Lucia, Lucia

by Adriana Trigiani

  “What am I missing, Papa? What do you see that I don’t?”

  “All people have blind spots. And you have a blind spot about Mr. Talbot. You are too enamored of the surface. You like his clothes and his lifestyle, the ease of it. This is a weakness in you, but it is also your talent. You make beautiful garments, and you have an eye for beauty. But you also have a way of covering flaws with skill. You told me about the lady built like an eggplant who needed a new dress. You performed a magic trick: you dropped the waist of the dress and padded the shoulders, giving the illusion of a figure in proportion. When it comes to John Talbot, you cannot see what he is because you admire him too much. And if he does have some defect of character, you are confident you can fix it. This is no good.”

  “Papa, I know what I want. I do admire him! I don’t see anything wrong with that.”

  “I know that you will overlook his flaws in favor of his strengths. But when you marry someone, you must understand the flaws in order to appreciate the strengths. Lucia,” Papa says wearily, “who has known you since the day you were born? Have I ever discouraged you based on my own weaknesses?”

  “No, Papa.”

  “I will never tell you what to do or who to love. I only ask that you stay alert. Stay awake. Don’t rush.”

  “I can promise you, Papa, that I won’t rush anything.”

  I have a sick feeling in my stomach. I want Papa to like John. If I am to continue seeing him, it’s important to have my father’s support.

  “Lucia. Invite the man to Sunday dinner.”

  “Do you mean it, Pop?”

  “Let’s see what he’s made of.” Papa smiles and gives me a stick of cherry candy like he used to when I was a girl. “Let’s go home.”

  After three consecutive Sunday dinners at my house, John Talbot and I are officially a couple. Mama adores him. Papa is unconvinced, but at least he’s trying. John and I have begun to see each other exclusively, so Ruth and Harvey have invited us for their first seder in their own home. I usually spend all of Easter week in church, beginning with Holy Thursday, then Good Friday, and the Easter Vigil at midnight on Holy Saturday. Easter morning has always been my favorite holiday, but this year I won’t attend any of the festivities. I haven’t been back to Our Lady of Pompeii since Maria Grace died. Sometimes I want to pray, but when I try, I can’t. I’m still angry at God, and to pray when I feel this way is false. Mama is worried about my faith, but I can’t pretend to feel comfort in a place that continues to bring me pain and reminds me how easily God abandoned us when we most needed Him.

  I’ve never been to a seder, but I know that for the last couple of weeks Ruth has been preparing the traditional Passover foods, which symbolize the journey of the Jewish people out of Egypt. The newlywed Goldfarbs (Ruth lost the battle to keep her own name) found a quaint apartment on Gramercy Park, across town from Commerce Street.

  “Are you sure you want to walk?” John asks as he takes my hand on the stoop.

  “Do you?”

  “Sure.” John looks handsome in his navy gabardine suit. “Do I look all right for a seder?”

  “I’d say so.” I find it endearing that John is a little worried about whether my friends will like him. “You look perfectly appropriate. Sharp.”

  “You look beautiful,” he says. “I love you in yellow.”

  “I made it myself,” I tell him. Delmarr picked up some soft wool crepe on a buying trip to Montreal. From it, I built a day suit, with black and white herringbone trim and gold buttons on the jacket. My favorite part is the peplum, which ruffles in a subtle way in the front and then is cut deep in the back to give the jacket movement. I found matching shoes on sample sale at the store, black peau de soie pumps.

  “I love a girl who can make her own clothes,” John says.

  “Just any girl?” I’m instantly embarrassed to be acting so coy. John and I are well beyond this.

  “Not just any. You.” John stops and pulls me close. He kisses me on the corner of Cornelia Street. A cabbie whistles at us as he goes by.

  “Thank you. You make me feel good when you say things like that.”

  “I love you, Lucia.”

  I close my eyes to savor the words. John Talbot loves me! “I love you, John,” I tell him.

  “I was hoping.” He smiles.

  We walk for a while and stop at the liquor store, where John buys a bottle of wine for Harvey and Ruth. Rosemary made macaroons, which I’m carrying in a pretty tin. John takes my arm as we cross Fifth Avenue.

  “Lucia, one thing concerns me.”

  I feel a pang in my stomach. He told me he loved me, but here comes the bad news. “What’s that?” I say as lightly as I can manage.

  “Your father doesn’t like me.”

  “He likes you,” I lie. Surely John can’t see through Papa’s excellent manners.

  “No, he doesn’t. He thinks I’m a phony.”

  “A phony?” I wave off the idea. “John, listen to me. Papa is old world. He understands things in a basic, simple way. He doesn’t understand what you do for a living. He believes that there are only three businesses to be involved in: food, clothing, and shelter. You dabble in other areas, ones he doesn’t understand. That’s all.”

  “You understand what I do, don’t you?”

  “You’re an entrepreneur.” If I’m honest, I don’t think much about what John does for a living. I know he’s very busy, he travels a lot, and he makes good money. He dresses well and takes me to the best places. He has a regular table at the Vesuvio on West Forty-eighth Street. What else do I need to know? Papa’s apprehension is the reaction of an overprotective father.

  “I wish you’d talk to your father and explain that I’m trustworthy.”

  “Put yourself in his place for a minute. I’m his only daughter. You know he’s been protective of me all my life, and as I get older, it gets worse. There seems to be more pressure from him.”

  “What about the pressure on me? He makes me feel like I’m trying to take advantage of you.”

  “You know that’s not true, so don’t worry about it.” I tighten my grip on John’s arm.

  “I’m old-fashioned myself. I’m not looking for his approval. I want his respect.”

  “Give it time,” I say reassuringly.

  “I know you’re the biggest catch in Greenwich Village.”

  I laugh. “You’re crazy!”

  “Don’t you see what happens when you walk down the street? Heads turn. Literally, heads turn, because people want to get a look at you. You’re not a small person with a small life. You have a big destiny.”

  I don’t know what to say. Nobody has ever seen me this way before. Maybe Delmarr a little, but certainly not Dante, who saw me as the baker’s wife. “I never think of myself like that. How far can a career girl go without the right address and surname?”

  “You can do anything you want.”

  I stop John and kiss him. I love that he believes in me and understands what I want. He sees me in the context of a big world, not simply the neighborhood. John sees what I will become.

  Ruth and Harvey’s apartment is railroad-style, and the rooms are small, but Ruth has decorated boldly, using paint, wallpaper, and draperies made from overstock fabrics at work. She has set a beautiful table; the choices from her bridal registry were the best of the best. Though the fine china and faceted stemware are too grand for the one-bedroom apartment, it doesn’t matter. Ruth is happy. She and Harvey, after the world’s longest courtship and engagement, belong to each other, and while there were no surprises in what they were getting, they clearly relish the novelty of a life together.

  During the meal, John squeezes my hand under the table. It’s almost as if we have a secret from the world. We love each other, and we said it aloud. If he is crazy about me, I’m even more crazy about him. I would do whatever is necessary to make John Talbot happy, anything in the world.

  When I arrive at work early and see that Hilda Cramer’s assistant has lef
t a pile of new work for us to do, it occurs to me that the Custom Department is like the fairy tale with the shoemaker (Hilda) and the elves (us). A mysterious messenger drops off assignments at night, we make the clothes, and then the messenger whisks them away to see if they pass muster. I imagine Hilda sitting in her sleek Upper East Side penthouse as the messenger holds up each piece and she approves or rejects our efforts.

  “What are you doing here so early?” Delmarr asks when he spots me at my desk.

  “I’m not sleeping well,” I say.

  “I could think of a thousand things to do that are more fun than getting to work early.”

  “Well, I can’t think of any. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Fair enough.” Delmarr pours himself a cup of coffee and freshens mine.

  “Thank you,” I say, reaching for the cup. “What are you doing here so early?”

  “The truth?” Delmarr lights a cigarette. “I’m planning my next move.”

  “You’re not leaving B. Altman’s, are you?” My insides go into panic mode. If Delmarr left, what would happen to me, Ruth, and the Flappers? He’s our leader. This place would have to close without him.

  “Maybe.”

  “But—”

  “Shhh, Lucia, I wouldn’t leave you here. You’d come with me.”

  I feel a sense of relief but also sadness. I love Altman’s. How could I ever leave? But how much of my love of this department is about my respect for and awe of Delmarr? In an instant I decide I would follow him.

  “So, would you go with me?” he asks.

  “Anywhere. Anytime. You just have to name it.”

  “Really?” Delmarr sits back.

  “Yep. And you don’t even have to marry me.”

  “Sorry, can’t do that. Not to you. Not to anyone. I love spending my Friday nights at El Morocco, drinking Manhattans and talking with the regulars, getting home around sunrise, and sleeping through most of Saturday. I ain’t husband material.”

  “No, you aren’t.”

  He smiles. “I came here for the bachelor life. If I wanted to be trapped, I would have stayed on the farm in ‘Ver-sales,’ Indiana. It’s spelled like the French palace, but they pronounce it like it rhymes with ‘yard sale.’ I figured that was reason number one to move. Never live in a town with a name the natives can’t pronounce.”

  “You’ve never talked about where you’re from.”

  “I didn’t think you could handle the excitement.” He laughs. “It was rustic. With one movie theater: my salvation. I loved the movies. Especially Park Avenue comedies where the young heiress falls for the butler and you find out he’s a prince. The men were swell. They were charming and funny and dressed impeccably and always got the girl. I wanted to be that, not the farmers I saw around me, who worked outside and never said much. I lived for conversation. And then I found my talent. I would draw scenes from the movies, you know, tableaus of characters. A teacher of mine saw the drawings and began to encourage me.”

  “You were a prodigy.”

  “Oh, yeah. Nobody could draw like me, at least not in Versailles. But it wasn’t my talent that separated me from the folks I grew up with. It was curiosity. I wanted to see the Atlantic Ocean. I know that sounds nuts, but I wanted to know what sand felt like under my feet, and what white waves looked like. I had a list of things I wanted to see. I wanted to find places like that ballroom where Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers danced in Top Hat.”

  “You’re a regular at El Morocco. That’s pretty close.”

  “I worked on the farm and as an illustrator at the local paper. When the war came, I went into the navy with the express purpose of getting to New York City. An old teacher submitted my drawings to the New York School of Design, and I wound up here on the GI Bill. Imagine that. I had to serve in the worst front of the Pacific theater to get my shot at the big town. I wanted to see an ocean, and by God, I got to see one. And when the war was over, I was so happy I didn’t get killed, I promised myself that I would take big risks. So that’s when I dropped my last name and invented the suave man you see before you. Delmer Dickinson of Versailles, Indiana, became Delmarr.”

  “Delmarr definitely sounds more uptown than Delmer.”

  “Hilda wanted to know if I was French when she interviewed me. I was going to lie and say yes, but then I reconsidered and said, ‘Miss Cramer, the only thing French about me is the croissant I had for breakfast.’ She laughed, and I got the job.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Most people love autumn in New York City, but to me June is the most beautiful month. Girls’ hats change from felt to straw, winter boots go back in the closet and get replaced with breezy sandals, and wool skirts are traded in for glorious billows of crisp cotton pique. Everywhere you turn, women look like bright blooms bursting in a garden.

  Weddings are on everyone’s mind. The society girls call this June Swoon; Delmarr calls it Bitch Witch Month, since we are deluged by cranky brides and their demanding mothers. We work around the clock to finish gowns in all categories, from the brides, their mothers, the attendants, down to the flower girls. Most brides have their final fittings ten days before the wedding, so the work schedule in the Hub is feverish.

  Delmarr ordered up bolts of crisp voile by the ton, in pastel shades of pink, blue, mint green, and butter yellow. By the end of June, we will have used every inch of it. “Stick with the classics,” we hear Delmarr say to yet another nervous bride leafing through swatches in his office. After she’s made her decision and left, he comes out and ceremoniously declares, “Another wedding party. Pink voile.” Delmarr may be a terrific designer, but he is an even better salesman.

  Due to the volume of clientele moving through, gossip is rampant. Ruth was doing a fitting for a society bride, and she overheard the girl swapping stories with her maid of honor about Amanda Parker, who was recently betrothed to a lawyer at one of the city’s big law firms. Hearing that she is off the market for good makes me smile. I don’t need any of John’s old flames reigniting and ruining our courtship.

  A mere fifty blocks separate my life in Greenwich Village from the grandeur of the Upper East Side, but in truth they are worlds apart. There’s a luster and history to uptown life that we first-generation immigrant girls aren’t a part of, and we know it. As an Italian girl I’m welcome in the posh private clubs only if I’m on the arm of a member. Ruth is Jewish, so she’s out entirely. Helen Gannon’s father was a beat cop in Brooklyn, so she’s out, too. And poor Violet is the daughter of a widow on public assistance, so she never had an opportunity to secure the right connections and rise above her station. Still, I would choose my friends over any of the daughters of privilege whose clothes I have sewn. My girls have the kind of character that comes from having earned their place in the world.

  Helen measures out three and a half yards of white dotted swiss on the cutting table. I’m on my way over to help anchor the fabric when she stands and turns toward us. “All right, I can’t keep this secret any longer.” Her tone is uncharacteristically chipper. “Girls, I have news. There’s going to be a baby Gannon.” We gather around and congratulate her.

  “Is it okay if I have news, too?” Violet says meekly. “I don’t want to take any of the luster away from Helen’s.”

  “You won’t,” Helen says. “Spill it. I have nine months to regain the luster.”

  “I’m happy to announce that I have been seeing one Officer Daniel Cassidy. I met him when I reported a lurker at the Fifty-ninth Street subway station. We’re on our third date. I think he likes me.”

  “Are you smitten back?” I ask her.

  “I’m hopeful,” Violet says with a sigh. Then she beams. “Let’s say I have a very Presbyterian view of things, even though I was raised Roman Catholic.”

  “Let me guess, the cop is a Presbyterian,” Ruth says, turning back to her work.

  “Yes, he is, but that’s not why I’m opening up to new religious ideas,” Violet explains. “Instead of believing in the sin ladde
r, with its steps of venial, mortal, and fry in hell, I have come to embrace the belief of predestination. The stories of our lives have already been written, and we’re simply following a divine plan. The good things that happen to us were meant to happen, and the bad things that happen are lessons meant to teach us to be better.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Ruth says. “I need a drink.”

  “The only one allowed to drink on the job is Hilda Beast Cramer.” Helen leans in. “And I know because I had to fix the facing on her suit jacket, and it smelled of eau de gin at three in the afternoon.”

  “That’s why she never married,” Ruth says, sweeping fabric remnants off the cutting table and into a bin. “She’s too busy pitching woo with Tom Collins.”

  “Hey, don’t knock the original career girl,” I say, feeling a need to defend the old battle-ax. “What’s wrong with being a lifer, a career girl first and always? Without her, we wouldn’t be working at Altman’s.”

  Violet trims the edges of the waxy pattern paper. “Get you. You’re the last person who would wind up like Hilda. You have more beaus than buttons. Has your father thawed toward John at all? Is he going to Italy with your family?” She pins the pattern pieces to the fabric. Helen hands her the shears, and Violet begins to cut the material.

  “You know my father would never allow me to bring anyone but a husband on a trip that involves any sort of sleeping, anywhere.”

  “Don’t worry,” Helen says. “It may take time, but once you’re married, your father will come around.”

  “First he’s going to make it hard on you,” Ruth says. “It’s all part of Papa Sartori’s master plan. He wants to get you out of the country and away from John so he can tempt you with a continental type.” She hands me a stack of drawings for filing. I laugh at her comment, but I don’t find it funny. Though Papa is cordial to John, he still isn’t warm, and no matter what John does or I say, Papa is not budging. Well, I’m as stubborn as Pop. I’ll have a whole month in Italy to convince him. When he sees that I love John more after a separation, he will surely accept him.