Oscar turned to Nell. “Know anything about this?”
“Me? How would I know?” She wasn’t sure whether it was worse to tell a lie or break a promise. She hoped this straddled the line.
“Your little tête-à-tête with our former employee comes to mind. I’m sure the two of you swapped a few trade secrets.”
Nell drew back her shoulders. “T-trade secrets? Certainly not. Although it surprises me that you knew about my lunch with Calvin. Were you sp-spying on me?” Calm. Breathe. Don’t stammer.
“I make it my business to know what’s going on.”
Before she could think of a retort, Soren said, “If their show is the end of July, we’ll have to move ours up to the third weekend in July. Every hotel in town is booked so I’ve no idea where we’ll have it.” He pinned Nell with a look of desperation. “Or if we can even be ready by then.”
“It won’t be easy, but I think we can be ready. Hazel and Marcella have promised me their time as long as Oscar is willing to pay overtime.”
Soren paced. “Which leaves us with finding a place.”
Oscar stroked his mustache. “There’s always the Stottlemeir Club. Unless you think it’s bad luck. We can’t afford another disaster.”
“It’s not my preference, but we may not have a choice. I’ll get in touch with Mavis Benchley. Besides, it’s less expensive than a hotel.”
Oscar nodded and said, “Generous of you to consider the cost, and in light of the overtime and extra expense of rush orders on materials, it’s imperative we cut corners somewhere.”
The rest of the meeting went quickly with Nell getting Soren’s approval on the two mock-ups she had done. She worked through lunch since it was Friday and her appointment day with Dr. Underwood, and by the time she locked Soren’s designs in the cupboard of the conference room, she sighed. It had been a productive day, her newest designs both exciting and she hoped compelling. Six weeks. She didn’t have time to worry about Oscar’s financial woes or him spying on her.
* * *
Nell resumed her visits with Dr. Underwood, who wore a poppy-colored shirt and a bowtie with zebra stripes for her first appointment. He listened intently as she confirmed that her memory did, in fact, happen. “Grandmama said it was always suspected but never proven that Grandfather pushed Gramma Jo to her death.”
“Was she surprised by what you told her?”
“Maybe at first, but she always knew something didn’t ring true about the accident. And for several months afterward I didn’t speak at all, which concerned them. When I did start talking, I stammered, but they never questioned me about what happened that day.”
“You seem to have lost the stammer now. Are there times when it recurs?”
“When I’m under stress and quite often when my boss frustrates me. Sometimes I think I need a psychotherapist to deal with that.” Her attempt at humor brought a chuckle from the doctor.
“Sometimes we’re all in need of that.”
“I do wish I’d had the courage to tell what I saw that day.”
“You were a frightened child. I’m sure no one holds you accountable for it. Your grandfather, he is deceased?”
“Yes. Drank himself to the grave, Mama said.”
“It’s normal your stammer surfaces now and again, along with residual fears. A trauma such as yours often follows victims into adulthood, but the effects are lessened because you’re aware of what caused it. If you need me for anything, you can call.” He looked at her folder. “Is there anything else that concerns you or that you want help with?”
“Not unless you can make hats.”
“You got me there.”
It was her last appointment, and as she boarded the trolley that afternoon, a warmth nestled in her breast. Stammering had tormented her most of her life, but it led to Lindy and Dr. Underwood. She would miss them.
* * *
Late Saturday afternoon, Nell called her mother in Louisville to tell her about the upcoming show with Soren, but her mother sounded rushed and said they were just leaving for a faculty dinner party.
“I have meant to call you, though. Jane Alistair wrote and said your grandmother’s not doing well. A heart condition of some sort. You might write her a letter if you can spare a few minutes. It would cheer her up.”
“I’ll do that.”
Nell changed clothes to go to Sal’s Diner for a bite to eat, and before she left, she tucked the designs she was working on under the mattress. It wouldn’t do to leave them out in the event Jeanette and Calvin happened to show up. It was overkill; Calvin wouldn’t dream of stealing her designs.
Nell sat at the table in the corner where she could see everyone in the diner and those who passed by on the street.
Felice brought her a glass of water and winked. “Angelo’s nephew from Philadelphia is visiting. You want I should call him up and have him come over to meet you?”
“Not tonight, but nice of you to think of it.”
“A sweet signorina like you should be out dancing, doing a little smooching in the park with a giovane.” She puckered her lips, which made Nell laugh. She promised Felice that maybe next time she’d take her up on her offer, but she knew she wouldn’t. She wasn’t ready to risk another broken heart.
That evening she wrote a letter to her grandmother, keeping the tone light so as not to aggravate the heart condition Jane had written about. She described some of the hats she was making, and under her signature, Nell drew a tiny nightingale.
Nightingale song wafted through her sleep that night as they darted in and out of the yews’ soft fronds. The melody went off-key, the fluttering of bird wings a blur as they lit from branch to branch, then burrowed deeper into boughs of the shrubbery. In her dream, Nell searched for the nest, but she only came up with emptiness and shadows.
Nell woke with an ache in her chest. The taste of garlic filled her mouth, now sour, and she thought of the richness of Angelo’s cooking. The combination of the ravioli sauce, the session with Dr. Underwood, and news of Grandmama were undoubtedly to blame for the strange dream.
Still, dreams were a way of untangling the knots of the day’s toil, her grandmother used to say. A wavy feeling came over her. The moon outside her window cast a thin shaft of yellow through the gap in her curtains, landing on the sampler above Nell’s writing desk. She couldn’t read the words in the dimness, but she knew them by heart.
Strength and honor are her clothing; and she shall rejoice in time to come.
In time to come.
The future seemed vague, hidden from her. She had the show with Soren to look forward to, but then what? Her stomach clenched.
Then what?
Tomorrow she would take a day off. Go to church, then take the ferry out to the Statue of Liberty to see the lady who heralded freedom…and the land of opportunity.
Maybe the wind that blew across the harbor would bring her the answer.
Chapter 29
On Monday morning, Nell felt a lightness in her step that had been missing for a long time. Her day of rest had been restorative. Invigorating. She arrived at the salon early, tucked her things in the conference room, then with new designs in hand went to the workroom where she took her place in the corner. She checked the head measurement on the block, then positioned the buckram on the block for the foundation of her newest idea. A basic cloche to which she would add a rolled brim and cover with scarlet velvet. She hummed as she pinned the buckram into place.
“Something’s got you happy today.” Hazel came in with Marcella and nodded as she leafed through her stack of orders for the day. “Can’t say Mondays ever make me feel like humming.”
“There’s a lot to do, and the work goes faster when I hum.”
Hazel waved one of the order sheets in the air. “Thirty more of the Summer Breeze numbers. The rate we’re going through them, every girl of means in New York City will be wearing one of your straw cloches.”
“That many? Another reason to hum a tune,
I guess.”
“That and being a bona fide designer now. High time, if you ask me. Sure gave old Steiger a jolt when I had the pleasure of breaking the news to him.”
“I wasn’t aware you were the one who told him, and why would Steiger care whether I’m an apprentice or a designer? The workroom routine doesn’t change because of that.”
“Maybe so, but the old goat darn near got the apoplexy when I told him that first day back. He hightailed it out of here like he had a train to catch.”
“And here I thought it was Steiger who liked to stir up trouble, and I find out it’s you. I hope you’ve smoothed things over. We can’t afford for you to be fussing at Steiger and fall behind with the work right now.”
“You sound like Mr. Fields. But don’t you worry, the work will get done.” Hazel squirmed into her smock and worked the buttons.
Nell shook her head. Hazel and Steiger had been at each other’s throats for as long as Nell had been around. She doubted her reprimand would change that.
“Hazel, I know you and Steiger have been here the longest, but were you here when Oscar’s dad was alive?”
“I most assuredly was.”
“What was it like then?”
“Are you asking about the conditions or the old man?”
“Both, I suppose. Just curious.”
“Old Mr. Fields was a hard man, expected miracles sometimes. No such thing as unions or overtime then. We worked long hours for a pittance, but the paychecks were regular unless the salon got in a financial pinch.”
Nell nodded as Hazel continued. “Rumor was the old man got himself in a corner he couldn’t get out of, and being assembly line, we weren’t privy to the particulars, but the stress of it killed him. That’s when our Oscar took over. Is that what you wanted to know?”
Nell nodded. “Was Oscar happy about taking over the business?”
“Poor man was still wet behind the ears, didn’t know beans about business or designing hats.” Her face scrunched in concentration. “I came to work every day expecting to find a Closed sign on the door. Around then Harjo came, and business picked up. He’s pretty sharp, that Harjo, despite his barking. Surprised me no end that Mr. Fields got the salon back on track. I know I threaten to quit every other week, but I’m sticking around. Got my eye on Steiger’s job when he retires. Though heaven knows when that will be.”
The door opened and two workers drifted in, put on their smocks, and gathered their tools from the wall bins.
Nell didn’t know much more about Oscar than she did before, but the part about Harjo piqued her interest. Was he just Oscar’s secretary or did he have an influence?
Hazel and Marcella talked about their Independence Day plans, then asked Nell about the hats for the fall line.
“Lots of sparkle and some interesting lacy patterns.” She finished pinning the buckram, then put the block on a shelf to dry.
Marcella put her hand on her hip and said, “Guess Hazel will be sticking me with the beadwork.”
“You bet your bottom dollar, I will. All that close work strains my eyes.”
Nell shook her head and told them she’d get the plans to them by Wednesday. She started for the notions room, but on a whim, she made a pass through the showroom to ask how sales were going and to check the display with her hats.
The doors had only been opened ten minutes, but already several customers were in the salon, and both salesgirls were busy, so Nell decided to check in another time. The front door jangled, and Nell looked back over her shoulder. Mavis Benchley. She hadn’t seen her since their return, so she went to greet her.
“Don’t you look smart?” Mavis stood back and surveyed Nell. “Oscar tells me you had a grand time over in England.”
“Yes. Quite nice. And you’re the one who deserves the credit. If not for you—”
“Pooh. A girl like you is like cream in a pitcher. Always rises to the top, you know. Like I tell my girls, you’ve got the rest of your life to be married. Make something of yourself today.”
Nell blushed. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“No, I just came in for my weekly survey, to see if there was anything new.” She glanced around. “And I wanted to go over the details of the upcoming show with Oscar. Is he here?”
“I’m not sure. Would you like me to take you up?”
“Heavens no. I know the way.”
Nell went to the notions room and took inventory of what she needed, then spent the rest of the day finishing the scarlet cloche. The rosette made of filigreed braid was the perfect complement. She was nearly finished slip stitching it in place when Oscar came in and stood behind her, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder.
“Lovely. I could never quite master a fine slip stitch.”
“It’s easier with the silk thread and finding the right needle.”
He bent over, his breath on her neck. “Having delicate fingers is an advantage, too.”
“I’ll be done in a tick. Was there something you wanted?”
“I thought if you’d like, we might take an early dinner. We’ve not officially celebrated your promotion, and I know a Greek place that does an early seating.”
“I’m not dressed for dining out.”
“You’re always a vision, my dear. Just knock on my door when you’re ready.”
* * *
Candles flickered between them, their plates empty. Oscar lifted his water glass.
“To Nell. And to us.”
She returned the toast with a click of her glass, uncertain what “to us” meant and chided herself for her suspicion. There was nothing untoward in Oscar’s actions, but the toast seemed personal. Perhaps he was just lonely. They’d talked about the upcoming show with Soren, and Nell had asked how Mrs. Benchley was doing with the arrangements.
“She’s most accommodating as always.”
When they left, Oscar kept his hand at the small of her back and hailed a taxi for her.
“Thanks for the dinner.”
“I’m glad you could join me. We should try this more often.” He gave her a peck on the cheek and held the cab door for her. When she looked back, he gave a friendly wave, then turned and walked in the opposite direction. To his room at the club?
Emotion welled up in Nell’s chest, an odd blend of apprehension and empathy.
* * *
With only three weeks until the show, Soren grew more nervous. He popped in every few days with suggestions, wringing his hands over getting everything done on time and endlessly querying her about keeping it all under wraps.
“Hazel and Marcella are reliable. And I’ve not breathed a word about what the dresses look like.” She flashed him a smile. “You worry too much.”
“Easy for you to say. You don’t hold the reputation of your firm in your hands.”
“But what I do reflects on Oscar, and I have a personal stake in this as well—my first show as a designer.”
Soren paced the length of the conference table, his breaths audible. “I know that, and I’ve been thinking of something along those lines. What would you think if we were to share the spotlight as master of ceremonies. Two mics? One on each side of the stage. Having a knockout like you gracing the stage would have a certain appeal—”
“No! I could n-never…not the way I talk.” Her insides twisted.
Soren snorted. “Give yourself some credit. You’re not nearly as mumbledy-mouthed as you used to be. Going abroad has given you confidence.”
“Oscar would never agree.”
“I’ll talk to him. Like you say, you have a personal stake in this as well. Even though it’s Oscar’s name on the label, people will see you on the stage and associate the hats with you, the designer.”
Her hands went clammy and her throat dry just thinking of it. But he had a point. She was a designer and should act like one.
“I know you’re right, that I need to shoulder the responsibility as a designer, but it still gives me the shakes. And I should
be the one to approach Oscar. He’ll probably still say no, but—”
“Attagirl!”
* * *
Nell was a mass of nerves when she knocked on Oscar’s door the next day. She took a deep breath, trying to remember the speech she’d prepared.
“May I have a word, sir?”
“I hope you’ve not run into a snag with Michaels? Harjo just informed me how much this is costing us. A diamond cluster for one of the hats?”
“Yes, sir, one of the h-hats you approved.” Deep breath. Be confident. “And to answer your question…no snags that I know of. Things are going splendidly. I do realize the materials are expensive, but it’s also an important show.”
“I do agree on that. So what’s on your mind?”
“Soren suggested that he and I share the duties of master of ceremonies. Two microphones on either side of the stage.”
“You? He wants you?”
“Yes, sir. Since I’ve done the designs, it would naturally be my responsibility to present them. It would add a personal connection with the audience.”
Oscar slammed his fist on the desk and glared at Nell. “Absolutely not. I’m still the owner of this salon, and I will never approve of a woman taking my place on the stage. If anyone is going to moderate the show with Michaels, it’s me.”
“I won’t be taking your place. Only sharing my part of the burden for the success of the show. I really want to do this. For us.”
“What do you mean for us? Did you think my taking you to dinner was some sort of romantic gesture? That I had other intentions?”
Nell felt as if she’d been punched. “N-no…I…of course n-not.” She pressed her fingers to her lips. She had thought he might have those intentions even though the idea repulsed her.
“You would make a fool of yourself on that stage. Probably get tongue-tied and make me a laughingstock.”
A coil of determination took hold. “There’s always that possibility, but you’ll never know unless you give me a chance. Women want to see other women making a positive impact. I’m certain this will be good for our image.”
The Hatmaker's Heart: A Novel Page 22
