Tiffany Girl

  Instead, she’d tried to do the nice thing by bringing Mr. Wilder, not only because he had a writing assignment, but because she thought it would help him break out of his shell. He was going to be a hermit by the time he was thirty if he didn’t change his ways. She’d thought to show him that being around her and others would be fun and enjoyable. He’d repaid her by more or less ignoring her, and never once asking her to dance.

  In retrospect, she’d realized interviewing the girls shouldn’t have taken all night, particularly when they all said the same thing: They loved it at Tiffany’s and they were concerned about what would happen to them when the men returned.

  She herself was particularly concerned, for it seemed Lulu had some kind of mystical powers for glasscutting. She was not only incredibly fast, but also accurate. If one of the cutters had to go, it wouldn’t be Lulu. But Mr. Wilder hadn’t asked Flossie what her concerns were, only the other Tiffany Girls.

  She sighed. Perhaps her concern over her job was making her overreact. Whatever the case, she was through trying to draw Mr. Wilder out, through bending over backward to make him feel included, through trying to be his friend. If he wanted to fossilize in his room with his writing and his cat, so be it.

  She reached for the front door handle only to have his arm swoop around and open it. Without thanking him, she marched out onto the stoop and down the steps. He followed two paces behind. The polite thing would be to turn around and wait for him. To engage him in conversation. To ask him where he was off to this early on a Monday morning.

  Instead, she headed toward the streetcar stop, widening her stride in an effort to outstrip him. Yet whether she sped up or slowed down, he kept pace. Not beside her like any normal human being, but just enough behind her to keep from having to talk to her. Typical.

  Men in work trousers and gray caps rubbed down their horses and hitched their wagons, getting ready to start their deliveries. A rooster crowed from an alley, and smoke ascended from various chimneys, evidence that some women were still cooking breakfast.

  Finally, she reached the streetcar stop. Only, Mr. Wilder didn’t keep going, he was evidently catching one, too. At least it wouldn’t be hers. He’d probably be going to his newspaper office, which was a different car.

  He stood beside her, casting her occasional sideways glances. She said nothing. Did nothing. Simply stared at the flower shop across the street, her view interrupted by conveyances coming and going from all directions. A bicyclist whooshed by, giving his bell a ringaling-ringaling.

  One streetcar came and went. Then another. And another. Finally, her car arrived, its horses shaking their harnesses and blowing gusts of air from their nostrils. She boarded, as did he. Lips tightening, she shouldered her way into the interior and grabbed onto a leather handle at the top of the car.

  He followed. And though she was surrounded by men, the one at her back was not a stranger. It was him. The man facing her gave her a hooded look and suggestive smile. She scooted back to keep from brushing him. Mr. Wilder scooted back, too, giving her room.

  The man in front of her began to close the gap when something over her shoulder captured his attention. He froze, then pressed back into those behind him.

  She bit her lip. She could easily guess at Mr. Wilder’s expression. She’d been the recipient of many a fierce look from him, but never had he used them on her behalf. The edge of her anger dissipated a little, but she hardened her heart, listing again the woes he had caused her. She needed the anger, needed it desperately, for without it, she feared more telling emotions might surface.

  The man to her side gave a soft curse of surprise. She turned and saw his wrist captured within Mr. Wilder’s.

  “You touch her,” Mr. Wilder said under his breath, “and there will be the devil to pay.”

  The man reddened. “I didn’t know she was with you.”

  “She’s not.”

  He scowled. “Then what’s it to you?”

  “I’ll not stand by and see a woman abused.”

  The man curled his lip, but kept his voice down. “If she wants respect, then she needs to stay at home where her father or husband put her. But if she wants to act like a man, then she can be treated like one.”

  “Are you in the habit of pawing other men?”

  He flushed bright red. “Let go of me.”

  “I’ll let go, but if you even look at her disrespectfully, I’ll knock you out flat.” Mr. Wilder released the man’s wrist.

  The men on all sides of her created a tiny circle of space. When the car stopped and more people boarded, the space remained around her.

  With a bang and a jerk, the horses took off again without regard for the life or limb of the car’s passengers. She hung onto the strap, feeling as if each joint in her body might be separated. After a moment, a man sitting beside her stood and gave her his seat.

  “Thank you.” She sat, letting out a sigh of relief.

  Mr. Wilder’s body rocked with the motion of the car. She studied the brown weave of his sack suit jacket, the silver chain of his pocket watch, his paisley tie, his stiff collar, his sharp jawline, angular nose, and green eyes. Eyes that watched her but offered no window into what he was thinking.

  Her stop was next. He followed her to the door, protecting her back and her sides. When she stepped off, she turned to ask him what on earth this was all about, but he hadn’t stepped off. Instead, he paused on the bottom step.

  She searched his eyes. “What is it, Reeve?”

  “I like it when—”

  The streetcar jerked and began to pull away.

  Lifting her skirts, she walked briskly beside it. “You like it when what?”

  He hesitated only a second. “When you call me Reeve.”

  Then he was gone. Swept away by the streetcar, yet he stayed on the bottom step, hanging slightly out as he watched her. She stared at him as he grew smaller and smaller. She gave no notice to the roaring wagons beside her, the pedestrians crisscrossing the street and whistling for cabs, for the growing confusion inside her upstaged all else.

  CHAPTER

  51

  The workroom felt eerily vacant. Cartoons and paper patterns had vanished. Half the glass easels were gone, including the Entombment window with Joseph of Arimathea.

  Mrs. Driscoll strode into the room, slamming the door behind her. The girls froze.

  She swept the near empty room with her gaze, then fisted her hands. “As you’ve probably guessed, the men are back.”

  No one moved.

  “I’ve managed to hold Mr. Tiffany off as far as letting any of you go, but we need to do something to justify his need for us. We need . . .” Pressing her lips together, she searched the ceiling. “We need an idea. Something we can do that will take the company in a new direction.”

  Flossie ran her thumb along the handle of her glasscutting tool. How in the world could they come up with a new direction? They never started on anything without first having received an order from a church or a wealthy customer.

  “Mr. Tiffany has a showroom downstairs.” Mrs. Driscoll began to pace in front of the windows. “Let’s give him something to put into it. Something that will sell.” She stopped and planted her fists onto her waist. “I want an idea from every single one of you. The new girls can give their ideas to Nan, the rest of you can give them to me. I don’t care how outlandish your idea is, just come up with one. If we don’t do something, a great many of you will have to go back from whence you came.”

  Flossie rubbed her arms. At one time, she wouldn’t have been the least bit concerned about her chances of staying. Now she wasn’t so sure. Being Mr. Tiffany’s second choice to go to the fair had been bad enough, but the way he constantly commented on Lulu’s talent troubled Flossie more than she cared to admit.

  She needed to come up with an idea, and it needed to be a really good one.

  CHAPTER

  52

  Reeve dipped his pen in the inkwell, gave a quick flick of his wrist
, then brought pen to paper.

  Managing comes naturally to a woman. She’s been managing homes since the beginning of time. But the quality we, of the stronger sex, assume she lacks is business ability. Yet this writer had an opportunity to sit with the head of the only shop of woman glasscutters in the world. She and the dozen young women who work under her direction made—without any assistance from men—the award-winning windows of Tiffany’s chapel now being exhibited at the World’s Columbian Exposition.

  A shadow crossed his desk. He looked up.

  Flossie stood in the doorway, her red-striped skirt, navy shirtwaist, and white cuffs reminding him it was the Fourth of July. He’d ridden the streetcar with her every morning since the soiree. He’d told her he wanted to see for himself the harassment women faced.

  Of course, that had been demonstrated the first morning he’d ridden with her. He’d heard plenty of talk about the loose morals of New Women, but none of the Tiffany Girls he’d met were like that, and neither was Miss Jayne. To simply assume any woman on a morning car was loose was not only preposterous but unthinkable. So, he’d continued to accompany her. Protect her. Shelter her. He never spoke to her, never bothered her, just made sure the men left her alone. His only regret was he couldn’t do the same in the evenings, for her quitting hour fluctuated depending on her workload.

  “Hasn’t anyone told you today’s a holiday?” she asked.

  He glanced at his paper. “Today may be a holiday, but my deadline is approaching.”

  She leaned her shoulder against the doorframe. “You’ll be finished in time for tonight’s roof party, won’t you?”

  The sunlight from his window picked out the highlights of her black hair, the brightness of her eyes.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “We’re going to make ice cream and watch the sunset, then enjoy heaven’s glorious expanse of stars while an occasional rocket goes up in the horizon.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll have a good time, then.”

  Looking down, she crossed her arms beneath her breasts. He took in now what he’d avoided before. The curves filling out her bodice. The tightly cinched waist. The skirts hiding the shape of her hips, though he’d imagined their shape many a time.

  “Being lonely is a choice, you know,” she said.

  His body went rigid. “I beg your pardon?”

  She looked up, her arms still crossed, her shoulder still on the doorframe, but her eyes snapping. “You heard me. You’re lonely. You know it and I know it. What I can’t understand is why you refuse to do anything about it.”

  He pushed his chair back, its legs scraping the floor. Cat shot from the bed and crawled beneath it.

  “Lonely?” he said. “You think I’m lonely? Well, that’s certainly the pot calling the kettle black.”

  Her arms came uncrossed. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  He rose. “You. That’s what I’m talking about. You, the sun which all planets orbit around. I can’t imagine anything more isolating.”

  She pulled away from the doorframe. “The sun?”

  “Yes, the sun.” He swept his arm in an arc. “You have this entire household at your beck and call. When you enter a room, you outshine all within it. So much so, that the occupants are quick to do your bidding. Whether it be answering questions beneath their plates, playing games after dinner, or watching fireworks on the roof. The sad thing is, you think of them as family, but they think of you as nothing more than a housemate who keeps them entertained.”

  She propped a hand on her waist. “That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard, and we’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you. How many friends do you have, Reeve?”

  “I have plenty of friends.” His chest rose and fell.

  “Name them.”

  “Mrs. Dinwiddie.”

  “Mrs. Dinwiddie is an aging widow who is very sweet, but I’m talking about friends our age.”

  His brain scrambled. He pictured the fellows at work. He’d never done anything with them other than visit when he went into the office, but they’d certainly do. “I have a dozen, at least.”

  A brow lifted. “Is that so? And how many of them do you have a real connection with?”

  He reared his head back. “Connection?”

  She took a step toward him. “Connection.” Another step and another until she stood no more than a foot away. “You know . . . Right. Here.” She punctuated her words with two pokes to his chest.

  He fell back a step, his mind once again scrambling.

  She followed him. “Tell me. I want to know. When is the last time you’ve felt connected to another person? Really connected. Engaged with not just your mind, but your heart. Your very soul.”

  Again, he thought of Mrs. Dinwiddie, but was afraid that would prove Miss Jayne’s point, not his. Then he thought of the year he’d lived with his father in Seattle. He’d been sixteen and had his first taste of life away from his grandparents. He’d had the kind of friends then that she was talking about. They went tobogganing in shoots festooned with Chinese lights while a huge bonfire crackled nearby. They picked berries, played cricket, and raced horses. He’d attended parties where he’d stayed out to all hours dancing waltzes, reels, and polkas.

  But one night he remembered above all the others. The night he’d attended a wedding ball and danced with his best friend’s sister. During that dance, he’d felt a connection like none he’d ever experienced before or since.

  He pulled in a breath, his nostrils flaring.

  “When?” She grabbed his lapels and gave him a shake. “When is the last time you’ve connected with another person?”

  “In the middle of a dance,” he bit out, shoving her hands down and away from him. “We were in the middle of a dance.”

  “How long ago?” she asked.

  “Years.”

  A peddler outside passed by the window. “Roman candles! Pinwheels! Firecrackers!”

  Her gaze zigzagged back and forth between his eyes. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

  He was so bamboozled, he obeyed. In two shakes, she returned, winding up a tiny music box. Plopping it down on his desk, she opened the lid.

  The Blue Danube filled the silence, its tinny quality unique to music boxes. Stepping up to him, she grabbed one of his hands and held it out while resting her other hand on his shoulder. She smelled of roses. An entire garden of them. He stood unmoving, his arms heavy, his legs leaden.

  “Are you going to lead or shall I?” Her tone brooked no argument.

  He wasn’t about to let her lead. Placing his hand on her back, he applied the slightest bit of pressure. She responded immediately.

  One-two-three. One-two-three.

  At first, it took every bit of concentration to simply execute the steps. Then it all came rushing back. He closed his eyes, listening to the music, memories flooding him. The murmuring of the crowd. Rhythmic footfalls on a wooden floor. Corseted women. And the rush of youth roaring through his veins.

  In his mind’s eye, the features of the woman in his arms had transformed from a young girl on the cusp of adulthood to a fully grown woman with black hair, fair skin, brown eyes, and curves that made his mouth water.

  She brushed against his desk chair and stumbled. Jerking her close, he opened his eyes, and narrowed the scope of their circle. One-two-three. One-two-three.

  He understood now why the dance halls popping up across the city had outraged so many, for in what other instance could a man embrace an unmarried woman? Hold her flush against him, his legs lost within the folds of her skirt?

  His hand spanned the small of her back. He flexed his fingers, spreading them, lightly caressing her.

  Her head fell back, her eyes slid shut. The music box began to wind down, as did their steps.

  One . . . two . . . three . . . One . . . two . . . three.

  Slower and slower they went until they could do no more than sway, wringing every last note out of the
box. Finally, the music stopped.

  She opened her eyes, her long lashes heavy.

  He brought the hand he held to his shoulder, then slid his hand down the whole of her arm and the entire length of her side until he had her well and truly within his embrace.

  Her lips parted.

  Die and be doomed, but he wanted to kiss her. Yet a man did not kiss a woman like her without following up with very real and very lasting intentions. Still, he was reluctant to let go just yet.

  He moved his hands up and down her back, his fingers brushing the curve at its base, his thumbs skimming her sides, learning, memorizing, relishing.

  Her fingers tightened on his shoulders.

  “Shhhhh.” He smoothed a tiny piece of hair from her face, then brushed her eyebrow with his thumb.

  She leaned her face into his hand, her eyes closing, her lashes resting against her cheek.

  The front door slammed, chattering voices following it. They jumped apart. The voices ventured off toward the kitchen, but to pull her back into his arms would be sheer folly.

  Her chest rose and fell, her breath fluttered the lace on her bodice. “Will you come and watch the sunset and firecrackers with us? With me?”

  His chest squeezed. “I’m sorry.”

  Confusion filled her eyes. Her lips turned down. “Why not?”

  “I have to work.”

  “You don’t. You know you don’t.”

  He didn’t bother denying it. All he knew was that if he went to the roof with her tonight, she’d expect him to acknowledge the warmth and proximity he’d felt in her arms. Something he’d gotten along without all these many years.

  And though deep inside he might long for what she offered, he was used to things the way they were. Simple. Uncluttered. Orderly. Starting something with her would be messy and complex. He’d be on unsure footing, slipping and sliding the entire way.

  Her shoulders wilted. Her expression fell. Turning, she walked from the room, leaving her music box on his desk open, but silent.