All That Glitters

by Diana Palmer

  But she was. A homeless shelter was a poor accommodation in November, when snow flurries had already come calling, along with subfreezing temperatures. No, she decided. It might be better to wait just a little longer before she risked everything on such a gamble. Besides, Dee’s description of Mr. Kells as visually challenged niggled at the back of her mind. What if she meant that he only had one eye? It would be just her luck to walk into his office and discover that he was the same ill-tempered, despondent man who’d mistaken her for a beggar and handed her a five-dollar bill for a meal!

  CHAPTER TWO

  ON SATURDAY MORNING, Ivory set out for the homeless shelter, where she was to meet Dee and work for a few hours. The volunteer work kept her mind off her own problems and gave her something to do with her free time.

  There was a small corner grocery store near the shelter. She stopped there just as Mr. Galloway, the tall, elderly owner, opened up behind the strong iron bars that protected his shop from vandals.

  “Good morning!” she greeted in her now accentless voice. “I thought I might take the children at the shelter some fruit.”

  “Got in some fresh oranges yesterday,” he said, smiling at her over his narrow glasses as he indicated them. “Nice and sweet.”

  “Just the thing,” she said, and picked out a handful. “When I become very rich, I’ll come back and buy several cases for all my friends.”

  He chuckled at the mischief in her face. “I believe you.” He handed her an orange with a flourish. “Compliments of the management.”

  “Thanks! I wish I had something to give you,” she said wistfully. He really was an old dear, so kind to everyone who patronized his store. An idea lit her face. “I could design you an apron,” she offered.

  He looked down at his ample girth. “Better make it a tent.”

  Her eyes narrowed in thought. “Just you wait,” she promised, measuring him with her gaze. She was good at estimating sizes. “Come Christmas, you’ll be the smartest-looking grocer around.”

  “Nothing fancy,” he cautioned. “I cut meat in the back.”

  “I know.” She picked up her bag and put the change he handed her from a five-dollar bill into her purse.

  “Be careful going down the street,” he added. “We’ve got some roughnecks around here lately.”

  “I know. Tim told me.”

  He knew Tim. Most everyone in the neighborhood did. “Pity about him, isn’t it?”

  She nodded. “All children should have someplace to live...”

  “No, I mean about what he’s got.”

  Her hand stilled on her purse. “What has he got?” she queried. “He was cheerful and laughing the last time I saw him.”

  “He didn’t find out until today. His mama came in about an hour ago for some formula for the baby. She told me.” He grimaced. “Social services ran some tests last week on a few kids at the shelter, including Tim. Got the results this morning. He’s HIV-positive. She said she’d have to tell him. Poor woman. She was scared.”

  She caught her breath painfully. “No wonder! But he’s just eight years old.”

  “Some babies are born with it,” he reminded her. “But his mama doesn’t shoot up. In Tim’s case, they think it was a contaminated needle...”

  “Tim doesn’t shoot up!” she exclaimed.

  “I know that. But he has a friend who does.”

  Ivory recalled with disquiet the conversation she’d had with Tim and his question about contaminated needles, and her vague reply. Oh, the poor little boy! “He told me about his friend. I wasn’t listening,” she said miserably.

  “He told his mama that he picked up one of the syringes, you know, just out of curiosity, and accidentally stuck himself with it.”

  “And that was all it took?”

  He nodded. “Hell of a disease, ain’t it? Kids getting it, that’s the worst. Kids are the very last people who should get such a terrible thing.”

  “If he’s only HIV-positive, he hasn’t necessarily got AIDS,” she said stubbornly. “Tim’s very young and they’re coming up with new treatments all the time. All the time!”

  He smiled gently. “Sure.”

  She shifted the bag to her other hand. She felt empty inside. She started to go and hesitated. “You won’t tell anyone else about Tim? Some people get funny when they know.”

  “I haven’t told anyone else.” He shrugged. “I knew you wouldn’t treat him like a leper, or I wouldn’t have told you, either.”

  She smiled. “Thanks, Mr. Galloway.”

  “For what? I like Tim. He’s special.”

  She heard the metallic sound of the bars being slid into place behind her and spared a thought for Mr. Galloway, who’d been robbed twice and burned out once. Gangs seemed to target small businesses these days. It was a pity that anyone would want to hurt a kind man who went out of his way to help anyone in trouble.

  She walked toward the shelter despondently and hesitated at the foot of the steps, looking around. Tim was nowhere in sight. He was usually waiting for her when she came, and she’d told him that there would be some of Mrs. Horst’s gingerbread left over for him today. She’d tucked a slice, wrapped in plastic, in her purse for him. Had his mother made him stop coming? Unlikely. She was too busy trying to take care of the baby and the toddler to watch him all the time. If she had told him about his disease, maybe he thought Ivory might not want him around anymore. But Tim knew Ivory. Surely he wouldn’t think it would make her avoid him.

  She secured the bag of oranges under her arm at the entrance of the shelter and opened the door. It was a sad sight, all those rows of cots and hopeless people who had no place to go. Some of them were mentally challenged, some were addicts. But most were just victims of circumstance with no education and no jobs.

  Dee hadn’t arrived yet, but it didn’t take long to spot Tim and his family. She made her way through the clutter, past small colonies of Hispanics and other whites of all ethnic backgrounds, over to the side where groups of blacks huddled together. Some were Haitian, some Jamaican, some African.

  Tim’s mother was originally from Zaire. She had a nobility of carriage that Ivory had always envied. She was an elegant woman for someone in her circumstances, and she had a pair of hands that could handle the most delicately detailed work. She crocheted lace. She could even tat. Her handiwork fascinated Ivory, who could sew but not crochet.

  Ivory smiled. “Hello. I wondered why Tim hadn’t come to meet me.”

  “Ah,” was the soft response.

  Tim smiled and waved at her, but he didn’t come close. His dark eyes were hesitant, uncertain.

  Ivory stuck her hands in her pockets and made a face at him. “I know. Mr. Galloway told me. You silly boy, do you think it matters to me? Friends don’t turn away from each other, do they?”

  Tim shrugged and looked at his feet.

  “Listen, wouldn’t you still be my friend, if I had it instead of you?” she persisted.

  He looked up at her. “Sure, Ivory!”

  She smiled. “Enough said?”

  He smiled back. “Okay.”

  Ivory looked at his mother, who seemed to relax. She shifted a sleeping baby girl in her arms.

  “Here,” she said, handing him the gingerbread and the bag of oranges. “Those are for you and your friends. You can’t desert me,” Ivory told Tim gently. “Okay?”

  He nodded. “Okay, Ivory.”

  His mother, Miriam, lifted her face proudly. “There is a risk.” In the older woman’s eyes were the pain and resignation of years; there, too, was the pride that had made it all bearable.

  Ivory nodded. “There is a risk in living at all,” she said. And she allowed the other woman to catch just a glimpse of the pain and humiliation in her own past. “And I know all about judgmental people. Probably almost as much as you do.”

 
Miriam managed a tired smile. The baby cried, and she rocked her, while the toddler, another girl, napped on the cot nearby. “Tim stuck himself with a bad needle.” She took a deep breath and let it out. “God in heaven, he only stuck himself.” She glanced around her with world-weary eyes. “If these people knew, they would not want us here. There was a man from Haiti who had the virus. He was beaten and his things were stolen. He had to leave to save his life.” For an instant there was fear in her face. “The children are very small...”

  Ivory never touched people. Only rarely did she put an arm even around Tim. But now she put her arm around Miriam. “You’re a strong woman,” she told her. “You can do what needs doing. And no one will know unless you tell them.”

  Miriam met her eyes. “It was there, for just an instant.”

  “What?”

  “An accent,” Miriam said. “A way of speaking. You are not from here.”

  “The accent comes out only when I forget.” She forced a smile as she removed her arm.

  “And now you go away, here.” She touched Ivory’s forehead. “There is no need. We understand each other, you and I.” Her eyes sparkled with pride. “You know, I am the granddaughter of a chieftain in my country, not the beggar I have become in yours. Let me tell you, if I had not dreamed of living in a big city and having pretty clothes and if I had not followed my dreams to America, I would not be in this shameful condition.”

  “But you would not have Tim, either, or these two,” Ivory reminded her with a smile.

  “Ah, yes. That is so.” And she smiled back.

  Dee came later, and the two of them helped serve lunch and then clean up afterward. Ivory was waiting for Dee to join her late that afternoon on her way out, and she paused to wave at Tim and his family. A ragged old woman was putting a needle to a quilt she’d made of fragments of cloth that Ivory had brought her from the company—throwaways that the janitor had given her.

  “What do you think, Ivory?” the old lady asked with twinkling eyes as she held up the latest circle she’d completed of the Dresden plate design.

  “Beautiful, Mrs. Payne,” she said, running her fingers over it.

  “This is my fourth. Perhaps nobody will steal it,” she said with resignation, looking around. “That’s the terrible thing about having no locks, dearie. Even honest people will take something when they’re desperate.”

  “If you could sell one of these...” Ivory began.

  Mrs. Payne smiled wistfully. “The extra money would mean a cut in my Social Security, you know. They cut your check if you make extra money.”

  Ivory, blissfully ignorant of the endless red tape of Social Security, patted her awkwardly on the shoulder and murmured a goodbye.

  Dee got off at her stop and Ivory continued on to her neighborhood. When the bus stopped, she huddled deeper into her coat as she started back down the sidewalk toward home, noting the cracks in the pavement and the chalk marks where children had been playing hopscotch. A little farther down there were chalk marks of another sort. There was a dark red stain where the head would have lain, a reminder of the turbulence of the city and the brevity of life.

  Voices called deep in an alley. She quickened her pace, almost running when she reached her apartment building. It might be wise not to show fear, but it was stupid to pretend walking alone at night wasn’t dangerous, even in a good neighborhood like this one.

  She had her key out when she reached the top step. She inserted it deftly, dashed inside and locked it. Looking out the window, she saw three big, older boys on the sidewalk glance up toward her front door. The one who seemed to be the leader said something and then laughed. He shrugged, as if he didn’t think it worth the effort to pursue her. They walked down the street, laughing raucously, talking loudly.

  The leader had a pistol in his hand. He was showing it to the others. Ivory watched in resigned disgust. Tim had told her that any kid on the block could buy a gun if he had the money, and even his parents wouldn’t know he had it. Used guns were the real problem in social violence. The great unregulated, steady stream of guns obtained in pawnshops and back alleys made up the arsenal of the street gangs. And the gangs could be found in cities a lot smaller than New York. So could the guns.

  She went slowly upstairs to her apartment and fixed herself a meager supper of a ham sandwich and some yogurt, washed down with a cup of coffee.

  Somewhere, a loud voice yelled and a shriller voice answered. A baby was crying. Outside on the street, a car backfired—or was it a firecracker, or a pistol shot? Ivory turned on her radio and found some elevator music. Then she picked up her sketch pad and charcoal pencils and went to work on more designs that no one would ever see.

  The designers were working feverishly to get ready for the showing of the spring and summer lines that would take place after the first of January. Ivory watched the seamstresses become more harried by the day as they tried to cope with changes and more changes. The pattern-makers threw up their hands and threatened to quit. Dee had said it was the same with each new collection. What looked right on paper became a nightmare when it was translated into patterns and cloth. A pocket might mean so much extra work that it would make the garment too expensive to produce profitably. A few pleats might interfere with a smooth line. A kick pleat in back might not be deep enough, or might be too deep for comfort. A neckline that looked elegant in a drawing might be nearly impossible to sew so that it would lie flat around a neck.

  All the adjustments had to be made in the designs long before a garment was put into production. Even couture houses had to keep costs down in a slow economy. Every penny counted even in the production of an expensive garment. Rich people were like the poor, not willing to pay more than they must for a piece of clothing. Mr. Kells, they said, was a fanatic about fads and frills that added to production costs. One of the older designers had cried with frustration when one of her innovative dropped-shoulder designs was scrapped because it took too long to sew properly.

  “Ah, the joys of high fashion,” Dee chuckled as they ate lunch at their favorite Japanese restaurant. “Don’t you just love it?”

  “It isn’t what I expected,” Ivory replied. “I had such dreams.” She laughed softly into her hot tea as she sipped it. “Well, we live and learn.” She reached for the delicate little teapot.

  “No!” Dee exclaimed, taking it away from her. “That isn’t polite. Never, never pour your own tea. Pour someone else’s, but not your own.” She filled Ivory’s cup.

  “I’ll remember next time.”

  The waiter brought them more sushi and Dee grinned at him warmly. “Domo arigato gozaimasu,” she said, nodding politely.

  “Do itashimashite,” he replied with equal politeness, and withdrew.

  “You sound so sophisticated when you speak Japanese,” Ivory remarked.

  Dee shrugged, pushing back her pale blond hair. “I love languages. Japanese is wonderful—so precise and logical and uncluttered with homonyms. I could teach you.”

  “Not on your life. I can scarcely speak fluent English.”

  “They say Mr. Kells speaks three other languages besides English, all fluently. His mother is from some Spanish-speaking country, we’ve heard.” She studied Ivory’s head. “You do very well at Spanish, don’t you?”

  “I picked up a little because we had some Mexican...neighbors for a while.”

  “Where?”

  Ivory looked briefly hunted. “Back home.”

  “And where is back home?” Dee pursued with a smile.

  “Out west,” Ivory said, and changed the subject as quickly as she could. “I meant to ask you something. Miss Raines says that we have to go to some party the first week of December for the brass, did you hear?”

  “Yes. We’re going to mingle with the models and the designers like real people.”

  “Stop that. It’s supposed to be an honor.”


  “And Mr. Kells will be there.”

  “I’ll wear my best ragged gown.”

  Dee shook her head. “You never look ragged.”

  “I will at the party,” she said miserably. “If only I could afford some fabric!” she blurted out.

  “I have some pretty Christmassy green Qiana you can have. It looks like silk to the uninitiated.”

  “There won’t be any uninitiated people at that party.”

  Dee rested her chin on her hand. “Well, it’s pretty material. You’ll look great in it. Got a design in mind?”

  Ivory nodded. “One of my own,” she said doggedly. “Since you’re kind enough to supply the material, I’ll run up something for you, too, if you like. I’ve got a nice sewing machine at my apartment.”

  Dee had arranged to rent an expensive gown. She didn’t want to hurt Ivory’s feelings, so she hesitated.

  “Actually, though,” Ivory added quickly, sensing the reluctant refusal, “it will take a lot of time to do two gowns...”

  “I’m renting one, and I’ve already put a down payment on it,” Dee confessed. “But next time, I’d love for you to design something for me.”

  “Super. Maybe by then I’ll have managed to pay you back for what you’re advancing me!” Ivory laughed.

  Dee studied her face and thought how flawless that complexion was, creamy pink and beautiful, with those big pale gray eyes framed by thick curly lashes. If Ivory let her hair grow long, she’d be a knockout. Even with her hair cut short, she was very attractive. And she had a willowy figure that wasn’t too thin or too voluptuous but seemed to mold itself to any sort of clothing. She was what old-timers would call a clotheshorse. She would have looked good in a potato sack.

  “You have nice eyes,” Dee said unexpectedly.

  Ivory laughed. “I wish I had green eyes,” she confessed. “Lucky you.”

  “Thanks. I was just thinking how pretty your gray ones are, and how your hair would look if you let it grow. Then you could wear one of those white Grecian things and wear your hair in rows of tight curls...”