by Deeanne Gist
HARPER’S BAZAAR FASHION PLATE 30
“Flossie stepped into the parlor, her accordion-pleated skirt of blue rippling with every step.”
CHAPTER
53
One look at her mother and Flossie knew Papa had gone to the races again.
“How much?” she whispered, closing her bedroom door.
Mother laid Flossie’s dress out on the bed, her eyes ringed with worry. “Come, I’m anxious to see how this looks on you, and we don’t want to keep everyone in Mrs. Klausmeyer’s parlor waiting.”
Flossie began to unbutton her shirtwaist. “How much?”
Mother’s lips trembled. “Oh, now, nothing for you to worry about.”
“Tell me.”
She swallowed. “He said we have to move, we can no longer afford our house.”
“No.” Sucking in a breath, Flossie held her shirtwaist suspended in her hand. “That much?”
“He won’t tell me, but it must have been a lot.”
Flossie slipped off her skirt. “What are you going to do?”
“Move, I suppose.” Mother picked up the new gown she’d made and slipped it over Flossie’s head.
“But what about your customers? What if you move to a part of town they won’t go to?” Flossie turned her back.
Mother began to close up the dress with a buttonhook. “I’ll just have to go to them, then.”
“What about Mrs. Vanderbilt’s cousin? How are the wedding gowns going? Do you need me to help?”
A slight pause. “I told Mrs. Vanderbilt I wasn’t going to do it. I didn’t know this was going to happen and didn’t think we’d need the money.”
“Oh, Mother.” Flossie caught her mother’s reflection in the mirror. “Maybe my painting will sell quickly.”
“Either way, I want you to enjoy yourself tonight. It’s not every day a woman debuts at an art gallery—that you debut at an art gallery. Promise me you’ll put this from your mind for now and enjoy your evening? Please?”
Flossie took a deep breath. “On one condition. You bring me some sewing. Just leave it on my bed and I’ll work on it as much as I can.”
“No, you need to be sketching up ideas for Mrs. Driscoll. How can you do that and sew my things as well? You can’t. Besides, you hate to sew. I’ll be fine.”
“I mean it, Mother. I should have done that the minute you gave me the money, but we were so busy at work, I was meeting myself coming and going. It’s slowed down now, especially since the men are back. So, either you bring me some sewing or I’ll come and get it myself, but I am going to help.”
Mother gave her a pained look.
“It will only be until the painting sells,” Flossie said. “Which might even be this very night.”
“Fine, fine.” She fluffed Flossie’s sleeves. “Now, what do you think of the dress?”
Swallowing, Flossie put on a brave smile. “You outdid yourself. It’s gorgeous.”
Plastering a gay expression onto her face, Flossie stepped into the parlor, her accordion-pleated skirt of blue rippling with every step. The crisscrossed front of royal-blue silk left the neckline slightly open. Velvet bows caught large puffed sleeves at her elbows, and deep epaulettes of duchesse lace rested atop her shoulders. The entire family of 438 broke into spontaneous applause. All except for Reeve, of course.
“Here she is! Our own little star.” Mrs. Dinwiddie hauled her close for a back-breaking hug, the scent of camphor filling Flossie’s lungs. Over the woman’s shoulder, she looked up at Reeve, his expression unreadable. Even so, she knew what he was thinking.
You, the sun which all planets orbit around.
She shut her eyes. It was no longer about her debuting at an art gallery. It was about selling her painting and paying her mother back—and then some. Still, she had promised her mother she’d enjoy the evening. It was a dream come true. There would be plenty of time to worry later. If that made her the sun, so be it.
Pulling back from the hug, she looked about the room. “Where’s Mrs. Trostle?”
Reeve pinched the bridge of his nose. Heat rose up her neck. She hadn’t meant to imply everyone at the house was required to attend the opening. It was simply that the Trostles were the ones who’d arranged everything to begin with, so she naturally wondered at Mrs. Trostle’s absence.
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.
He was wrong about that, too. They were her family. They wouldn’t all gather like this to celebrate her night if they were mere housemates. Just because he’d shut himself off didn’t mean everyone else had.
Over and over their conversation had replayed itself. How long ago, she’d asked him, expecting him to say it had been a few weeks or maybe even a few months since he’d last connected with another person his age.
Years, he’d said, and her heart had broken. How many years? She hadn’t had the courage to ask, wasn’t sure she wanted to know. She only knew she wanted him to be free of that wretched wall of loneliness. One little waltz, however, wouldn’t break down a barricade that had been years in the making, although it had removed a brick or two.
“Mrs. Trostle is going with her sister,” Mrs. Holliday said. “She said they’d see us there.”
Papa snapped his pocket watch closed, his hair as perfect as ever, his eyes clouded. “Is everyone ready to go?”
The entire family made their way to the door. Flossie laughed and visited and put on a merry face. She knew Reeve wouldn’t come, knew he’d stop at the door and close it behind them. She’d prepared herself for that very eventuality.
When he put on his hat and stepped outside with the rest of them, she found the summer air suddenly thick and hard to breathe. She hadn’t realized until that very moment how badly she wanted him to be there. Not only to celebrate this crowning achievement with her and the rest of the family, but so she’d have his solid presence in a world that had just shifted on its axis.
FAUERBACH BEER WAGON 31
“A brewer’s wagon with bright green wheels ambled by, three dozen kegs stacked against its flareboards.”
CHAPTER
54
The door of Bourgeois’ Art Gallery was locked, its window covered with brown paper from the inside.
“Are you sure it was tonight?” Papa asked.
“Yes, yes. I’m sure.” She fumbled with her reticule, then extracted the invitation. Everyone hovered around her, reading over her shoulder. She pointed to the date. “See there? ‘Saturday evening, the eighth of July, at seven thirty.’ ”
Papa flicked open his pocket watch. “Well, it’s seven forty-five now. Where is everyone? Is it the right address? Let me see that.”
She handed it to him, looking again at the number on the door plaque. “I’m sure this is it. I was here a few weeks ago. And—and Monsieur Bourgeois was inside. He—he showed me a painting by, um, Mr. Audubon. You know, one of those beautiful etchings he does of his birds?” She walked to the window and tapped on its glass. “Hello? Hello? Anyone home?”
Mrs. Dinwiddie exchanged a glance with Reeve, her brows drawn together. He lowered his chin, studying his shoes.
Flossie touched a bit of gold paint flaking off the window. “This—this used to say Bourgeois’ Art Gallery.” She drew an arch with her finger across the glass. “But, it’s gone. I—I don’t understand.”
Papa’s face turned red. “I’ll check with the neighbors.” He walked to the next shop, but it was vacant. He knocked on three more doors, shouting for someone to answer. A brewer’s wagon with bright-green wheels ambled by, three dozen kegs stacked against its flareboards.
Flossie looked at her mother. “What’s happening? I don’t understand.”
Mother took her hand and patted it. “There, there. Your father will find out what’s amiss. I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding. See there? He’s talking to someone now.”
They all looked down the walkway, t
he sun so low the buildings’ shadows stretched clear across the street. Papa conversed with a man in an apron, his arms making big motions and pointing in their direction.
A cab rolled by. “Anyone need a ride?”
No one said a word.
Papa shook hands with the man, then headed back toward them. A shiver raced through Flossie.
Mother pulled her close. “What did you find out, Bert?”
“Bourgeois is gone, has been for days. And we’re evidently not the first to inquire about him.”
“What do you mean?” Reeve asked.
“There were others, quite a few others, who’d paid him money to show their artwork.”
Flossie frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“He skipped town, girl.” His tone impatient, he snapped his fingers. “Vanished. Took the money and ran.”
The blood drained from her face. “Skipped town? Took the money? Are you sure?”
He stretched both palms toward the boarded-up gallery. “What does it look like to you? A gallery opening, or a shyster who pretended to be something he wasn’t?”
She wrapped her arms about her waist, a wave of nausea slamming through her. Oh, no. Oh, no. Her mother’s money. Her mother’s seventy-five dollars and the money her family at 438 had given her.
Papa shook his head. “A hundred dollars. To think he tried to take me for a hundred dollars.” He closed and opened his fists. “Thank goodness I didn’t give him any money.”
A tiny moan escaped from the back of her throat. “Mother.”
Mother placed an arm about her. “Yes. Thank goodness for that, Bert. No harm done.”
“No harm done?” Papa growled. “He got away with Flossie’s painting. He had no right.”
“Try not to upset yourself, dear. You know what happens when you get upset.”
But he was already wheezing, his face turning a deeper shade of red, almost purple. Reeve held up a hand and whistled for one of the cabs circling the block.
Mother released Flossie and took her husband’s arm. “Come, Bert. Take me home.”
Papa shook his head. “Flossie. She needs us. We need to, we need to . . .”
Hiding her distress, she rushed to him. “I’m fine, Papa, just fine. And look, my whole family is here.”
“Family?” He pulled back, his scowl even worse than before.
“Friends.” She twirled her hand toward them. “My friends. They’re all here. I’ll be fine.”
Reeve helped Mother and then Papa inside. Before he closed the door, Papa grabbed Reeve’s arm. “You’ll see . . .” He took another wheezing breath. “Flossie safely home?”
“I won’t leave her side.”
Papa fell back into his seat. “Good man.”
LAMP LIGHTER 32
“A lamp lighter on the street lifted a long pole and ignited a stem on a lamppost, the flame just discernable in the onset of evening shadows.”
CHAPTER
55
Her parents’ cab rounded the corner. Hugging herself, Flossie bent slightly over. Something wasn’t right. Monsieur Bourgeois had taken her to Delmonico’s. She’d just seen him here herself, at this very gallery. The walls and floor had been freshly polished. The furniture was to have been delivered that day. Stacks of paintings had leaned against the deeply grained panels.
But, no. She hadn’t actually seen the paintings. Only wrapped canvases with names scrawled across them. Had the Audubon he’d shown her been real? She didn’t know. She hadn’t looked that closely. Hadn’t even thought to. Wasn’t sure she’d have been able to tell even if she had.
Her mother. What was she going to do about her mother? Her head became light. Her vision doubled.
She turned back to her family at 438. A group of them had already filled one cab, the rest had hailed another. No one said a word. No one made eye contact.
“I’ll pay you back,” she said, her voice cracking.
Mrs. Dinwiddie tsked. “Nonsense. You’ll do no such thing.”
Mr. Nettels exchanged a look with Mr. Holliday.
She swallowed. The newspapers were filled with banks closing, railroads failing, and farmers going belly-up. She wasn’t exactly certain how that impacted a music teacher and a photographer, but it had. Mrs. Dinwiddie told her the number of students Mr. Nettels taught had diminished by half and that Mrs. Holliday hadn’t received her allowance from her husband in over a month.
Flossie rubbed her temples, her chest aching. Annie Belle gave her a furtive glance, then stepped into the cab. When all had boarded, Reeve stood at the open door waiting for her.
Emotion rushed up her chest to her throat. Her eyes filled. She shook her head. “I’ll . . . I’ll walk.”
“It’s too far.”
“I’ll walk.” She turned around and began to walk.
The door of the cab closed. The cabbie clicked his tongue and flicked the reins. Flossie kept her eyes forward, looking neither left nor right. The two cabs rolled past. She bit her lip. Her nostrils flared. Why was this happening?
Reeve caught her elbow and pulled her to a stop.
She yanked her arm out of his grip and kept going. “You were supposed to get on the cab.”
“I promised your father.”
She spun around. “Is that why you’re not on it? Because you promised my father?” She curled her lip. “Well, of course that’s why. It couldn’t be because you cared. Not with that blasted brick wall you have right in there.” She shoved him in the chest.
He fell back a step.
“That’s waaaaaay too solid to breach, isn’t it? So, thank you, but no. I’m not interested in being escorted home by someone who only pretends to care. Or worse, who denies he cares. I want you on a cab.” She lifted her arm. “Cab! Cab!”
But no one stopped. No one gave her any notice, for a woman wasn’t supposed to call for a cab. Only men had that privilege. Fine, she’d walk.
A man coming their way looked her up and down, then crossed to the other side of the street. She stuck her tongue out at him.
Reeve pulled her to a stop again. “Do you want a cab? If you want one, I’ll get you one, but I’m riding with you.”
She pushed him away. “Don’t take my arm again. And if I want a cab, I’ll jolly well get one myself, if I have to lie down in the middle of the road to do it.”
Sighing, he raised his arm.
“No!” She slapped it down.
He lifted his brows.
“I said I’d do it, but right now, I’m going to walk.” She began to stride. Big, long strides that kicked out her accordion skirt, its folds opening and closing around her feet like the instrument it was named for.
This time Reeve stayed beside her, not behind her the way he did in the mornings on the way to the streetcar.
“Why do you do that, anyway?” she snapped.
He gave her a sideways glance. “Do what?”
“Follow me to the streetcar every morning? Continue to ride with me to work?”
“Because I don’t like the idea of anyone touching you.”
She stopped. “I didn’t expect you to give me an honest answer.”
“Neither did I.”
Another honest answer. Blowing out a breath, she turned her head to the side. Garbage lay strewn throughout the road, reeking. The building beside her was boarded up. Another had a glass pane broken out of its second-floor window. Why hadn’t she noticed the neighborhood was so shabby, so vacant? Would a man have noticed if he’d been the one to deliver the money? Had Monsieur Bourgeois swindled men, too, or only women? Or maybe he hadn’t swindled anyone.
“Maybe this is all a mistake,” she said. “Maybe some terrible tragedy has happened to Monsieur Bourgeois and he’s left word with Mrs. Trostle.”
Reeve said nothing.
She crossed her arms. “What?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“No, but you were thinking something. What was it?”
“I was wondering about
your painting.”
Her painting. Sweet Mackinaw. She’d been so upset about Mother’s fortune, she’d forgotten about her painting. The seashore painting was Papa’s favorite, and though she was angry with him about the tremendous loss he’d suffered at the tracks, she was even more angry with herself. Hadn’t she done exactly the same thing he had? Gambled with money her mother had earned? Now, not only was Mother’s money gone, so was the painting.
She blinked back the tears rushing to her eyes. “Do you think I’ll get it back?”
He shook his head. “You misunderstood. I didn’t mean your painting. I meant the act of painting.”
“What about it?”
“Why do you do it?”
She touched two fingers to her forehead. “What?”
“Why do you do it?”
“Paint?”
“Yes.”
Dropping her hand, she blew out another breath and once again began to walk. Only this time, at a more dignified pace. She pushed everything else aside and thought about his question. About the sheer pleasure that enfolded her when she painted. And not just the actual putting of paint on canvas, but the planning of the piece. Picking her subject. Considering all the angles and times of day so she’d get just the right light. And then, of course, the pleasure of seeing it on her wall and recapturing a tiny bit of that euphoria every time she looked at it.
She swallowed the lump forming in her throat. “I come alive when I paint. It’s the equivalent for me of birds in full song, flowers in bloom, or a dew-kissed morning. It’s . . . well . . . it’s almost like magic, I guess.”
“That surprises me.”
“It does? Why?”
“Because, if you feel so strongly about it, I’d have expected to see you do it more often.”
He was right, of course. She’d been working such long hours, she’d hardly picked up a brush in months. And just after she’d begun to take it up again, Mrs. Driscoll had called for ideas. Flossie had spent many a night sketching ideas, discarding them, then sketching some more.