by Jan Moran
“Who cares? It’s certainly not true. Unlike most women, Danielle hardly gives him the time of day.”
Clara fluffed a scarf on the mannequin, then stepped back to admire her handiwork. “Only because Danielle is stuck on someone else.”
“Max, of course,” Abigail said. “The poor dear, she’s still grieving for him.”
“Max isn’t the one sending her love letters,” Clara said with a pointed look. “Wait here, I have something for you.” She disappeared into the back of the shop.
For a moment Abigail wondered what Clara meant about Danielle, then Clara returned, bustling in with an armload of sumptuous clothes.
“Here, these just arrived. You can have first choice. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to get merchandise out of Europe. When this lot is gone, I don’t know what we’ll do until the war ends.”
“Oh Clara, these are gorgeous.” Abigail picked up a delicately embroidered ivory silk blouse and paired it with a floor length, sweeping black velvet skirt. She held the outfit to her and swirled to face the full-length mirror. The creamy shade blended well with her chestnut hair and ivory complexion, she decided. Sophisticated, yet understated. Conservative, yet alluring. Yes, it would do nicely for dinner at Chasen’s. Business meeting, she corrected herself.
Clara grinned. “Try it on.”
Abigail emerged from the dressing room and turned to the mirror. The blouse skimmed her well-toned figure, and the black velvet skirt accentuated her narrow waist and hips.
Clara let out a low whistle. “Abigail, how do you stay so slim?”
She laughed. “I swim five days a week at the YWCA. You should join me sometime.” She turned slowly. “This is breathtakingly beautiful,” she exclaimed, admiring the lace that fell in dramatic folds from the high collar and long sleeves.
“Belgian lace. It’s among the best.” Clara sighed and shook her head. “I can’t get any more now that Belgium has been invaded. Most European designers have closed their shops, as well as the women who provided my hand-crafted items. Someone has to run the farms while the men serve in the military.”
“Women are also serving their countries, staffing hospitals, and more.” Abigail paused. “I can’t believe what’s happening in Europe. Every day I pray for my brother. Jon’s right in the thick of things, you know.”
Clara put a hand on her shoulder and a sympathetic look softened the proud angles of her face. “He’ll come through it.”
“I hope so. Jon’s always been the lucky one. He must have a guardian angel.” She frowned. “Let’s not talk about it.”
“I understand,” Clara said gently.
Abigail studied herself in the mirror. “Tell me honestly, do you think this is appropriate for Chasen’s?”
“It’s a knock-out. Hmm, Chasen’s—Lobster Newburg and the Hobo Steak are my favorites.” Mischief sparkled in her eyes. “So who is your mysterious dinner date?”
“It’s just a business meeting,” Abigail said, tossing her long hair over her shoulder. Her cheeks grew warm and her heart beat faster. What on earth is the matter with me? She turned to the sales clerk. “I’ll take this outfit. Put it on my account please.” She returned to the fitting room, changed back into her clothes, then reemerged.
“Now, getting back to this business dinner,” Clara said. “What’s his name?”
“He’s just a charity donor,” Abigail replied vaguely.
“Don’t charity donors have names?”
“If you must know,” Abigail said in exasperation, “I’m meeting Lou Silverman. I’m trying to get him to fund my new orphaned and displaced children’s project. It’s strictly business. You know I don’t date my donors. It’s too messy.”
Clara flung her hands up. “Too messy, listen to you. You’re socializing with the wealthiest, most fascinating men on the planet, and you’re too proper to get involved? Please, toss me the crumbs!”
“It’s not like that,” Abigail said, taken aback.
“Oh, I know, you’re hung up on that fellow back in England, Sir Rooty Toot Toot, or whatever his name is.”
Abigail threw her a prim, disparaging glance. “Rutherford, his name is Sir Rutherford. We call him Ruttie.”
Clara rolled her eyes. “Look honey, I can only dream of the men you hobnob with every day. Sure, I’ve had my flings. I’ve known my share of big spenders, but they were just passing through. Listen, the years have a way of slipping by. I’m forty-five, and I doubt if I’ll ever find the white picket fence existence I used to scoff at.” She sighed. “Now it doesn’t look so bad. Mark my words, Abigail. Someday you’ll wake up and wish you’d leapt at the opportunity. If Sir Ruttie isn’t Sir Right, you’d better start looking for Mr. Right, right now.”
Abigail laughed. “Lou Silverman is old enough to be my father.”
Clara’s expression became solemn. “Let’s sit down.” She led her to a sofa in front of the mantle at the farthest end of the boutique. They sat and Clara leaned toward her in earnest. “I’m serious, Abigail. Men don’t have to worry about waiting too late to start a family. We do. And you could do much worse than Lou Silverman. Why not at least consider him? In my book, he’s a prime candidate, a fine man, but he sure keeps a safe distance. Unless he’s serious about a woman, that is.”
Abigail frowned and lowered her eyes.
“What’s the matter, Abigail? Something you want to share?”
Tears welled in her eyes, “It’s no use, Clara. I can’t ever marry. That’s why Ruttie and I broke off our engagement.”
“Why, Abigail? If you loved one another—”
“Love has nothing to do with it,” she snapped. “It’s the bloody aristocracy. Ruttie is the oldest child, the only son. The family line depends on him, don’t you see?” Abigail choked out her words. “I would only be a disappointment.”
Clara paused. “Are you saying you can’t have children, Abigail?” she asked gently.
By now, Abigail couldn’t speak. Her terrible secret, so long buried, was out. She nodded, silent sobs racking her slender frame.
Clara sucked her breath in. “So that’s why you left England, why you won’t have anything to do with an eligible man. And why this children’s rescue operation is so important.”
Abigail nodded. “What a predicament, huh?”
“There’s always adoption,” Clara said, gently taking her hand.
“Not in my family.” She wiped her eyes. “It was a horse riding accident, you see, on my thirteenth birthday. Jon and I were racing, and his horse crossed over into mine. I took a bad spill. He still feels awful about it. They say it’s a wonder I lived, but sometimes I think I’d rather be dead.”
Clara drew back. “Don’t even think that.”
“I do, though. Instead of being a wife and mother, I’ll have to be satisfied playing the spinster aunt.”
“For Pete’s sake, this is nineteen-forty, not the Dark Ages. We’ve got choices, Abigail. Women have the vote, we can own property in our own name, and if you want to adopt children, you can do that, too.”
“No Clara, my life is decided. It’s up to Jon to carry on the family line, and I’ll become the grandest do-gooder of them all. It’s all that’s left to me.”
“You don’t mean that. You love the work you do. So many people benefit from your work, Abigail.”
“You’re right, I love my work, really I do. I just wish things were different, that’s all.”
“I understand.” Clara patted her on the arm. “I’ve also had to accept that I’ll probably never have children. But we’re modern women, we can define ourselves as something other than mothers.” Drawing a handkerchief from her pocket, she gave it to Abigail. “Blow.”
Abigail did. “These last few weeks have been particularly difficult,” she admitted. “I received a letter from Mother. She says Jon and Victoria are getting married soon.” She smiled bravely. “I received a letter from Victoria, too, prattling on about her wedding plans, so I guess they’re finally goin
g to the altar. It’s awful to feel jealous, but I do. I wish it were my wedding.”
Clara bolted upright. “Jon’s getting married?”
“You’re surprised?” Looking up, Abigail dried her eyes.
“No, I just thought, oh, never mind. It just goes to show, you never can tell.” Clara whistled softly, then added under her breath, “I wonder if Danielle knows?”
20
Shivering against the dampness, Danielle turned up her thin collar. As the bus lumbered through the streets of downtown Los Angeles, she watched rivulets of rain sputtering across the window.
The first winter storm of the season had arrived, pummeling the California coastline and battering the piers that jutted out to the ocean like fingers beckoning to ships at sea. Danielle had witnessed the coastal destruction that morning during her visit to a Venice Beach boutique, another new account for her expanding perfume line.
At four o’clock in the afternoon twilight was already encroaching, the sky a somber grey, ashen clouds dense with the threat of a second, rapidly moving storm front. Her throat was raw and her forehead burned with fever. I’ve no time to be ill, she thought, not with so much to do.
These last months, she’d found that the busier she was, the less she thought of Jon. Under the circumstances, it was better that way. When she’d received his letter inviting her and her family to London, she’d been elated, but reality quickly set in. Marie had not improved, the girls had been displaced once already, and worse, England was under constant threat from the Nazis with no end in sight.
She shook her head sadly, her heart aching with sorrow. What a burden we would have been on Jon and his family. No, my duty is here now. She had made the commitment to move to America, had uprooted her family. Not by choice, of course, but by necessity. They had barely escaped France. And England was at war. Anything could happen there.
She blinked back hot tears of regret. No, she could not endanger her family, no matter how much she loved Jon. She would stay in Los Angeles. Still, they continued to write. Maybe, when the war was over, they would have their chance. She smiled through her tears as she remembered how it felt to be in his arms. I hope it’s soon, she thought, longing to be with him, to have a partner, a lover, a husband again.
When the bus reached her Boyle Heights neighborhood, she gathered her belongings, two large black canvas bags in which she carried her product samples and paperwork, and stepped gingerly from the bus, balancing a broken umbrella on her shoulder. She glanced down in dismay at the water sloshing over her shoes, vaguely hoping they would dry before her morning appointment. With Christmas little more than a month away, she had no time to lose in placing her perfume line with retailers.
Her family’s Christmas would be sparse this year. She had bought a little menorah for her mother to celebrate Hanukkah; it would be the first time since Marie had married and had to forgo her religious observance for Danielle’s father. She hoped it might give her mother a touchstone, even aid in her recovery. Growing up, they had always celebrated Christmas, but Danielle often sensed her mother missed the faith she had been born into. And now, because Judaism was part of her heritage, Danielle wanted to learn more about its traditions.
Still, she planned to have a little tree for Christmas, especially for Liliana. If she waited until Christmas Eve, she could get a tree for a good price. She’d made ornaments with scraps of fabric from her golden brocade pouches. She smiled as she imagined Liliana’s delighted surprise. This year the holidays were especially important because of the loss of their loved ones. She shivered in her raincoat.
As she walked, Danielle thought of her mother, and hoped she’d had an uneventful day. Due to Marie’s condition, her neighbor still looked in on Marie when Danielle had to go out.
On days like this, Danielle missed the security of Clara’s boutique. She had left the boutique last month to form her own business. Her brief experience at Clara’s had not been in vain, for at Clara’s she’d learned what American women wanted. She’d developed an appreciation of current styles that complemented her own inbred sense of elegance. Clara taught her how to negotiate with buyers and create publicity for her new line. “Give it to the celebrities,” Clara had told her, “and the press and customers will follow.” Danielle had followed Clara’s advice assiduously, aware that Marie’s improvement hinged on her ability to make money for medical care.
Crowds choked the streets as Danielle forged her way. Old men sat smoking and gossiping, observing the afternoon parade like sentinels on watch. Snippets of foreign tongues floated to her ears, melodious strains of Latin, Asian, and Eastern European dialects. She squeezed through the teeming mob, their umbrellas jostling for prominence on the narrow sidewalk.
Extricating herself from the swarm of humanity, she slipped under the awning of the corner market. Shaking rain from her tattered umbrella, she hooked it over her arm, opened her change purse, and examined its meager contents. The boutiques wouldn’t pay her until after Christmas. Pressing a hand to her throbbing temple, she swallowed hard. Her budget was beyond frugal.
She went into the market. At the butcher counter, she gazed hungrily at the enticing array of pink salmon filets, fresh beef, and plump chickens.
A portly butcher stood behind the counter. “Howdy ma’am. Fine fat hens today. What’ll it be?”
“One breast of chicken,” she replied. “A small one.”
“That ain’t much, ma’am,” he drawled.
“It will have to do.” While the butcher wrapped the chicken, she hurried to the rear of the produce section to a bin of half-price vegetables. She crinkled her nose and made a sour face. How she hated the stench of rotting vegetables. Digging through the bin, she pulled out limp carrots, a bruised onion, a battered stalk of celery, and a handful of wilting herbs and mottled garlic. On her way back to the butcher counter, she picked up a loaf of stale bread from another markdown rack.
“Here you are, ma’am.” With a flourish, the butcher handed her a paper wrapped package, presenting it as if it were a brick of gold. To her, it was.
“Thank you.” She took it, then suppressed a sneeze.
“Better take care of that cold, if you don’t mind my sayin’ so,” the butcher said, his beefy red face breaking into a smile that revealed two missing teeth. “Flu goin’ around. My missus pert near died o’ pneumonia last year.”
Danielle blew her nose into her handkerchief, then returned his smile. “Looks like I have the ingredients for chicken soup right here.”
“Best medicine around. You take care now, y’hear?”
“I’ll do my best.” She waited in line at the checkout counter, then counted out her money, and made sure she received the correct change. Every penny counted.
By the time she left the market, dusk had given way to nightfall. Streetlights flickered to life, casting an iridescent glow on the rain-slicked streets below. She hurried to the apartment building.
Once inside, she checked her mailbox. One letter was from Uncle Philippe, smuggled out and sent through an intermediary. Direct mail with France was very difficult. Recognizing Jon’s handwriting on another letter, she smiled. She could hardly wait to read his letter; they could tell each other anything. He wrote several times a week, although depending on where he was, the letters would sometimes arrive in bunches, or out of order. She stuffed his letter, unopened, into her pocket and started upstairs. She would savor it later, after her family had gone to sleep.
A bare, solitary light bulb flickered overhead, threatening extinction. Danielle shook her head. The building looks better in the dark anyway, she decided.
As she fumbled for her key, she heard a police car radio squawk through an open window at the end of the hallway, and the voices of two police officers drifted up to her. They were there so often, Danielle recognized them. The Hollenbeck precinct was a busy beat. She shivered and opened the door.
“Mama!” Liliana flung herself at Danielle. Her niece had recently started to call her ‘Mam
a.’ The young adapt so quickly, she thought.
Dropping her black canvas bags by the door, Danielle knelt to hug Liliana, but instead she gasped and her hands flew to the little girl’s head. “What happened to your hair?” Liliana’s long, silky blond locks had been shorn into a choppy boyish bob.
“Don’t be mad, Mama. Grand-mère cut my hair.” Her green eyes widened. “You like it, don’t you?”
Danielle’s heart sank as she surmised the situation. “It’s just that I didn’t recognize you,” she said to Liliana, stroking her hair.
Her neighbor, Anna, hung back. “I was tending to the baby, Danielle. “I’m so sorry. It happened so quickly.”
“It’s okay, Anna. Go home, it’s late. But I appreciate your looking after them.” Danielle called out, “Maman, I’m home.”
“Oui, oui, I’m coming,” Marie answered from the bathroom.
Without removing her raincoat, Danielle put her groceries on the table, her teeth chattering.
Danielle checked on Jasmin, who slept soundly in her wicker bassinet. She tucked another blanket around her. Fortunately, their desolate circumstances had little effect upon her. Jasmin communicated with gusto, laughed frequently, and was the only pure light in their dreary life.
“Maman, what have you done to Liliana’s hair?”
Marie emerged from the bathroom, shears dangling from her fingertips. Her silver hair hung to her shoulders, she still wore her bathrobe, and her feet were bare. Her pale face was devoid of cosmetics, her eyes glazed with a feverish gleam. She smiled timidly, like a child who had been scolded. “Jean-Claude was beginning to look like a girl, his hair was so long. Didn’t I do a nice job?”
Danielle checked her anger and bit back a reprimand. What good would it do? Her beautiful, capable mother was lost to them. Instead, she took the shears from Marie and led her to the bed. “Sit down, Maman, while I find your shoes.” She found her mother’s boots under the kitchen sink, and plucked a pair of woolen socks from a curtain rod.
“Here, let’s put these on.” Danielle knelt and struggled with the socks and boots. She tied the laces, then stood, removed her own coat, and draped it on a hook by the door. With a sigh of resignation, she smoothed her skirt and blouse, then tied an apron around her thin frame to begin her evening duties.
