You're the Cream in My Coffee

by Leo, Jennifer Lamont

  A uniformed butler ushered me and several others into a large reception room. I spotted a row of enormous palmetto plants which sparked uncomfortable memories of the hospital auxiliary tea at Mrs. Cavendish’s. Had that dismal event been my first clue that Richard might not be the match for me? That I’d never fit into his world? I thought of how Mrs. Cavendish and her cronies would gape at the splendor of the South Shore Country Club. If only they could see me now.

  Beyond the reception room, a series of French doors opened out onto a large terrace with sweeping views of the lawn. Soft breezes gently billowed the tall gauzy curtains, beckoning me to step outside. As I stepped toward the door, I heard my name.

  “Miss Corrigan. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  My heart skipped a beat as Peter approached me. I hadn’t considered that he’d be here, although it made sense since he was a manager. I doubly wished I were wearing a sophisticated slinky gown—the type of gown Dot would wear—but nonetheless I saw unmistakable admiration in his eyes. He appeared as his usual impeccable self in evening clothes, his brown waves tamed with brilliantine. Even the scar on his face lent him a dashing air, like a man who had led an adventurous life.

  “It’s more pleasant outside. Shall we?” He touched my elbow and gently steered me through the throng of guests to the stone terrace. The first stars were just beginning to twinkle in the purple sky as the sun’s golden rays disappeared in the west. A waiter passed around frosty glasses of iced tea and lemonade, perfect refreshment on the warm, humid evening.

  “Beautiful night,” I said between sips, gazing out at the sloping lawn, conscious of Peter’s nearness.

  “Beautiful,” he agreed, but from the way he said it, I don’t think he meant the view alone. Thank goodness the fading light hid my flushed face.

  “I’m awfully glad you’re here, Peter. Otherwise I wouldn’t know a soul.”

  “I’m glad, too.” He set his glass on the stone railing and turned to face me. “Listen, Marjorie, I—”

  “Yoo hoo! Peter Bachmann, there you are. Come and say hello.” A trilling voice cut through the starry twilight, jarring me back to my senses. I took a hasty swig of lemonade to steady my nerves while Peter turned to see who’d called him. Then he led me across the terrace to a small knot of department heads and introduced me. I mostly stayed silent and let him talk shop to his cronies. Once they had me pegged as a mere clerk in Ladies’ Nightwear, they didn’t appear interested in knowing me further. I didn’t mind. I let my attention wander to the stately pillars flanking the terrace, graced with flowering vines, and the reflecting pool and gardens beyond, shimmering pale and fragrant in the moonlight, all the while wondering how on earth I’d landed here.

  Eventually Mr. Simpson himself walked up to our little group. He greeted us and introduced his wife. When the introductions came around to me, he said, “Why, you’re the young lady who brought cross-promotion to the Nightwear section. Well done, my dear.”

  Peter grinned at me, and I’m sure I blushed. The other managers eyed me with fresh interest. I stood a little taller, relieved he didn’t question how a lowly clerk had managed to sneak into a reception meant for upper-level staff.

  “Thank you so much.” I turned to Mrs. Simpson. “This is a lovely place.”

  “I’m glad you like it,” she said. “So many of the old guard—our neighbors, that is, or their children—are abandoning the South Shore and building rather vulgar new houses, way out in the back of beyond, in places like Lake Forest.” She shuddered slightly, as if the thought of being exiled to such a remote outpost was inconceivable. “I suppose I can’t blame them. The neighborhood is changing. Why, the next street over is gradually transforming into a series of motorcar showrooms. And just a few doors down from our home, one of the finest old houses has been turned into a psychiatric hospital for ladies. Can you imagine?”

  I returned her smile, thinking that if Richard and my family continued to insist I was mentally unstable, she and I might well end up as neighbors.

  “Even so,” she continued, “I have no desire to leave my familiar home for the so-called fashionable places.”

  After the host and hostess had moved on to greet other guests, one of the people standing in our cluster—a tall, striking woman with red hair, the one I’d seen flirting with Peter on occasion—commented, “Well, well. You seem to have made quite an impression on the old man.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing, really,” I said, my face hot. “He just happened to like a display I created.”

  “Congratulations,” she purred. “It’s not every day that a clerk gets noticed by the president of the store. You must be quite special. Isn’t she special, Peter?”

  Her words seemed friendly enough, but something in her tone caught me off guard. As I struggled for a suitable response, Peter took the empty glass from my hand.

  “Yes, she is,” he said. To me he murmured, “Will you excuse me while I track down a waiter? Chitchatting with the big boss is thirsty work.” He headed off into the crowd, the redhead slinking along in his wake.

  Without Peter and bored by shop-talk, I thought it best to distance myself from the managers and seek sanctuary elsewhere. I excused myself, strolled back into the reception room, and admired a few of the oil paintings on the walls. They were obviously museum-quality, or close to it.

  An older man with a salt-and-pepper beard came up beside me. “Ah, a fellow art aficionado.” He lowered his voice. “Just between us, I detest these abominable receptions. So much meaningless small talk with people you’ve been stuck laboring alongside all the day. But I do savor the chance to survey the club’s splendid art collection.” He gestured toward the paintings.

  “Tell me,” he said, “which one do you like best?”

  “This one, with the gypsy girl.” I pointed. “It reminds me a little of The Song of the Lark at the Art Institute. Do you know it?”

  “Do you, now?” He nodded. “I know it well.”

  Grateful to have someone friendly to talk to, I seized the topic. “See how she’s gazing upward in that dreamy way. And I love the colors, the ochre and bronze and that deep, deep red.” I stopped suddenly in mid-blather, embarrassed, but the man just smiled.

  “It’s always refreshing to meet a Field’s employee who knows something about design and color,” he said, shaking his head. “So many have no appreciation for it whatsoever.”

  “Oh, I love art,” I said. “I’m studying textiles at the Art Institute. Well, taking one class, at least.”

  “Is that so? Well, that’s a bit of cheerful news,” he said heartily. “What is your name?”

  “Marjorie Corrigan.”

  “And tell me, Miss Corrigan, which section do you work in at Field’s?”

  But before I could answer, another guest called, “There you are, sir,” and hustled him away. I watched him leave, sorry to have lost an interesting person to talk to.

  I figured I should go back to the terrace in case Peter had returned with my refilled drink, but first I needed to answer the call of nature. A maid directed me to what she called the “ladies’ dressing room,” which turned out to be an elegantly appointed sitting room with comfortable sofas and chairs. Ladies powdered their faces at a long mirrored table, like actresses backstage at a theater. At the back of the room, the necessaries were ensconced discreetly in separate stalls.

  From behind a stall door, I heard the outer door opening and closing as ladies left the sitting room and others came in.

  “My word, it’s a steamy evening,” a voice said. “I’m positively roasting. May I borrow some of your face powder, dear?”

  “Of course, darling. Here you go. You really should come out onto the terrace. It’s much more pleasant out there.”

  Some rustling noises took place in front of the large mirrors, and then the first voice said, “I wonder who she is, really.”

  “You heard her. Just some little clerk,” the second voice said in a dismissive tone.

  M
y ears perked up. Surely of all the guests present at this event, only I qualified as “just a clerk.” I held my breath, unwilling to hear more, but equally unwilling to make my presence known.

  “Did you see what she’s wearing?” the first voice said. “It looks like a made-over dress from some country barn dance.”

  I glanced down at my frock in dismay.

  “And that little spray of daisies must have cost all of ten cents from a street vendor,” the first voice continued.

  “Or free, if she plucked them from a public park,” the second voice said with a snort. “Daisies. Did you ever?”

  The two women cackled gleefully as my face burned and the skin on the back of my neck prickled. I’d been found out. Worst of all, I was a laughingstock. I wanted to run away, but I couldn’t make myself leave the stall.

  “Do you think he’s seeing her?” the first voice said.

  “I don’t think so. I’m certain he arrived alone,” the second voice said. “But even if he is, you know Peter. Women buzz around him like flies, although this one doesn’t seem like his type. I give her a week before he moves on to someone else.”

  “But he always winds up back with you, doesn’t he?” her friend said. They both chuckled, and then the second one said, “Come on, let’s go. It’s stuffy in here.”

  She was right about that. I could barely take in a breath.

  I knew that voice. It belonged to the red-haired woman.

  A murmur of voices rose and fell as the outer door opened and closed. As soon as I’d gathered my shredded dignity, I knew I needed to find Peter and learn the identity of this woman who clearly thought she owned him. And then I needed to go home and stuff my dress into the incinerator.

  I quietly opened the stall door and, seeing the sitting room empty, crept back into the party, trying to escape anyone’s notice. If I were lucky, I’d be able to locate Peter quickly and let him know I was leaving, in case he cared. If he’d brought his roadster, maybe he’d even be willing to drive me home. Then he’d be out of the clutches of That Woman, at least for the evening.

  I found him in a hallway near a butler’s pantry, with his back to me. Before I could tap him on the shoulder, I heard him whisper sotto voce to one of the waiters, “Say, don’t you fellows have anything stronger on hand to spice up this lemonade? It’s pretty tame stuff.”

  “No, sir,” the waiter murmured back. “Not here. Mr. Simpson’s strict on that account. Teetotaler, you know. But if you’re interested, I know of a place—”

  He stopped short when he caught sight of me. Peter turned around and smiled broadly.

  “There you are, Marjorie,” he said a little too brightly, holding out a glass of lemonade. “Having a good time?”

  So the rumors were true. Peter, asking about liquor, was probably trying to drum up business for his bootlegging operation. At the very least, he was a drinker and a hooligan with no respect for the law.

  The magical evening rapidly spun into a whorl of disappointment.

  “I’m going home. Just wanted to let you know.” I said coldly. He raised his eyebrows.

  “You look flushed. Aren’t you feeling well?” He reached out to touch my cheek, but I pushed his hand away.

  “Not particularly.”

  A frown of concern crossed his face. “Let me drive you.” He handed our glasses to the waiter. “We’ve put in our appearance, anyway. We won’t miss anything, except for Mr. Simpson’s long-winded toast to the Selfridge people.”

  “No, thank you.” I could taste the disappointment in the back of my throat. It no longer mattered to me who the red-haired woman was. She could have him. If Peter was a bootlegger, he was not the man for me. Furthermore, he was a liar for telling me I looked pretty in my homemade dress that was obviously a sartorial disaster. Both a liar and a drunkard. So much for my taste in men.

  I hurried to the entrance off the Grand Promenade, where a valet signaled for a taxi. As we sped northward, I thought, Why, Peter Bachmann doesn’t bear the least resemblance to Jack Lund. Not in the slightest. I couldn’t imagine why I ever thought he did.

  When I got home, I brushed off Dot’s inquiries about the evening and shut the door to my room. I got ready for bed and then immediately wrote a long letter to Richard, and this time I didn’t tear it up.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  On Saturday I skipped lunch to avoid running into Peter. It was better that way. Miss Ryan told me he’d stopped by and asked for me midmorning, but when she told him I was working in the stockroom, he merely said he was glad I must be feeling better. I told myself I was disappointed in him, but really I was disappointed in myself for being a poor judge of character. I had come perilously close to throwing over a perfectly good fiancé for a scofflaw and liar.

  On the other hand, I could not deny that Richard had never aroused in me the sort of feelings that Jack had so long ago—or, frankly, as Peter did now. I knew in my heart it was wrong to go through with the wedding. Richard deserved to marry a woman who felt as crazy about him as I had felt about Jack. Alas, that woman wasn’t me. I just had to figure out how to break the news. And then I could go forth as a spinster and forget about men and marriage altogether. I’d work until I was as old as Mrs. Cross, and then I’d retire to a small cottage in Michigan City with geraniums in the window and a cat on my lap.

  In the end, it was Dot who decided there was no time like the present to make a visit to Kerryville.

  “You’ve been stuck at that old settlement house every night this week, except for Tuesday’s art class,” she said in her don’t-argue-with-me voice. “You haven’t had a minute’s rest.”

  “Our concert is next week,” I moaned.

  “They’re just children,” she said. “Give them a little break, for pity’s sake.”

  I had to agree. We could all use a breather—me, Ruthie, and Annamarie, too.

  “And we have to settle this Richard-versus-Peter question once and for all,” Dot continued, “which can only be done if you talk to the man face-to-face.”

  “There’s no question to settle,” I protested. “Clearly Peter is a disaster in the making, and Richard—well, everyone agrees he and I were meant to be together.”

  “I don’t care about what ‘everyone’ thinks,” Dot said. “I care about what you think. So we’ll go to Kerryville and figure it all out.”

  Her motives weren’t entirely altruistic. A big part of the reason she wanted to get out of town was that she’d had yet another spat with Louie and wanted him to miss her and realize he couldn’t live without her. In my opinion, he’d already made it clear he could, but she didn’t want to see it, and she didn’t want to hear it from me. But I agreed a change of scenery and a few days at home with my family would be a welcome break to help me clear my head. Who knew? Maybe seeing Richard again would reignite my feelings for him and knock a certain wavy-haired gangster right out of my head. On the other hand, I could have a relapse of fainting spells. Either way, the weekend promised not to be dull.

  Dot arranged to take time off from Millinery, and in a rare moment of sympathy—or perhaps simply annoyance at my listless demeanor after yet another sleepless night—Mrs. Cross allowed me to take a few days off as well. A wicked heat wave brought along a slowdown in customer traffic, assuring me Ladies’ Nightwear would not be overburdened with clientele on the few days I’d be away.

  When we stepped off the train at the Kerryville depot, my joy surged at coming home, seeing familiar sights. The very air smelled pure and fresh after the smog of the city. Charlie was there to meet the train. He welcomed me with a big hug and said, “It’s great to have you home, kid.” Then he grasped my shoulders and held me at arm’s length. He let out a low whistle. “Hey, sis. Don’t you look swell. New duds?”

  “You like?” I patted my Darling Yellow Hat and stepped back to include Dot in our little circle. “Dot, this is my brother, Charlie. Charlie, this is my roommate, Miss Dorothy Rodgers.”

  “Please call me Dot
.” She extended an elegant gloved hand toward Charlie. It amused me to see my outgoing, talkative brother turn tongue-tied, rendered mute by the full-wattage smile that Dot reserved for men she found appealing. From the top of her fashionable cloche to the tips of her stylish pumps, Dot looked like nothing Kerryville had ever seen, outside of the Orpheum’s silver screen. They gazed at each other like two forest creatures sniffing each other out.

  “Charlie? Where’s the car?” I said, breaking the spell.

  “Oh. Uh, this way,” Charlie mumbled, taking Dot’s valise in his good hand and leaving me to hoist mine along behind them.

  When we reached the house, Helen shouted, “They’re here.” She bounced off the porch and ran toward us across the lawn, braids flying.

  “I thought you would never get here.” She nearly knocked the wind out of me. “Oh, Marjie. You’ve bobbed your hair. Oh, it’s precious. Turn around. Oh. It’s exactly what I—” She stopped and stared, star-struck, at Dot, who tended to have that effect on people.

  “Dot Rodgers, this is my sister, Helen.”

  “How do you do, Miss Rodgers,” Helen murmured, eyes round. She bobbed a little curtsy, just as we’d been taught at Mercy Gilligan’s School of Dance and Deportment. In addition to teaching us the fox trot and the waltz, Mercy Gilligan’s grand mission in life was to prepare generations of Kerryville girls to be presented at court, should the need arise, even though the only courts we were ever likely to see involved a white ball and a net.

  Dot smiled and extended her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Helen.”

  Helen linked arms with Dot and me as we continued to the house. Frances greeted us as we entered the hall. Her eyes swept Dot from her Louise Brooks hair to her shiny satin pumps. But her eyes really popped when she caught sight of me. She gaped as if I’d grown a third eyeball.