“Yes, more or less. I’ve worn it only once. Do you like it?” She turned around for his approval.
“Real pretty, Jolie.”
The two went out to the carriage that was waiting in front of the boardinghouse, and Tom gave the address to the cab driver. With a flick of the lines, the horses started a slow trot down the road. Tom seemed strangely silent on the way. Jolie wondered at this, and she herself was affected by his rather quiet mood.
The cab pulled up in front of a low bungalow in a residential area a few miles from Jolie’s boardinghouse. Tom helped her down, and she waited until Tom paid the cab driver. Then as he turned to her, she said, “I’m anxious to meet your mother.”
“I hope you’ll like her,” he said, then hesitated. “My mother’s rather a direct person.”
“Why, you must get your shyness from your father,” Jolie remarked.
The remark caught Tom Ziegler’s attention, and he faltered as they passed down the path lined with flowers. “I suppose that’s true. He was very quiet. He was like me—or rather I’m like him.”
When they reached the door he opened it and allowed her to go in. He stepped inside and called out, “Mother, we’re here.”
Jolie waited expectantly, and a woman appeared out of a door down a rather narrow hallway. As she came closer, Jolie saw that the woman was older than she had expected.
“Mother, this is Miss Jolie Devorak. Jolie, I’d like you to meet my mother.”
“How do you do, Mrs. Ziegler?”
“Very well. I’m glad that you could come.” Dora Ziegler was a tall and rather formidable woman, apparently very strong physically. She had iron gray hair, a squarish face, and appeared to be in her fifties. To Jolie’s surprise she looked nothing at all like Tom, and her suspicions were confirmed that Tom got his looks, as well as his mannerisms, from his father.
“Come and sit in the parlor, Miss Devorak.”
“Oh, please call me Jolie. Everyone does.”
“Very well.” Mrs. Ziegler led the way into the parlor, and Jolie took her seat on a stiff, hard horsehair couch. Tom did not sit beside her but moved to an ancient-looking straight-backed chair, which he sat on nervously, locking his fingers in front of him.
Mrs. Ziegler seated herself on an oak Eastwood easy chair upholstered in chintz of a very drab brown print, and put her small, but intense, brown eyes on her guest. “My son tells me that you work with a group of actors and actresses.”
“Yes, ma’am. I work for Imperial Pictures,” Jolie said. She felt intimidated by the woman’s heavy stare and stirred nervously.
“What is your age, if I may ask?”
“I’m nineteen.”
“What about your family?”
There was a steely edge to the woman’s voice, and Jolie sensed the disapproval in her stolid gaze. “I . . . don’t really have any family.”
“You’re an orphan?”
“Yes, only a stepfather, and we . . . didn’t get along.” Then she added quickly, “But I’m doing very well. I make enough money to have a nice place to live, and Tom here is helping me a lot with his tutoring.”
“I’m sure he is.”
Tom Ziegler sat quietly, offering only a word here and there. His face was drawn, and Jolie noticed a nervous tick in his right eye. What’s he so nervous about? she wondered. She glanced back at the large woman sitting across from her and thought suddenly, Why, he’s afraid of her! She said nothing aloud of her observations but continued to answer the questions that Mrs. Ziegler fired at her one after another.
Finally the interrogation appeared to be over. Mrs. Ziegler said, “I think dinner is ready. If you will give me a few moments, I will go set the table.”
“Let me help you,” Jolie offered eagerly.
“That won’t be necessary. Everything is ready. I’ll come for you when it’s time.”
Tom stood up as his mother left the room and fidgeted, seemingly not certain of what to say. After a long moment of silence, he asked, “Well, what do you think of my mother?”
“She seems to be a very . . . strong woman.”
“Yes, she is.”
For the life of her, Jolie could not think of another remark to make. Finally she said in a rather inane fashion, “I’m sure she did her best for you after your father passed away.”
“Oh yes!” Tom nodded eagerly. “She did everything for me. It was hard, too. She had little money. But she always saw I got the best education possible under the circumstances.”
Jolie looked up and said, “Is that your father?” nodding toward an oval portrait behind glass. “I see it is. You look very much like him.”
“So they say. I didn’t actually know him very well. He died when I was only eight, but I remember he used to take me out to the beach. He would make boats, and we would race them.” He hesitated, seemingly lost in thought. “I missed him so much. Life wasn’t the same after he died.”
“It’s hard for a mother to raise a son alone, I suppose.” Then she added quickly, “But I’m sure your mother did the best she could.”
“Yes, of course she did.”
At that moment Mrs. Ziegler appeared and said, “You may come into the dining room now.”
Quickly Jolie arose and walked before Tom out of the parlor, down the hall, and to the left into the dining room.
The dining room was a medium-sized room with two small windows covered with heavy dark blue curtains. Jolie’s eyes scanned the room, taking in the carpet of green, black, pink, and red rose patterns. Pictures of landscapes and gardens hung on the pale blue-and-green wallpapered walls. Her eyes opened wide at the sight of the table. It was the most elegant setting she had ever seen. It was more beautiful than even one of the expensive restaurants where Priscilla had taken her to eat one time.
The large oval-shaped table was surrounded by four late Victorian balloon-back chairs and was covered with a white, stiffly ironed cloth with the crease placed directly in the middle of the table, dividing it in half. In the center of the table was a small white lace centerpiece cloth, where a cut-glass vase of fresh flowers had been placed. At the corners of the centerpiece were four highly polished silver candlesticks with candles burning. Fancy dishes of appetizers and salted nuts sat between the burning candles. And each place setting had a white cloth napkin, three forks of varying sizes, a china plate, two knives, one spoon, a small glass dish of salt with a tiny spoon in it, and a water goblet. Close to each place setting was another small glass bowl, a finger bowl, half filled with water and a small slice of lemon floating on top.
“You may sit there, Miss Devorak,” Tom’s mother said, ignoring the first name of the girl. She herself sat at the head of the table, and Tom, as if on cue, walked around and sat down across from Jolie.
Though the setting was elegant, it was a strange and uncomfortable meal. When Jolie looked down, she saw an array of knives and forks and had not the slightest idea of what to use them all for. She survived from committing any faux pas mainly by waiting until Tom or Mrs. Ziegler used one of them, and then she followed. The food was good, she supposed, but she was so tense that she could not enjoy it.
Almost at once, Mrs. Ziegler began talking about Tom and the struggle she had had to educate him. She put great stress on how she had to sacrifice everything. “Now he’s halfway through his college career,” she ended finally, “and he has a brilliant future ahead of him.”
“Oh, Mother!” Tom protested. “Not all that brilliant.”
“Don’t say that, Tom! You’re going to be a fine attorney, and who knows, attorneys often go into politics. You’d do well, I think, running for office someday.”
Tom shifted nervously. “I don’t think I’d be very good at begging for votes.”
Ignoring this, Mrs. Ziegler said, “And, of course, he will marry well. That’s so important for a young man who’s on his way upward in the social and business world. Don’t you think, Miss Devorak.”
Jolie nodded, murmuring, “I’m sure it i
s.”
“We’ve talked about it, Tom and I,” Mrs. Ziegler said, and her eyes fell on Jolie in a strange fashion. “It would be terrible if he threw himself away on some young woman who could not help his career. One reads about these things in the newspapers. Men who should know better than to marry chorus girls—actresses.”
Instantly Jolie recognized that the entire evening was a red-flag warning. Keep your hands off my son! Jolie’s face grew pale, and she had very little to say for the rest of the meal.
After the meal, they returned to the parlor, where Jolie spent as miserable an hour as she could ever remember. Finally the ordeal was over, and as Jolie moved to the door, she turned to say, “Thank you very much. It was a very fine dinner, Mrs. Ziegler.”
“You’re very welcome, I’m sure.” Mrs. Ziegler did not add the customary, “You must come again.” Instead she turned to Tom and said, “I wish you would hurry back, Tom. There are some things we need to discuss.”
Tom coughed and then muttered, “Very well, Mother.”
Neither Tom nor Jolie said much on the way back to her boardinghouse. When he left her at the door, he said nervously, “I’d better get back.”
“Thank you for asking me, Tom,” Jolie said quietly. She saw something like pain in his eyes and said quickly, “I’ll see you day after tomorrow for my lessons.”
“Of course. Good night, Jolie.”
Jolie entered the house, going directly to her room. Closing the door, she went to sit on the bed. A heavy sadness settled in her heart—not for herself or for the coldness of Mrs. Ziegler’s treatment. She had borne worse than that. She grieved for Tom Ziegler, perceiving very clearly that he was the prisoner of his mother’s lofty and selfish ambitions. She sat there and sighed, “Oh, Tom . . . !” She shook her head, got up, and began to get ready for bed, wondering what Mrs. Ziegler wanted to talk to Tom about that was so urgent. Probably, she thought as she brushed her hair after putting on her gown, she wants to warn him against young girls who work with actresses and other lowlife people. . . .
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
French Perfume
The August sun was still high in the sky as Dorothy Winslow stopped abruptly outside Parson’s Department Store. The financial problems of life had finally disappeared when she and Andrew had moved to Los Angeles. Faith Temple paid a more than adequate salary. The years of near poverty, however, had brought habits that died hard, and Parson’s was the store in Los Angeles. It was an imposing four-story building built of cement, brick, and glass that gleamed in the yellow sunlight, but there was only a small black marble sign on the cornerstone. Everyone knew Parson’s as the store where the well-to-do shopped. Wealthy people came from all over southern California to shop here, but Dorothy had never done more than pay a quick visit. The price tags had taken her breath away, and she had gone to stores with more reasonably priced merchandise.
Somehow, as she stood looking at the mannequins in the window, all marble faced and haughty, a strange idea began to take shape within her. At first she ignored it and once almost walked on down the pavement, but then she turned squarely to stare at the display. One was a sheer peach-colored nightgown underneath a lacy black negligee. She was transfixed by the daring combination, unable to tear her eyes away. The gown itself was low-cut and nipped in at the waist, and she knew instinctively that only a woman with an excellent figure could wear it.
Finally Dorothy straightened up, her lips grew tight, and she marched into the store with determination. The lingerie department was on the second floor, and she took the wide, curving stairs up, noting that there were no poorly dressed people in Parson’s. When she reached the top step, she was intimidated by the richness of the oriental carpet and the displays of clothes that she knew were frightfully expensive. For a time she wandered about hesitantly, hoping that no salesclerk would approach her. For a while she looked around undisturbed, but then a tall woman wearing a simple but well-tailored dress and a string of enormous pearls around her neck came, saying in a voice that was almost a purr, “May I help you make a selection?”
“Oh, I really don’t know what I want.” This was not true, for Dorothy knew exactly what she wanted. Somehow it seemed almost immoral to buy the lingerie she had seen in the window.
“Would it be a gown or a frock?” the lady asked. Seeing Dorothy’s hesitation, she said, “My name is Miss Hampton. I’d be glad to help you with anything that might interest you.”
“I . . . I thought the peach gown and negligee in the window were very pretty.”
“Oh, you have fine taste! Come along,” Miss Hampton said. As she moved away, Dorothy followed her. Soon the two women were in front of a rack from which the saleslady pulled the gown down. “I think this would be perfect for you with your coloring, and you’re a size eight, I think?” Miss Hampton removed the gown and held it up and nodded with admiration. “A perfect fit, I’m certain. But why don’t you go try it on? It’s hard to tell about these things—and lingerie is so important, don’t you think?”
Dorothy had had few thoughts on the subject, but she found herself nodding, taking the gown, and soon she was in a dressing room. She looked around nervously, checked the lock on the door, and removing her clothes, she slipped into the gown, then pulled the negligee on over it. There was a full-length mirror in the room, and as she looked at it she gasped. The silk clung to her figure, outlining every curve, and the low cut of the bodice was more daring than anything she had ever worn. She stood for a long time staring at herself, turning to every possible angle. There was even a mirror on the other side of the room so that she could see how the outfit looked from the back.
“Does it fit?” Miss Hampton’s voice came through the door.
“Oh yes, it does! It’s very nice. I’ll just be a moment.” Hastily Dorothy removed the negligee and donned her street clothes. Gathering the lingerie, she unlocked the door and stepped outside.
“I know you looked lovely in it,” Miss Hampton smiled. “I’m sure you’ll want to take it home with you.”
“Well, I don’t know. It’s so . . . well, it’s a little more exotic than anything I’ve ever bought.”
Miss Hampton suddenly smiled. She had a wealth of auburn hair done up in the latest fashion, and she winked slyly, saying, “Well, your husband will like it—and that’s who a woman really buys her clothes for. Not for herself, but for her husband, don’t you agree?”
“I suppose that’s true. But I’m not sure my husband will like anything quite this . . . daring.”
“Why, of course he will! Men like that sort of thing.” She urged no more but stood waiting, and soon Dorothy made the response Miss Hampton expected.
“Well, all right. How much is it?”
Dorothy, by sure force of will, did not gasp when she heard the price. I’ll have to make it up with my housekeeping budget, she thought. But aloud she said, “I’ll take it with me.”
“One more thing. Would you step over this way, please?” Miss Hampton moved along the counter, holding the gown and negligee, and stopped before a glass case. She opened it and took out a small bottle in a curiously wrought cutglass fashion. “This is the latest perfume. It is called ‘Love at Night.’ It came all the way from Paris. Here, let me put a little on your wrist.” She pulled the stopper out, moistened a finger, then touched Dorothy’s wrist. As Dorothy breathed the fragrance of the perfume, Miss Hampton’s lips curled upward. “When your husband gets one hint of that, I think you’ll see it’s worth the money. After all, that’s a woman’s job to make herself attractive for her husband.”
By this time Dorothy was not quite so inhibited. “It is very lovely,” she said. Without even asking the price, she said, “I’ll take a bottle of it, but a very small one.”
“Of course. Now let me wrap these for you.”
Soon Dorothy was paying for her purchases, barely managing to keep her face straight at the amount. She handed the money to the saleslady, took the package, and said, “Thank you very much.�
�
“Thank you!” Miss Hampton beamed, her eyebrow arched as she leaned forward. “I wish you’d come back soon and tell me how your husband liked it.”
Dorothy flushed and nodded, then turned and left the store. All the way home she was building a dream of how she would surprise Andrew with the lingerie and the perfume. She was frightened that her plan would not work, but the thoughts came floating to her, I can make him want me! I know I can!
****
Dorothy concealed the lingerie in a drawer in her chest and placed the perfume under it.
When she shut the drawer she thought defensively, I don’t know why I’m hiding it like it was some sort of sinful thing. It isn’t, really. She took a deep breath, then went downstairs and began cooking supper. The children were playing noisily in the drawing room, and from time to time she would go check on them, but her mind was on Andrew.
At five o’clock the door opened, and when Andrew came through calling out, “I’m home!” Dorothy’s face brightened. She went to him at once and said, “You came home early! I’m so glad! I’m fixing your favorite supper. Shrimp and snapper.”
Andrew leaned over and kissed her cheek. “That’s fine,” he said. “I’m pretty hungry.” He turned and went to the children. Sitting on the floor beside them, he began to ask them about their day.
Dorothy happily went about the final touches of the meal. The perfume and the lingerie were on her mind, and she hurriedly set the meal on the table. Andrew ate well, but she saw that he was tired.
“You’re working too hard,” she murmured. “I can tell you’re exhausted.”
“I’m all right,” Andrew shrugged.
He did not comment on the meal, much to Dorothy’s disappointment, but she put that from her mind. After supper she washed the dishes while Andrew read stories to the children. When she was finished cleaning up, she went in and sat quietly across from him, studying the face of her husband. It was a strong face, thinner now than it should be, but he was still one of the handsomest men she had ever seen. She thought back to when Andrew and his brother, Barney, had first come to Africa to her father’s mission station. At that time it was Barney who had attracted her.
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