Tiffany Girl

by Deeanne Gist

  “What did the police say?”

  “That the Trostles have been running this swindle all over town, though they use different aliases, of course.”

  Flossie dropped into the chair by her bookshelf, then gasped. “My Jane Austen books.” She spread her hands over the now empty section. “My grandmother gave those to me.”

  Annie Belle gave a tiny moan. “I bet we’ll be discovering things for weeks that we haven’t missed yet. The officer said to keep a tally. Then, if anything turns up, they’ll know who to return it to.”

  Flossie shook her head, unable to fathom it. The Trostles were older than her parents, for heaven’s sake. They were personable, kind, engaging, and well dressed. She’d shared meals with them, laughed with them, played parlor games with them while they knowingly, wittingly planned to rob everyone. And out of all the family members in the house, they’d singled her out for the most nefarious of their plans.

  Her eyes pooled. Why? Why her? What had she ever done to them other than welcome them into her family with open arms?

  None of us at 438 are your family.

  She wished she could put her hands over her ears and make those words go away, but they played over and over in her mind. She thought of each boarder at Klausmeyer’s. What did she really know about them? Nothing. Nothing other than what they’d told her.

  She covered her face with her hands. “Could this get any worse?”

  “I hope not,” Annie Belle said. “I really hope not.”

  But at dinner the next evening, Mrs. Klausmeyer announced rent would go up twenty cents next month. The bite of codfish Flossie had just taken stuck in her throat. Since she shared a room, her portion would be ten cents. That would mean she’d only be able to pay Mother five cents per week instead of fifteen. She quickly divided seventy-five dollars by five cents. She wiped her mouth with her napkin. Thirty years. It would take her thirty years to pay everything off. She’d be in her fifties by then.

  For the first time since moving in, she set down her fork and excused herself from the table without waiting to hear the answers to everyone’s questions.

  PHENAKISTASCOPE 33

  “ ‘I’m making a phenakistascope, except instead of drawing thirteen images, which change little by little so that when you spin the disc it looks like they’re moving, I want to use thirteen photographed images.’ ”

  CHAPTER

  58

  Reeve stood at Flossie’s doorway waiting for her to notice him. She had a chair by the window, a sketch pad in her hand. He’d never seen anyone with such a penchant for dressing up. Or perhaps she saved her simpler clothing for work and had nothing left to wear but the ensembles her mother had previously sewn for her.

  Today she wore a gown of yellow with shiny fabric and tiny flowers dotting the bodice. A giant blue bow hung alongside her waist, matching smaller ones at her neck and cuffs. He shook his head. Who sketched wearing something like that?

  On her bed, a stack of clothing was folded and tied with twine. He knew it was sewing she did for her mother. Every Sunday evening she took completed work to her parents’ house, then came home with new items to work on.

  Taking a deep breath, he knocked on her door.

  She jumped. “Goodness, I didn’t hear you coming.”

  “I’m sorry.” He held up her music box. “I have something for you.”

  She lowered her sketch pad. “My music box. I thought Mrs. Trostle had taken it.”

  “She took some books I stored under my bed, but nothing else.” He smoothed the top of the music box with his hand. “She might have taken this if it hadn’t been in my room, but I had so few things out, I think she was afraid to take it.”

  She nodded, the depths of her eyes showing a touch of fragility. “She took my books, too. My Jane Austen ones, anyway.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She swallowed. “Yes. Me, too.”

  “At least you still have this.”

  “I’m very glad.” She waved her pencil toward her bookshelf. “You can just set it in there for now.”

  Crossing one of the rugs, he set it in the empty spot, then approached her. “What are you working on?”

  “A design for a tea screen.”

  “What’s a tea screen?”

  “It’s a little hinged screen, shaped like a dressing screen, except it is only about so high—” She placed her hands several inches apart to indicate its height. “You put it in front of your teakettle to keep the burner from going out.” Tilting her head, she considered her sketch, then drew a decorative stick-like border on it. “Mrs. Driscoll has asked us to submit product ideas for the showroom. I’ve proposed several, but so far she’s not shown them to Mr. Tiffany.”

  He scratched his jaw. “Are those things along the edges supposed to be something?”

  “These?” She pointed to the hen scratches she’d made.

  “Yes.”

  “They’re spiders.”

  He chewed the inside of his cheek. “Spiders.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a lot of spiders.”

  She lifted a shoulder. “Mrs. Driscoll is designing a lampshade with dragonflies on it, so I assumed she had an affinity for bugs.”

  He couldn’t imagine anyone paying to have dragonflies or spiders on their stained glass, but he refrained from saying so.

  Heavy footfalls along the hallway came to a stop at her threshold. Holliday stood in the doorway, camera under one arm, tripod under the other, a bag in each hand. His thick dark hair had been recently cut, if a bit inexpertly, which made Reeve think perhaps his young wife had made the attempt at it. His mustache, however, was well-groomed and shaped.

  “Oh, Mr. Holliday.” Flossie handed her pencil and pad to Reeve, then crossed the room. “Is it time already? Here, let me help you with that.” She took the tripod, then cleared off a small table.

  Holliday placed his bags on the floor and his camera on the table. “I appreciate you modeling for me. I’m afraid my wife has grown weary of posing.”

  “I’m happy to help. Do you need me to change?”

  “No, no, you look lovely, as usual.”

  She smiled.

  Reeve set down the sketchpad and stepped around her. “Well, I’ll be getting out of your way.”

  Holliday raised a finger. “As long as you’re here, would you mind assisting us?”

  Reeve hesitated. “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about photography.”

  “No, no.” Holliday chuckled. “I don’t mean with the camera, I mean with the modeling. Miss Jayne, if you’ll stand on that circular rug over there and, Wilder, if you’d please join her.”

  “Join her?” Reeve said.

  “Yes, I’m making a phenakistascope, except instead of drawing thirteen images, which change little by little so that when you spin the disc it looks like they’re moving, I want to use thirteen photographed images.” He tugged on his jacket. “Never been done before, but I think I can do it. I just need a couple to do a simple waltz.”

  “Waltz?” he asked.

  “Oh, dear.” Flossie’s cheeks flushed. “I didn’t realize you wanted, I mean, what I’m trying to say is . . . well, I’m afraid there’s no room in here to waltz.”

  “I didn’t meant waltz all over the room.” Smiling, Holliday shook his head. “Quite the opposite. You’ll need to stand in the one spot and waltz in a circle.”

  “Can’t I dance a jig by myself?” she asked.

  “I tried that with my wife, but I can’t see any leg movement because of the skirts you women wear. I need a man. I suppose I could have a man dance a jig. Do you know how to jig, Wilder?”

  “I do not.”

  “Waltz?”

  He hesitated. “Yes.”

  “Well, then, go join Miss Jayne on the carpet and let’s get started before we lose the angle of the light there at the window.” He adjusted the camera. “I was going to ask Oyster, but he was napping when I went by his room. Still, if you�
��re too busy, I’ll go wake him.”

  He was not about to let Oyster hold Miss Jayne like that. “If it won’t take too long, I’ll do the best I can.”

  Miss Jayne’s hands flew to her hair, then her buttons, then settled against her stomach. He knew she was thinking of the last time they’d waltzed, as was he. He placed a hand at her waist and assumed a dance position, the pulse in his neck pounding a little faster. Die and be blamed, but it felt glorious just to touch her.

  “Hold it right there!” Holliday threw a black shroud over his head, then peeked through his camera. “No, no. That’s not going to work.” He crossed the room, arranged the two of them so they still faced each other, but were at a right angle from the camera. “I think it would be better if you let your left arm hang, Miss Jayne, rather than having it on Wilder’s shoulder. That way we can see your lovely face a little better.”

  She removed her hand from his shoulder and let it bump against the arm he had about her waist.

  “There.” Holliday nodded. “Let’s try that.”

  Her chest rose and fell. Reeve moved his thumb against her waist. Sucking in her breath, she glanced at him, then let her gaze skitter away.

  “Pull her a bit closer, Wilder, you look like you’re dancing with your maiden aunt.” Holliday’s voice was muffled beneath the shroud.

  Reeve pulled her close.

  “Closer.”

  He pulled her against him.

  “Perfect.”

  Amen to that.

  The camera clicked. “Now, Miss Jayne, I want you to stay where you are. Wilder, turn your body toward me so she’s nestled up against your right hip and start to bring that right foot back.”

  While Holliday flipped over the film tray and slid it back into the camera, Reeve curled his arm further around Flossie’s waist as he swiveled.

  “Yes! Yes. Just like that. Hold it!” The camera clicked again. “Now, Miss Jayne, turn so your right hip is butted up against his right hip.” Setting that tray aside, he prepared another one, slid it into the camera, and disappeared beneath the shroud.

  Reeve turned her with his hand, her back now toward the camera. With his other hand, he rubbed her thumb with his. Her eyes slid shut.

  The camera clicked. “Okay, Wilder. Bring her around in front of you like you’re going to swoop her down and kiss her—but don’t really do that, of course.” The shroud moved up and down as he chuckled.

  Flossie’s cheeks blossomed. Reeve pulled her body across his, but didn’t dip her over his arm.

  “Freeze! Right there!” The camera clicked. Holliday threw the shroud off of him. “Now, don’t move. Either of you. It’s critical that you maintain that position, but I need to grab a couple more trays.”

  She must have washed with rose water. It took every bit of concentration he had not to close his eyes, bury his face in her hair, and fill his lungs with the fragrance. He thought about Miss Love saying Flossie’s hair fell nearly to the floor when she unpinned it. Just imagining it made his nerves stand on end. He wondered if it was straight or wavy. Wondered what it would be like to run his fingers through it and drape it over her shoulders. Especially if those shoulders were bare. He looked toward the back wall, reeling in his thoughts.

  “Almost ready.” A few more slides and scrapes, then Holliday was back under his shroud. “This time, Wilder, keep her tucked up against you like she is, but pivot so that you’re facing the east wall and she’s facing the west. Try and keep your right leg a bit behind you if you can.”

  Now they were cheek to cheek. Flossie’s face, nearest the camera, shielded his. Her ear lobe peeked out from beneath her coif and was within an inch of his mouth. He resisted, resisted, then could resist no more. He took a gentle tug with his lips.

  Her breath whistled through her teeth. Her hand clenched his. Her body stiffened and pressed slightly into him.

  “Hold still, please,” Holliday barked. “Try and hold still.”

  “Your hair smells like roses,” Reeve whispered.

  She made a tiny sound at the back of her throat.

  “Okay, Wilder.” Holliday’s voice was once again muffled. “We’re going to make the next turn. This time, you’ll bring Miss Jayne around so that she is the one facing me and you’re the one with your back to the camera. Keep those right hips glued together.”

  If this wasn’t the darnedest thing he’d ever done with a woman. He needed to remember Holliday could see them, was focused on them, in fact. Just because the man was under that shroud didn’t mean he couldn’t see them.

  Reeve turned her out, while he turned in. She grabbed a handful of her skirt and held it out to the side.

  “Oh, that’s nice, Miss Jayne.” The camera clicked. “I like that.”

  Her chest rose and fell, pressing against his with each breath. His blood rushed through his veins. Swallowing, he wondered how much longer this was going to take.

  “Here we go again, Wilder. Swoop her around like you’re going to lay her back and kiss her.”

  Tightening his arm about her waist, he dragged her across him, holding her much closer this time, for his back was to the camera and Holliday couldn’t see. Her eyes glossed over. She raised her hooded gaze, but it never made it past his lips. Death and the deuce.

  “Hold that position.” Holliday began to change the film.

  Reeve skated his hand lower, slowly, slowly. Only stopping when her back began to curve.

  Holliday swore under his breath. “Hang on, I’m having trouble here.”

  She closed her eyes, her lips there for the taking.

  He didn’t so much as breathe.

  “Okay. Ready?” Holliday settled himself beneath his shroud. “Just a few more shots.”

  Holliday took them through the rest of the dance, one step at a time. When she had her face shielded by Reeve’s, she blew across his ear.

  A shiver ran down him.

  “Hold still, Wilder! For the sake of St. Peter, I’ll have to do that shot over and this film is expensive.”

  Reeve squeezed her waist in warning. If she did that again, there would be the devil to pay.

  Finally, they were back to where they started. Holliday came out from his cocoon. “I think I have what I need. I appreciate you helping me out.”

  Reeve released Flossie, his hand traveling as far as possible before returning it to his side. She touched the bow at her neck.

  Holliday began to collect his items. “Don’t just stand there, Wilder. Give me a hand.”

  Both Reeve and Flossie helped him carry everything back to his room. And though they never went near each other, never so much as touched, he was aware of every nuance in her expression, every sway of her hips, every secret look she sent him.

  The stairwell was silent. The hallway was silent. The rooms were silent. He didn’t know where everyone else was on this sunny Sunday afternoon, but he was thankful they weren’t around.

  He followed her back down to the first floor, narrowing his eyes. Were her hips swaying just a touch more than usual? Or maybe he was simply too attuned to her every move. When she began to enter her room, he grabbed her hand, hauled her to his room, shoved his door closed, pulled her against him, and took her mouth with his.

  Great Caesar’s ghost, but her lips were soft. She flung her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him. He tried to deepen the kiss, but she didn’t understand. He pulled his mouth away and began to taste and nibble and kiss every inch of skin he had access to. Her neck, her jaw, her cheeks, her nose, her eyes, her forehead, her ears, her hair. Die and be snagged, but he wanted to run his hands through it.

  Instead, he found her mouth again and wrapped his arms clear around her. “Open your mouth, magpie.”

  “What?”

  He kissed her, really kissed her.

  She made mewling sounds. She raked her fingers through his hair. She twisted against him.

  Bracketing his ears, she pushed his mouth away. “I thought I was going to die during the
photos.”

  “I think I did die.” He kissed her again. He knew his bed was mere steps away. The temptation was huge. Enormous. He had to get her out of here. “We have to stop.”

  But she didn’t let him go. Finally, he could take it no more.

  He broke their kiss and held her at arms’ length. “You better get out of here. Now.”

  Her lips were full, her cheeks red where his whiskers had scratched her, her hair mussed. She pressed her hands against her stomach. “Reeve, I . . . I feel so—”

  “Out,” he barked, then spun her toward the door.

  She walked to the door, her steps unsteady.

  “Wait,” he hissed.

  She froze, her hand on the doorknob. If she opened the door looking like that and somebody saw her, they’d never believe she hadn’t just been ravished. “Let me make sure the coast is clear.”

  Opening the door, he checked the hall. “Okay.”

  She stared at him with wonder. “Reeve, I . . .”

  He held up a hand. “We shouldn’t have done that, Flossie. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  Her brows crinkled. “Why?”

  “Because you’re the marrying kind, not the kiss and run kind.”

  She bit her lower lip. “And you’re, you’re the kiss and run kind?”

  The earnestness in her expression, the natural love she had for everyone, shone through her eyes. It nearly undid him. Cupping her cheek, he grazed her lip with his thumb. “You deserve someone a lot better than me.”

  “But I’m not looking for a someone. I’m a New Woman, remember?”

  Lifting her chin with his finger, he gave her a soft, unhurried kiss. If anything, it was even sweeter than the one before. “You may be a New Woman, little magpie, but you’re not a loose New Woman. Now, out you go.”

  With a gentle nudge, he returned her to the hall, then quietly clicked his door shut.