that rendering didn’t scream, “Garden party,” nothing would. You could almost smell the fragrant tea and the freshly mown grass, and hear the tinkling of teacups and the murmur of well-modulated voices, and the delicate strains of a sonata carried on the breeze. The display said, “Summer.” It said, “Beauty.” When shoppers saw this display, the green gowns would simply fly out of the store, I was sure of it. Mrs. Cross couldn’t possibly have any objections. In fact, I reckoned she’d be impressed by my ingenuity and creativity.

  I was mentally practicing the modest and humble response with which I’d accept Mrs. Cross’s exuberant praise when I happened to glance at my watch and realized I was late for class. I tore down to the locker room, grabbed my handbag and sketch pad, and high-tailed it out to the street.

  By the time I hurtled into the Art Institute wheezing like a plow horse, class had already started and the other students were hard at work on the evening’s assignment, a small wall-hanging woven on a tabletop loom. My heart sank a little. Surely it would be tedious, weaving all that yarn. I tiptoed in, made my way to the supply shelves, and began selecting my yarn. Miss Smith walked over to greet me.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” I said. “I was stuck at work.”

  “That’s all right, Miss Corrigan. I’m glad you’re here.” As she showed me how to get started on the project, she commented, “You have a natural eye for color and texture. I will be teaching a more advanced-level textiles class in the fall. I encourage you to continue developing your talent.” She smiled at me with a twinkle in her eye. “And I don’t usually compliment so freely.” Indeed, she didn’t.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’m flattered.”

  “Of course if money is an issue, there are scholarships . . .”

  “You’re kind. I’ll think about it.”

  But of course there was nothing to think about. At the end of the summer, I’d have to go home to Kerryville, where the closest thing to textile design would be sewing silk rosettes onto my wedding veil.

  Unless I could figure out a way to stay.

  Unless I broke my promise to marry Richard.

  “I’ll be watching for your name on the fall roster,” Miss Smith said, and moved off to examine another student’s work.

  With renewed energy, I selected some brilliant yarn, knotted it onto the loom, and launched my creation, weaving a new life for myself with every pass of the shuttle.

  By the next morning I’d nearly forgotten my garden-party display, until I walked into Ladies’ Nightwear to greet the unsmiling face of Mrs. Cross. Standing next to her was Mrs. DiRosa from China and Glassware, wringing her plump hands.

  “There you are, Miss Corrigan,” Mrs. Cross said. “What is the meaning of this?” She pointed to the rack of wrinkled nightgowns still out on the sales floor where customers could see them—a cardinal sin at Field’s. “Did I not tell you to finish steaming and hanging those gowns last night?”

  My stomach knotted. “Oh, dear. I’m so sorry, Mrs. Cross. I must have forgotten. I got—distracted.”

  “Distracted by creating this little theater set, I presume.” She stormed over to my garden-party tableau. “Miss Corrigan, we are a department store, not center stage at the Lyric Opera.”

  “No, of course not. I just thought—”

  “In all my years here, we have never needed such nonsensical props to sell our merchandise. When a display is needed, I create it.” She pointed to an uninspired-looking mannequin draped in a brown crepe hostess set. “A proper display is simple, elegant, and to the point,” she continued. “It does not need to be improved upon by inexperienced junior clerks trying to be clever. And as for stealing merchandise from other departments, why, Mrs. DiRosa here is absolutely livid, and rightly so.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say livid, exactly . . .” interjected the timid Mrs. DiRosa.

  “Poor Mrs. DiRosa has been sick with worry. A precious artifact, gone missing. Only to find out one of my own employees was the thief.”

  “I’m not a thief,” I said. “I left a note. Didn’t you see my note, Mrs. DiRosa?”

  “Yes, I did, but—”

  “We have procedures here, Miss Corrigan,” snapped Mrs. Cross. “Procedures.”

  “I didn’t think anybody would mind my borrowing this stuff,” I said. “Not when they knew where it was.”

  Mrs. Cross pinched the bridge of her nose. “It is not stuff, Miss Corrigan. It is merchandise. And absconding with it willy-nilly is not following procedure.”

  Mrs. DiRosa looked at me with sympathy. “You’re supposed to fill out an F-22.”

  “A what?”

  “An F-22,” she said, almost apologetically. “You probably didn’t know this, because you’re new, but when one department borrows merchandise from another department, you have to fill out Form F-22. In triplicate. It needs to be signed by the section manager and the head supervisor and the—”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  Mrs. Cross broke in. “That’s no excuse, Miss Corrigan. As an employee of Marshall Field & Company, it is your business to find out what’s expected of you.”

  I lifted my hands in defeat. “I understand. I’m sorry, Mrs. DiRosa. I should not have acted so impulsively.” I picked up the offending teacup and thrust it at her. “Here. Take it back. Please.”

  She took it from me with a sheepish expression. “I’m sorry for the confusion. For what it’s worth, I think your display is very pretty.”

  “Pretty vulgar is more like it,” sniffed Mrs. Cross. “Miss Corrigan, you will return all of the items to their respective departments immediately. And you will never again—”

  “Excuse me. What is going on here?” interrupted a sharp male voice. We turned our heads to see a slim, well-dressed older man with a quizzical expression. “What are all these flowers for? Who is responsible for this?”

  “I’m so sorry, sir.” Mrs. Cross fluttered. “A misguided employee put it up, and she’s just about to take it down.”

  “Now, now. Let’s not be hasty.” The man paced around the display, hands clasped behind his back. He peered at it, tilting his balding head. He glanced at Mrs. DiRosa, standing frozen in place with her teacup. “Are you the person who assembled this display?”

  “No, sir. She did it.” The teacup trembled as she pointed to me.

  The gentleman lifted an eyebrow in my direction. “And you are—?”

  “Marjorie Corrigan. Sir.”

  He gave a brisk nod. “Leave it up. I like it.”

  “You like it, sir?” Mrs. Cross sounded dumbfounded.

  Suddenly he smiled. “Well done, Miss Corrigan. Have you had experience working as a trimmer?”

  “A trimmer?”

  “A decorator. You know, for store windows and the like.”

  “She certainly is not a trimmer,” Mrs. Cross answered for me. “She is merely a clerk.”

  “I sometimes dress the windows of my father’s dry goods store,” I stammered. “At least as much as he permits.”

  The man turned back to the display and examined it.

  “I like it, and so will the customers, which is the important thing. Of course, you need to add signage. Small discreet signs, telling customers where to find the table and chair, and where to find the flowers, and so forth. The merchandising department can help you there. Tell them I sent you and they’ll see you get what you need.” He gave me a look of respect. “Cross-promotion, my dear. An innovative practice in retailing these days. Harry Selfridge will be bringing his staff for a visit soon, and they’ll surely be interested to see what’s possible. Carry on.” And with that he was gone.

  Mrs. DiRosa quickly replaced the teacup on the wrought-iron table. “I will take care of the forms,” she mumbled, and scurried off. Mrs. Cross looked dazed.

  “Who was that?” I said. “And who is Harry Selfridge?”

  She looked as if she might topple over. “That, my dear, was M
r. Simpson, the company president. And Harry Selfridge is . . . well, Harry Selfridge.” She sounded flustered.

  My knees weakened in wonder. “The company president likes my display?”

  Mrs. Cross recovered her cool demeanor. “I’m amazed he approves of your little tableau. Simply amazed. It’s so . . . amateur.” She sighed. “Of course, things have been different since he took over the store. He’s nothing like the old Mr. Marshall Field. Now there was a real gentlemen. Why, I remember . . .”

  “Mrs. Cross,” I interrupted gently, before she got wound up in another meandering memory. “I apologize. I should have asked your permission before making changes to the department. Would you like me to take down the display?”

  “Oh, well, if Mr. Simpson likes it, I guess it can stay for now.” She gestured to the rack of wrinkled nightgowns. “But you must finish putting out this shipment immediately. Please take them in back to steam them. We mustn’t subject the customers to our half-done housekeeping.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I wheeled the rack and steamer into the stockroom and set to work on the nightgowns, mulling over what Mr. Simpson had said. He liked my display! If he liked that one, then I had plenty of other ideas. Maybe someday I could work on displays full-time. And then Peter Bachmann would say, “Who created all these clever displays?” and someone would say, “Why, it’s the work of that talented Marjorie Corrigan,” and then he would beg me to create a display in the men’s section, and I’d graciously agree with a modest blush, and he and I would work together, side by side, and then—

  “Yeow!” A burning pain shot through my hand as I absentmindedly moved it too close to the steaming machine.

  Miss Ryan poked her head around the door.

  “Miss Corrigan. Are you all right?”

  “I think so,” I said through clenched teeth, clutching my hand. “I just wasn’t paying attention.”

  “Be careful what you’re doing,” she warned, “or you’re liable to get hurt.”

  Too late, I thought, staring as an angry red blotch appeared on my hand.

  My left hand.

  The hand wearing an engagement ring given to me by a man I did not love, who was expecting me to show up at the altar on September fifteenth.

  Something had to be done. And I’d have to be the one to do it.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Later that morning, the onerous steaming chore finished, I emerged from the stockroom with an armload of nightgowns on hangers.

  “Will you assist me, please?” said a distinguished voice. I spun around to see Mrs. Dunsworthy holding a green silk gown. “I’d like to try this on.”

  “Certainly, ma’am. I’ll be right with you.” I flung the gowns I was holding on the nearest rack—I could display them properly later—and composed a smile. My insides fluttered as I recalled Miss O’Brien’s warning that nobody but Mrs. Cross herself was to wait on the regal Mrs. Dunsworthy. Quickly I scanned the sales floor, but Mrs. Cross was nowhere to be seen. I could hardly leave the customer just standing there in the aisle. I took the gown and led her to a fitting room.

  “Oh!” A woman in a skivvy glared at me as I flung open the door.

  “Oh, my. So sorry.” I backed out and banged the door shut. Meekly I knocked on the next door. Finding it unoccupied, I ushered in Mrs. Dunsworthy, hung the gown on a hook, and turned to exit the cubicle. “If you need anything, I’ll be right outside.”

  She stood still and raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you going to assist me?”

  “Ma’am?” I cocked my head. Then it dawned on me that a woman of her station was accustomed to having a lady’s maid. She was waiting for me to help her change clothes.

  This wasn’t how things were done in Kerryville. Still, I rose to the occasion, having had plenty of experience wrestling my sister in and out of her clothing when she was younger. I unbuttoned Mrs. Dunsworthy’s sleeves at the wrist and pulled the gown upwards over her head. So far, so good.

  Then, to my great dismay, the garment got stuck. I gave it a yank.

  “Ouch!” cried Mrs. Dunsworthy, her voice muffled within the folds of silk, now covering her entire face.

  “Sorry.” I gave the gown another yank. “It seems to be caught on something.”

  “Well, don’t pull on it.” The woman’s arms flailed. “What are you doing? I can’t breathe.”

  Suddenly the door opened and in flew Mrs. Cross. “What is going on here?” She gasped. “Mrs. Dunsworthy! What in the world—! Step aside, Miss Corrigan.”

  Pushing me away, she took over. “Oh, dear, oh, dear,” she muttered, as Mrs. Dunsworthy continued to grunt and flail. “Please hold still, Mrs. Dunsworthy. It appears a fastener is caught on your necklace. Just a moment while I unhook you.”

  With a final yank, the gown came up over the matron’s head.

  “My word.” Mrs. Dunsworthy regained her composure and patted her hair. Uttering profuse apologies, Mrs. Cross shoved the dress at me with a glare. Meekly I turned it right side out and started to place it on a hanger, until Mrs. Cross snatched it from my grasp.

  “Mrs. Dunsworthy, on behalf of Miss Corrigan here, I cannot apologize enough.”

  “No harm done,” said the customer, with what I thought was incredible generosity of spirit considering I’d nearly suffocated her. “Let’s try again, shall we?”

  Mrs. Cross slid the silken nightgown over Mrs. Dunsworthy’s head and tugged it over her hips.

  “There,” she said, adjusting the skirt. “Now isn’t that simply lovely.”

  Mrs. Dunsworthy and I stared into the three-way mirror.

  The nightgown, done up in a shade called “Eau de Nile” but reminiscent of pond slime, looked anything but lovely.

  “Are you certain this gown looks well on me?” Mrs. Dunsworthy asked with a skeptical eye on her reflection.

  “Oh, yes, madam,” Mrs. Cross breathed. “It fits perfectly, and that shade is divine against your complexion.”

  I blinked in astonishment. Was she blind? The dull hue made Mrs. Dunsworthy appear slightly seasick—as it did nearly everyone, which is why the store had a large inventory of these gowns still in stock.

  Mrs. Dunsworthy’s eyes caught mine in the mirror. Embarrassed, I quickly glanced away and busied myself by brushing invisible lint from my navy blouse, hoping my expression had not betrayed my distaste.

  “What do you think, Miss . . . Corrigan, is it?” she said.

  I glanced up. She was still looking at me in the mirror.

  “Oh. Um . . .” I said with my usual aplomb.

  “Miss Corrigan is in training,” Mrs. Cross said with a forced smile. “I assure you, this garment is most becoming to you.”

  “Mrs. Cross,” Mrs. Dunsworthy said, “I believe I’d like to try on that little red number you showed me last week, with the dolman sleeves. Do you remember the one?”

  “Yes, madam, right away,” Mrs. Cross turned to me. “Miss Corrigan, please go and fetch—”

  “Miss Corrigan will stay and help me change out of this one,” Mrs. Dunsworthy said firmly. “She could use the practice.”

  “As you wish.” Mrs. Cross lifted an eyebrow, but she could hardly argue with the truth of that statement. She shot me a warning glance and scurried out to the sales floor.

  Mrs. Dunsworthy smiled at my reflection in the mirror. “You seem like a busy young woman. Tell me, do you still find time to visit The Song of the Lark?”

  “Excuse me?” Then all at once I remembered where I’d seen her. “Why, you’re the lady from the Art Institute.”

  The silver-haired woman laughed, a musical, tinkling laugh. “I volunteer there as a docent. I almost didn’t recognize you. You’ve changed your hair. That style is becoming on you.”

  “Thank you.”

  She smiled gently. “I remember you looked so lost that day we spoke. Like a little lost sheep. Have you made your decision yet?”

  Amazed that she remembered our conversation, I shook my head. “No, I’m afraid I haven’t.”<
br />
  She turned to me and with a gentle smile said, “Remember what we talked about, dear. Keep your face turned toward heaven. The Lord will guide you.”

  Her words jostled my memory. “Oh, I think I have your Bible. You left it behind on the bench that day. It’s in my handbag, which is down in the locker room. If you don’t mind waiting, I’ll just—”

  She held up a hand. “I left it behind on purpose,” she said. “For you.”

  “For me? But—”

  “Never mind. I have plenty of Bibles.”

  “I see.” I envisioned her handing out Bibles to distraught young women all over the city. “Well, thank you.”

  She extended her hand. “I don’t believe I’ve properly introduced myself. I’m Mrs. Theodore Dunsworthy.”

  I grasped her hand. “Marjorie Corrigan. I’m delighted to meet you.”

  Mrs. Dunsworthy cast a glance toward the doorway, then back to the mirror. “Tell me the truth, Miss Corrigan. Does this gown do a thing for me?”

  I knew Mrs. Cross would kill me, but I had to come clean. “To be perfectly honest, I’m afraid not, Mrs. Dunsworthy. The cut is not bad, but the color is all wrong. In fact, if you’re fond of green, we have a new model in a pale celery shade that would be much more flattering to your complexion.”

  She laughed. “That’s what I thought.” She lifted up her arms so I could pull the offending garment over her head. “Please bring it here so I can try it on.”

  “I’ll be glad to.” This time I was able to extricate her from the gown without a hitch. As I left the dressing room, I brushed against Mrs. Cross on her way in.

  “Mrs. Cross,” Mrs. Dunsworthy said, “Miss Corrigan here will assist me today. It turns out that she and I have similar taste.” She smiled sweetly. “I’m sure you don’t mind.”

  “Oh. Well. I suppose that’s all right.” Mrs. Cross hesitated. “Of course, she’s a mere trainee.”

  “Then she may practice on me. A well-developed fashion sense can’t be taught. Miss Corrigan here appears to be a natural.” Mrs. Dunsworthy shot me a wink in the mirror.