Tiffany Girl

  She’d missed her painting, though, very much. “Oil painting—which is my favorite—has to be done in layers and takes up a great deal of time, something I haven’t had much of lately. Besides, the oils give Mrs. Holliday and Annie Belle headaches, which has put a halt to the portraits I was doing.”

  “Ah.” Flipping back his jacket, he slipped his hands into his pockets. “You could take your things to the park and paint there.”

  “I could, but it’s a great many items to haul around and I’m not very good at landscapes. Portraits are my first love.”

  “What about having your art in a gallery?” He handed a coin to a rag woman picking bones from a garbage box.

  The woman smiled at him, her skin browned and wrinkled from the sun.

  He tipped his hat. “If you could see into the future,” he continued, taking Flossie’s elbow to help her circumvent a puddle, “and if that future did not include your paintings ever being sold or displayed, would you still paint?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then why did you pay such a grand sum of money to be in Bourgeois’ gallery?”

  “How do you know how much I paid?”

  “Despite what your father thinks, everyone at Klausmeyer’s knows Bourgeois asked for a hundred dollars and that you were a bit short. At least, that’s what Mrs. Trostle told us.”

  She rubbed her forehead. “Right.”

  “So? Why did you do that if you don’t really care one way or another if your work is ‘discovered’?”

  Removing a fan from her reticule, she opened it and tried to cool herself in the heat. “It’s a long story.”

  “It’s a long walk home, too.”

  She took a deep breath. “Perhaps we should get a cab, after all.”

  It took him a few minutes to find one. Once they’d settled inside on opposite seats, she hoped he would forget his train of thought, but he was a journalist. His inquisitiveness would not be stemmed.

  “Why was getting into that gallery so important?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose because being shown there would have been a real feather in the cap for the women’s movement.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not buying that. Not when at this very moment women are being well-represented in the Fine Arts Building at the fair where the whole world can see their paintings, not to mention the ones in the Woman’s Building.”

  She looked out the window.

  He released the button of his jacket. “No, you didn’t pay a hundred dollars because you wanted this for the women’s movement. So what was it?”

  She watched the buildings blur as the cab rolled by them. “Vanity, I suppose.”

  “I don’t believe that, either.”

  She gave him a sharp glance.

  He held up his hand, stemming her objection. “I’m sure that plays a part, but a hundred dollars is a lot of vanity. Not even you are that vain.”

  She lifted a brow. “Thank you, I think.”

  A corner of his mouth rose. Her irritation softened a little. The cab swayed back and forth. His long legs bracketed hers, bumping her occasionally when they rounded a bend.

  “I’m all they’ve got,” she said, finally.

  “Who?”

  “My parents. All my life, they’ve made sacrifices so they could give me everything within their power to give. I used to beg them to take me to museums or to buy me art supplies or to enroll me in exclusive art schools over the summer breaks.” She shook her head. “So, Papa would make house visits early in the mornings for a select few, and then again on evenings when his customers had something special planned. Mother sewed herself sick, literally. I didn’t even realize it until I’d moved out and had time to look back and reflect.” She pursed her lips in disgust. “But even then, when I needed money, I went running right back to them.”

  Their carriage slowed at a corner. A lamp lighter on the street lifted a long pole and ignited a stem on a lamppost, the flame just discernible in the onset of evening shadows.

  Reeve tilted his head. “They actually gave you everything you asked for?”

  She looked down, fiddling with her fan. “More or less, at least until Papa started going to the races. But even after that they managed to do what they could to accommodate me. And with every milestone, every accomplishment, they praised me and boasted about it to their friends. It was as if their success depended upon mine.”

  “And you believe it still does?”

  She bit her lip. “Their eggs are all in one basket, and when you’ve only one basket, it stands to reason that it had better be a good one.”

  “I think you underestimate your parents. It’s clear they think the world of you. I’m not sure you could do any wrong in their eyes.”

  “That may be true, but for all these years I’ve been so selfish, never thinking for a minute about what my requests were costing them. And when Papa did start withholding the funds, I became indignant.” She rolled her eyes. “I actually threatened to go on strike—in our own home. How could I possibly, after all that, dare to disappoint them?”

  “Didn’t your leaving home disappoint them?”

  “Yes, another selfish act on my part.” She took a shaky breath. “Selling that painting in a gallery for four hundred dollars would have justified everything, though. All those sacrifices of Papa’s. All those endless seams and hems and trims Mother stitched until the wee hours. Me moving out. And now, now . . .” She pressed a fist to her mouth.

  “You could always move back in with them.”

  “Not anymore. They’re . . . they’re moving to someplace smaller.”

  “What about your work at Tiffany’s? You’re in one of the most prestigious and exclusive jobs a woman has ever held. That ought to make them proud.”

  “They were proud of me for going to the fair, but . . .” She swallowed, her throat thickening. “I don’t design anything at Tiffany’s. I cut the glass. Papa hates that and Mother thinks my job is mannish. They aren’t very happy with it, but they approve of my painting, very much so. When Bourgeois’ gallery came along, well, it was simply too good to be true.” She swiped at a tear, for it appeared the opportunity, in reality, was too good to be true. “You want to know a secret?”

  He said nothing, but his attention never wavered from her.

  With a huff of disgust, she stuffed her fan back into her reticule. “Being a New Woman isn’t exactly how I’d pictured it. Don’t misunderstand, I love the independence and I love working at Tiffany’s, absolutely love it, but things just aren’t what I expected.”

  “Aside from the fact you don’t have as much time to paint as you’d like, what else weren’t you expecting?”

  “I wasn’t expecting to be homesick. I wasn’t expecting to be worried about my parents.” She rubbed her thumb against the handle of her reticule. “I wasn’t expecting my job to ever be in jeopardy. I assumed that when the men came back, they would let someone else go, not me. Now, I’m not so sure. The other two woman glasscutters are, well . . .” She lifted her face, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I can’t go back home. Not just because I don’t want to hear my father say, ‘I told you so,’ but because he keeps all the money my mother earns and either gambles it away or spends it on me. Don’t you see? I have to keep my job. If I go home, she’ll never be free and neither will I.”

  She’d also never be able to pay her mother back if she went home, nor could they afford another mouth to feed, but she was too raw to think about that.

  “You could marry,” he said.

  She shook her head, dashing her tears, only to have more come. “I’d just be exchanging one man who appropriates all my wages for another. I’ll not do that.”

  “But what about your painting?”

  “I’m going to have to give it up.” She barely managed to push the words past her throat. Yet she had to face the facts. Painting was no longer an option. Not anymore. Not when she had sketches to do for Mrs. Driscoll and sewing to do for Mother.

/>   He rubbed his hands on his trousers. “Don’t cry, Flossie.”

  If anything, his words made more tears flow.

  Gripping the edge of his seat, he scooted forward, his knees bending even more. “You once told me it’s not about the destination, but about the journey. I think you’re right about that, and if you give up your painting, you’ll ache. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow—but eventually.” He grabbed her fingertips, squeezing them. “So it doesn’t matter if you’re living at home or with a husband. It doesn’t matter who your wages go to. What matters is the richness painting would bring to your life.”

  Her shoulders slumped. Her body sagged. It did matter, because she had seventy-seven dollars and thirty cents to pay back.

  CHAPTER

  56

  Flossie cried herself to sleep and it nearly did him in. Never had he felt so helpless. He couldn’t comfort her, it wasn’t his right. He couldn’t track down Bourgeois, the police would have to do that. And he couldn’t pay off her debts, he didn’t have the money. Even if he did, she wasn’t his responsibility, and he needed every penny he’d saved for his down payment.

  Feeling a need to get away, he left Klausmeyer’s at dawn and went to East New York to see his home. He just wanted to look at it, to luxuriate in the thought of one day returning to it. He walked down the deserted business section closed up in observance of Sunday, the day of rest. He tried to imagine his parents on this street. Which bakery was his mother’s favorite? Which butcher? And what of his father? Had the harness maker on the corner made the saddle his father had rode out west in?

  He glanced inside a barbershop’s window. Had his dad sat in one of those chairs? Had he? He thumped the red, white, and blue barber pole and wondered where Mr. Jayne’s shop was. The man clearly loved his daughter and most likely loved his wife, yet he’d gambled away his wife’s earnings on horses? It had never occurred to Reeve a wife would want to keep her wages for herself or that she’d even need to. He found himself empathizing, though, for his grandfather had kept all of Reeve’s earnings when he’d been living with him.

  He took a left on Georgia Avenue, then walked alongside several houses. Houses with front porches, picket fences, and even a house with a swing hanging from a limb of a giant oak tree. A croquet set leaned against a gazebo, four empty chairs inside it. He pictured a group of adults laughing, talking, playing.

  Had they known his parents? Had any of the residents on this street? Surely someone from back then still lived here. Would they be able to tell him of his childhood? Had he perhaps played with their little boy?

  A familiar wave of loneliness assailed him. It had been his lifetime companion, though he was an expert at hiding it. No one at the newspaper suspected it, he was sure, and no one at Klausmeyer’s had, either, until Flossie had come along.

  Being lonely is a choice, you know.

  Just thinking about her nerve in saying that still made his hackles rise. But ever since she’d spoken the words, he’d had to confront them, take them out, turn them over, and look at them. He sighed, unsure of what exactly he was supposed to do. It wasn’t as if he could ask people to waltz around the parlor with him so he could make a—what had she called it?—a connection.

  Reaching the cottage, he stopped and studied it. It was too early to knock, though a bit of smoke coming from the chimney indicated someone was up and about.

  He took a slow breath, basking in the sense of warmth and belonging the place evoked. He didn’t know how, he didn’t know why, he just knew that returning to it was the first step in conquering his loneliness. And he did want to conquer it.

  CHAPTER

  57

  Flossie plopped down on her bed, then fell onto her back, her feet dangling off the edge. Even though she was supposed to be coming up with ideas for Mrs. Driscoll, she simply hadn’t had the wherewithal to be innovative. So she’d taken her sketchpad and charcoal to Central Park for a bit of peace and quiet.

  “Did you get any sketches done?” Annie Belle asked, folding a stack of handkerchiefs.

  Flossie draped her arm over her eyes. “No, I mostly just sat and thought.”

  And she’d decided she’d first pay back her family at 438, then she’d pay her mother. She’d calculated all her expenses—room, board, streetcar fares, the occasional cab fare, fuel for her heater and lamps, incidentals—and found she only had about fifteen cents a week to spare. At that rate, it would take years to pay off the seventy-five dollars. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the tears away. How old would she be? Thirty? Thirty-five? Well past the marrying years. She hadn’t even realized how much she’d wanted to someday get married and have children until the choice had been snatched away. Funny, but there was no square on The Board Game of Old Maid that said, ‘New Woman Swindled. Go Straight to the Old Maid Square.’

  Yet that’s exactly what had happened. So, she’d best readjust her thinking. No doubt her mother would object to being reimbursed, but Flossie would not be swayed. Not only that, she would continue to sew for her mother until the debt had been paid. She’d thought about it all morning and her mind was made up.

  Annie Belle opened a drawer and put her hankies inside. “I’m glad you’re back. I . . . I need to tell you something.”

  Moving her arm, Flossie turned her head toward her. “What?”

  Annie Belle crossed her arms, chewed her lip, and darted her gaze about the room.

  Flossie pushed herself up, then leaned back on her hands. “What is it?”

  “It’s about the Trostles.”

  Flossie straightened. “Has something happened to them?”

  “Not exactly, but they’ve left.”

  “Left?” Flossie frowned. “What do you mean ‘left?’ ”

  Annie Belle sat beside her on the bed. “You know how Mr. Trostle was called away to Milwaukee on business and Mrs. Trostle kept visiting her sister all those nights?”

  Flossie nodded.

  “Well, Mr. Trostle was never in Milwaukee.”

  She pulled back. “What do you mean? Mrs. Trostle received a letter from him most every day.”

  “I know. And according to Mrs. Klausmeyer, his letters promised to settle his accounts upon his return. Only, he was right here in the city the whole time, over on the cheap side of town.”

  She put a hand on her hip. “Now, why would he do that? Then he’d have to pay for two places.”

  “That’s just it. He never has paid Mrs. Klausmeyer.”

  Flossie’s lips parted. “Never paid? Not anything? Ever?”

  “Not a cent. Right before rent was due, he left for ‘Milwaukee.’ And the dinner basket Mrs. Trostle took to her ‘sister’s’ night after night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not only was it filled with dinners they never paid for—which she shared with him—it was also filled with stolen items from each of our rooms.”

  Sucking in a breath, Flossie grabbed the edge of the bed. “No. That can’t be right. She stole things? Out of our rooms?”

  Annie Belle looked down. “All of the souvenirs from the fair you brought us are gone.”

  Flossie jumped to her feet. “No. Surely not.”

  Annie Belle rose, too. Shaking out a handkerchief, she blew her nose. “It’s true. That lovely fan you brought me is gone. So are my brush and comb set, and . . . and . . .” Her eyes watered. “The thimble that belonged to my grandmother.”

  Flossie took Annie Belle’s hand into hers. “Oh, no. This is horrible. This is terrible. I . . . are you sure? Are you sure you didn’t simply misplace them?”

  “I’m positive. She took Mr. Nettels’s metronome, some music folios, and his tuner. Anything that would fit inside that dinner basket. Several of Mrs. Dinwiddie’s doilies and china cups are missing. Mr. Oyster’s gun is gone, as well as a collection of stereoscopic cards. Mr. Holliday’s spectacles—”

  “Spectacles? She took his spectacles?”

  “Yes, but that’s not the worst of it. She took Mrs. Holliday’s
silver frame and the photograph inside.”

  She gasped. “Of their wedding?”

  “I know.” Annie Belle pressed the handkerchief to her mouth. “I can’t believe it.”

  Flossie whirled around looking about the room. “What about my things? Do you know what she took of mine?”

  “Oh, Flossie. She—they—took your money. Don’t you see? They were in cahoots with Monsieur Bourgeois the entire time.”

  Backing away, she shook her head. “No, Annie Belle, no. They couldn’t have been.”

  “Of course they were. Why do you think she wasn’t there with the rest of us when we discovered the gallery was a hoax? Why do you think she donated such a generous amount to the kitty when we passed the hat?” She pressed her lips together. “Because she knew they’d get every dime back. It was even her idea to pass the hat to begin with. Just one more way to fleece us.”

  “But—but they’re part of our . . .” She was going to say family, but Reeve’s words reverberated in her mind.

  None of us at 438 are your family . . . We’re simply housemates who pay rent to the same landlady . . . They think of you as nothing more than a housemate who keeps them entertained.

  She looked down at her hands. “And Mr. Wilder? Did she steal from him, too?”

  “We don’t know. He’s been gone all morning, but the cat you brought him from the fair and his writing pen are still on his desk. Probably because he has so few things that he’d have missed them last night, the minute we got home, and the police would have been summoned much earlier.”

  “The police have been summoned?”

  “Well, of course. They’ve already come and gone.”

  She began to pace in front of their washstand. “I still can’t believe it. Mrs. Trostle? And Mr. Trostle, too? It’s simply . . . I can’t . . . I mean, how did she get her trunk out of her room without anyone noticing?”

  “She didn’t. It’s still there, and it’s empty. She must have worn two layers of clothing and left one of them with Mr. Trostle—if that’s even their name. But we do know she did the bulk of her stealing while we were at the gallery. She must have been watching the house, waiting for us to leave. Mrs. Klausmeyer saw her briefly—basket in hand—but didn’t think anything of it.”