Tiffany Girl

by Deeanne Gist

  Flossie thought of her mother, her aunt, and her grandmother. “Marylee will not be sitting around doing nothing. She’ll be scrubbing, mopping, polishing, cooking, toting, and raising the children. I daresay her photography would be much less demanding and a great deal more enjoyable.”

  Total silence descended. Mr. Holliday’s mouth dropped open. Mrs. Holliday’s eyes widened. Annie Belle gave her an incredulous stare. Mr. Nettels curled his lip. Mrs. Klausmeyer’s expression remained unchanged.

  Flossie moved her attention to Reeve. It was the first time he’d joined them in the parlor since the day of their kiss. Retaining eye contact with her, he propped his elbows on his knees, then rested his mouth on his clasped hands.

  Clucking her tongue, Mrs. Dinwiddie smoothed her skirt. “I think you have forgotten something, Flossie. God has commanded us to be fruitful and to multiply. Marylee is being given the opportunity to fulfill the greatest commission a female can ever aspire to. The work of her hands as she takes care of her home and her children is not toil. It is a blessing.”

  The greatest commission? Flossie wasn’t sure she agreed, but she decided not to belabor the point. She returned her attention to the paper. “The bibliomaniac cupped Marylee’s face. Her cheek was as smooth and soft as the petals in her hands. ‘You haven’t answered me, my love. Will you be my wife?’

  “Marylee stared into his eyes and realized all he said was right. Her camera would be a very lonely substitute for Mr. Bookish and the life he was offering.

  “She smiled. ‘Yes, Mr. Bookish. Yes, I would be most honored to be your wife.’

  Taking the bouquet from her hands, he set it on the table, then took her arm. ‘Come, let’s tell our families and celebrate with them the beginning of the rest of our lives.’ ”

  Flossie laid the paper in her lap, her heart in her throat.

  The room erupted in applause, everyone talking and exclaiming as if they were the family members Marylee and Mr. Bookish had just announced their news to. All but Reeve. He hadn’t moved. Still sat with his mouth against his clasped hands, his focus on her.

  He was too far away for her to see his expression, exactly, but somehow she knew that even though he didn’t subscribe to everything the New Woman stood for, he was just as disturbed by the ending as she was.

  She lowered her gaze. At least Marylee had a choice. Flossie didn’t have any. If someone ever asked her for her hand, she’d have to say no whether she wanted to or not. Still, she wished Marylee hadn’t given in so quickly and so readily. The entire thing left a bitter taste in her mouth.

  METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART 35

  “She wasn’t exactly sure when her playtime changed from courtship rituals and married life to the adventures of a woman on her own, a woman artist who was so renowned her paintings were in museums all over the world.”

  CHAPTER

  63

  Flossie excused herself early and returned to her bedroom. She’d been working and sketching and sewing so much that she found herself exhausted and in no mood for the festive atmosphere pervading the parlor. Lifting her chin, she unbuttoned the clasp of her bolero and caught sight of the phenakistascope. Mr. Holliday had given it to her just last week and she’d wedged it between the wall and her mirror for safekeeping.

  Reaching up, she plucked it from its spot. It reminded her of a child’s pinwheel, except the face was flat and had been divided like thirteen pieces of a pie. At the end of each section was a photograph of her and Reeve. Turning it so the photographs faced the mirror, she held tightly to the wooden handle. With her other hand, she pinched the edge of the disc, then she looked through tiny slits Mr. Holliday had cut on either side of each photo. With a flick of her wrist, she spun the disc.

  Before her eyes, she and Reeve danced round and round in the mirror. So fluid was the movement, no one would suspect that Mr. Holliday had positioned them for each step. That Reeve had taken a gentle pull on her ear with his lips. That he’d not kept his hand above the small of her back where it belonged. That he’d whispered sweet sentiments into her ear.

  She spun it again and again, remembering the feeling of being in his arms, the potency of his kiss, and the connections they’d made—not just when they danced, but when they talked in his room, when they rode on the streetcar, when they answered each other’s questions at dinner, when they’d walked home after the debacle at the gallery, and even back when he’d warmed her feet the night she’d been caught in a storm.

  She thought of Mr. I. D. Claire’s characters who shared a love so strong that Marylee had given up her life’s passion for the man who’d asked for her hand.

  She spun the phenakistascope again. Her eyes filled. The image blurred. She was in love with Reeve Wilder.

  Snapping her finger and thumb on the disc, she brought it to a halt and peeked at herself over the disc. She didn’t look like a woman in love. She didn’t have any glow or starry expression. She had bags under her eyes, wilted shoulders, and a mouth that showed no indication of joy.

  Lowering the phenakistascope, she ran a thumb over the photographs, now still and frozen. All during her childhood she’d dreamed about the man she’d eventually love. She’d made up elaborate courtships, scooting two child-sized chairs side by side and going for buggy rides with her pretend man. Setting up rows of chairs and playing church. They’d listened to pretend sermons while she fanned herself and he gave her loving looks.

  Soon they had babies. Lots of babies. Gathering her dollies around them, they went on Sunday picnics on her bed. Both she and her man played games with their children. Games that could only be played with bunches of children, not just one.

  The two of them collected their tired babies and rode home, the swaying of the buggy lulling the little ones to sleep. She gave the dollies baths, dressed them in their nightclothes, and when it was time to put them to bed, he came to help, too, because he couldn’t stand to be away from her or them for very long.

  She spun the phenakistascope again. Such a lovely fantasy, a charming dream. Back then, there was no such thing as a New Woman. There were no options for women at all other than wife, mother, and old maid. She wasn’t exactly sure when her playtime changed from courtship rituals and married life to the adventures of a woman on her own, a woman artist who was so renowned her paintings were in museums all over the world.

  Suddenly, instead of sitting next to her husband in church, she was surrounded by imaginary friends from the cream of society. Vanderbilts, Rockefellers, Morgans. She knew all the names of the important ones, for she’d read the society pages to see if Mother’s gowns were ever mentioned.

  She received imaginary invitations to dinner at the governor’s house, and even the White House. First Lady Arthur was a great admirer of Flossie’s work. The president’s wife commissioned her to paint enough pieces to convert one of the rooms in the White House to the Florence Rebecca Jayne Room, and Flossie was invited to stay in it whenever she wanted.

  Well, now she really was a New Woman and also in love. Neither looked even remotely like her fantasies. She’d been swindled. She owed more money than she could pay back. She worked her fingers to the bone. Her job was in jeopardy. She hadn’t painted in ages. And even if the man she was in love with reciprocated her feelings, she couldn’t act on them or she’d lose her job.

  Swallowing the emotion in her throat, she began to tuck the phenakistascope back into its place, then paused. She wanted no constant reminder of a love that would never be. She ran her thumb along the edge of the disk. She couldn’t get rid of the phenakistascope, not as long as she lived in the same house as Mr. Holliday. Perhaps she should give it to Reeve. He wouldn’t have any problems with it.

  He liked her, of course, and watched her when he thought she wasn’t looking. And he’d certainly kissed her as if he had feelings for her, but he hadn’t pursued her or followed up on those kisses. So chances were, this little device would be nothing more to him than a simple novelty.

  With a deep
breath, she headed to his room. Annie Belle passed her.

  “You turning in for the night?” Flossie asked.

  Annie Belle covered a yawn. “I am. Where are you off to?”

  Flossie held up the phenakistascope. “I’m going to drop this off in Mr. Wilder’s room. I haven’t had time to show it to him yet and don’t know when I will.”

  Nodding, Annie Belle continued into their room.

  Flossie peeked into Reeve’s. It was empty, other than Cat curled up on his bed. He must still be in the parlor.

  Stepping inside, she set the phenakistascope on his desk. The cat figurine she’d given him held a place of honor not too far from his inkwell. She remembered struggling with her decision about what token she should bring him from the fair. His gift had been by far the hardest to select. She wondered if even back then she’d been in some degree attracted to him. Certainly, she’d always thought him handsome, but never had she expected to fall in love with him.

  Cat jumped up onto the desk, startling Flossie and knocking some neatly stacked papers onto the floor.

  “Tut, tut,” Flossie said, running a hand down Cat’s back. “You know how your master is about everything being just so. He wouldn’t like to see his papers scattered all over the place, so I’ll collect them for you and save you from a scolding.”

  Cat turned around in a figure eight, butting up against Flossie’s hand. She petted the cat a couple more times, then squatted down and began to pick up the pages. She turned over each one and rotated it so it was facing the right direction. Bending over, she reached for a couple that had slipped beneath his chair, saw her name, and paused.

  We had corn on the cob with our meal. Miss Jayne ate hers like a typewriter . . . Someone else is putting questions beneath the plate across from Miss Jayne. I have no idea who . . . I’d forgotten how much of a disruption she is. I won’t be able to include that aspect of Miss Jayne’s personality into my column. No one would believe it.

  Frowning, she sat back on her heels. Include it in his column? What did that mean? She continued to skim.

  Miss Jayne had a set of wooden castanets which she’d purchased at the fair . . . First her head, then her shoulders, waist, and hips undulated—all in time to the castanets snapping at her fingertips. By the time she finished I could scarcely breathe.

  She touched the hollow at the base of her throat. She’d done that? He’d felt like that? Skirts billowing out about her, she turned back to the pages she’d stacked and flipped through them more slowly.

  We played The Board Game of Old Maid. As idiotic as the game was, it ended up being a godsend. It mapped out the entire plot of a love story. Now I know exactly what to do with Marylee and Bookish.

  Sucking in a breath, she covered her mouth.

  Miss Jayne’s favorite thing to paint is portraits. I shall make Marylee a photographer. Close enough.

  Flossie’s heart began to pick up speed.

  Miss Jayne has been the center of her world her entire life. Perhaps I shall give Marylee that same quality.

  Breathing became difficult. She took a deep breath in, pushed a deep breath out. Cat rubbed against her. Flossie pushed the cat out of the way, picking up yet another page.

  The Trostles proclaimed Miss Jayne a “remarkable talent.” And because her parents have told her the same thing her entire life, she has no reason to doubt them. I worry what might happen if Bourgeois doesn’t accept her work into his gallery. How can I incorporate this into Marylee’s character?

  Her stomach turned sour. She closed her eyes to stem the nausea. When she opened them, Reeve was there, frozen in the doorway.

  “You’re I. D. Claire,” she said, her voice sounding funny, even to her own ears.

  He looked at the papers in her hand.

  “They fell off your desk.” She nodded toward Cat, who now wove between his legs. “I was setting the phenakistascope on your desk. Cat jumped up, knocked off the papers, and I, of course, gathered them.” She swallowed. “Until I saw my name. Then I began to read them.”

  He opened his mouth, then closed it.

  Looking up at the ceiling, she clenched her jaw, anger seeping into her veins. “You’ve been using me as fodder for your column.”

  Still, he said nothing.

  She held up the papers and shook them as their contents replayed within her mind. “A disruption to the household? The center of my own world? A remarkable talent in my own eyes?”

  “I don’t think that.”

  “No?” Pushing herself to her feet, she slapped the papers onto his desk. “You expect me to believe you lie to yourself in your own notes?”

  “I wrote those parts before I got to know you.”

  “Is that so?” Spreading the papers out on the desk, she rifled through them in a disjointed and slapdash manner until she found the one she was looking for. “What about this one?”

  “Flossie—”

  She held up her hand to stem his words, then read from the paper. “Flossie has aspirations of being a designer. At Tiffany’s. I worry that she learned nothing from the Bourgeois debacle. She is simply so accustomed to having the world at her feet that she can’t seem to formulate realistic expectations. Perhaps I should put Marylee in a position where she cannot order the bad times away. Where she is forced to be realistic.”

  He raked a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean anything by that.”

  She pointed to the date, her hand trembling. “That’s the day you saw me sketching my tea screen. The day you kissed me. You wrote that after those kisses, Reeve? How could you?”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re blowing this all out of proportion.”

  “I don’t think so.” Her chest began to ache. “You’ve spent countless weeks turning me into a satire. Poking fun at me. Watching me read out loud about myself to the entire household. Facilitating discussions about the merits and the flaws of myself !”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t. She’s not . . . you’re not . . .” He took a deep breath. “Marylee isn’t half the woman you are. She’s not even real. She’s a figment of my imagination.”

  “A figment based on me.” She jabbed herself in the chest. “And clearly, you must think me the biggest idiot you’ve ever encountered.”

  “I don’t. I don’t think that at all.”

  “Oh, I think you do. Even I can’t misinterpret those notes.” In a burst of anger and hurt, she swept her hand across the desk, scattering the pages. Her fingertips caught the edge of the figurine. It flew out to the side, then tripped across the floor with a succession of clanks. She didn’t even look to see if it had broken.

  “Flossie, please, let me explain.”

  “You have an explanation?” She crossed her arms, hugging herself. “And I suppose you think I’ll just swallow whatever it is you feed me? After all that? Now who’s being unrealistic?”

  “Just listen, please? I agreed to write the Marylee story for the money. Money to use toward a down payment on a house. Not just any house, but the house I was born in, that I lived in with my parents. If I manage to buy it, it will be the first time since my mother died that I’ll have lived someplace I belong. Not my grandparents’ house, not my stepmother’s house, not my landlady’s house. My house.” He searched her eyes. “I need that, Flossie. I need someplace I belong.”

  “Well, bully for you.” She jutted out her chin. “What I’d like to know is just what that has to do with me? How, in all the chum-butted luck, did I get dragged into the whole thing?”

  “I’d never written a line of fiction in my life. I didn’t know the first thing about it. It was my editor who suggested I base the characters on the boarders I lived with.”

  Her eyes widened. “We’re all in it? Who is Mr. Bookish?”

  “No, no. No one was the least bit interesting, other than you and Mrs. Dinwiddie—and I couldn’t include her or everyone would’ve known I was I. D. Claire. But you, Flossie, you . . .” He looked at her, his eyes pleading.
“You made the story come alive. Basing the character on you was a compliment.”

  “Compliment? You expect me to believe it was a compliment? When you painted me in such an uncomplimentary fashion?”

  “Everyone loves Marylee.”

  “She’s spoiled and runs everyone else’s lives.”

  He rubbed his mouth. “She had redeeming qualities, especially toward the end.”

  “You made me a laughingstock, Reeve, and the actual ‘observations’ you took of me are even worse than the ones you fictionalized.” She pressed her fingers against her temples. “To think you toned me down because you ‘couldn’t include’ my behavior in the column for it was too outlandish. Too unbelievable. Too infantile.”

  He pulled down his brows. “Now you’re just making things up. I never said that.”

  “You didn’t have to.” She fisted her hands at her sides. “It was implied. If you don’t believe me, go back and read it for yourself.” Whirling around, she began to pace. “I should have listened to you from the start. You said you didn’t want a friend. You were fine with your life the way it was. But, no, I had to have compassion for you. I had to make it my mission to befriend you. And that’s just what I did. I poured myself out like an offering—an offering of true friendship.” She covered her face with her hands. “Then I ended up offering you even more than friendship, didn’t I? Right here in this very room. And you took that offering and desecrated it in the worst possible way.”

  “Flossie, I’d never—”

  Shaking her head, she took a step back. “Not another word. I’ve received the message this time. I’ve heard you loud and clear. You can rest assured, Mr. Wilder, you won’t have to ever deal with the likes of me again.” She headed toward the door.

  He blocked her way. “What’s that supposed to mean?”