The Red Coat

by Dolley Carlson

  “Miss Cordelia, what does that mean exactly?” the caretaker asked while crunching a tweed cap that moments ago topped his platinum-haired head, having just come in from touching up paint on the property’s surrounding black iron fence and gate.

  “It means, Rolf, that you and Hilda are free to secure day jobs. I’ve no doubt you’ll find suitable employment straightaway considering how often people have said I’m very fortunate to have the both of you looking after everything. It also means that, out of gratitude for your years of service, the apartment over the garage will continue to be yours, no rent, no condition, other than please don’t leave. I couldn’t bear to lose one more person.”

  Hilda had to stop herself from stepping forward and comforting Cordelia with a hug. She knew better; the familiarity would be a breach of domestic etiquette. Though she did do that very thing when they got the terrible news of Mr. and Mrs. Parker’s fatal accident, but that was different, a sudden shock with no time to think. I’ll say a couple of Hail Marys for the poor girl instead and ask the Blessed Mother to ease her grief and send her someone to love, a good man like her father.

  “Miss Cordelia, I feel sure I speak for Rolf too when I say we’ll still look after things, as best as we can, in exchange for our apartment. The lady with the three children, you know the one, she walks by the house at the same time every afternoon on her way to meet them at school. She stopped me at the florist the other day and asked if I was available to do some housekeeping. Naturally I said no at the time.”

  Rolf spoke next. “What I think my wife is trying to say is the only change will be the lesser amount of time we’ll be spending in this house, but things will be taken care of, Miss.” The corners of Rolf’s mustached mouth slowly turned up. “Out of gratitude to your family for all the years Hilda and I have had the best jobs in Boston and a nice place to live too.”

  Keeping the family residence was worth more to Cordelia than her pride, and she’d get a job. But what, and where? How does one go about gaining suitable employment without making a big to-do of it?

  “Cappy, I have something pleasantly shocking to tell you!”

  Cordelia brushed her hand along the softness of a fringe-piped sofa cushion and looked back at her friend Abby, who was selectively plucking a few drooping blooms from an otherwise fresh flower arrangement, but stopped to make her point.

  “I’m opening a linen shop on Newbury Street. Can you believe it?”

  “Finally your dream is realized. Good for you, Abby. I can’t wait to see it.”

  Cordelia was the picture of casual refinement in a gray flannel, pleated skirt suit and flowing blue silk-print scarf as she secretly fidgeted, all ten toes wiggling within the confines of her sensible walking shoes, and eagerly patted the sofa. “Come over here right now and tell me everything.”

  “Oh, you’re simply going to love it.” Abigail Chandler, whose shiny Dutch-boy cut swung slightly every time she moved, was a chic study in black and white, reminiscent of Coco Chanel. Her long-sleeved white blouse, the two top buttons undone, afforded a minute peek of ecru lace, while a short strand of pearls rested against her pale skin, and a longer double strand bobbed across the bodice. Her black pencil skirt was tailored to perfection, while a pair of “outrageously expensive” black alligator pumps anchored the ensemble. But the pièce de résistance that Abby insisted every outfit needed was a vintage, diamond-stemmed wristwatch held in place with a bow-tied, black, grosgrain ribbon.

  Abby gracefully fell into the down cushion’s comfort, landing both palms on her lap. “The space was formerly a millinery boutique, so it has a fair amount of charm already. I’m sure you’ll recognize the building when you see it, brick, with a steep, elaborate, iron-railed stairway that leads directly to my shop on the right, and on the left a posh stationery store, mirror image of mine. Both have showcase bay windows, which of course are excellent for business.”

  Abby explained that the owner of the building on Newbury, although keen to rent the space, refused to do so without her husband’s signature on the lease as well. “It’s routine,” he said. “There’s nothing to take personally here.”

  Abby bit her tongue. If my husband were renting the space, would you require my signature as well?

  Cordelia enjoyed every minute of Abby’s enthusiastic report. “Please, continue.”

  “Well, the stationers are two rather persnickety but adorably debonair gentlemen, and you can’t begin to imagine how remarkable their window displays are. I shall do my best to follow suit. Why, with all the foot traffic on Newbury we’ve a thoroughly captive audience.”

  Abby’s next-door-neighbors, Carleton Cross and Howard Ambrose of Ambrose & Cross – Fine Stationary – Invitations – Writing Instruments, were more than pleased about the new tenant. Mr. Ambrose said, “Refinement is written all over Mrs. Chandler,” and Mr. Cross added, “Love the Chanel touch.”

  “What perfect timing, Abby. Once you and Edwin begin a family … ” Cordelia arched one eyebrow; they had, after all, been married for three years. “I’m afraid adventures such as this will be too ambitious. Meanwhile, a linen store, how marvelous!”

  “And how perceptive of you, Cappy. As it happens our bundle of joy is on his or her way already.”

  Cordelia brought her hand to her heart. “You’re kidding!”

  “Oh, no, I’m not. Trust me, I’ve never felt like this before in my life, nauseous twenty-four hours a day. I thought it was only supposed to be morning sickness. Thank goodness for saltine crackers.”

  “Congratulations! How long have you known?”

  “Well, as luck would have it, the day we signed our lease, I felt somewhat queasy and completely credited my malaise to nerves.” Abby, as always, spoke with her hands as if they were exclamation points. “Actually, Edwin and I just found out a couple of days ago, which brings me to my next point. Would you consider helping out with the store, just to get it off the ground? You have such exquisite taste, Cappy, and the best way with people. I’ll make it worth your while.”

  Abby desired a certain atmosphere in her upscale store, and she knew Cordelia’s sensibility and sophistication would greatly assist in making it welcoming but not familiar, well-designed but not stuffy, serene but not dull, and definitely aromatic with seasonally appropriate potpourri, muguet de bois (lily of the valley) toiletries, lavender sachets, and at all times, light refreshments, coffee, tea, water with lemon, and an assortment of petite cookies. There would also be, at background volume, recordings of chamber music or light opera, from time to time, Edith Piaf’s enchanting French tunes, and during the Christmas season, traditional carols in English.

  “Why, I believe you’re serious, Abby.” Cordelia selected a milk chocolate from the Limoges candy dish on the coffee table. “Do you suppose this is a caramel?”

  The fledgling business woman felt concerned that her request and subsequent claim that she’d make it worth Cordelia’s while were received as insults, but she couldn’t imagine taking on such an enterprise without the benefit of her trusted friend’s organizational ability and winning presence. Cordelia could sell ice cubes to an Eskimo. Abby decided to forge ahead.

  “You have absolutely the best taste of anyone I know, Cappy, and your way with people is extraordinarily persuasive. Think back to our Radcliffe days. Why, hardly anyone in our crowd ever finalized plans until they’d run them past you.”

  Abby became comically theatrical as she slinked across her parlor, a breeze of Chanel No. 5 wafting behind her, and reached for the French-inspired telephone on her cherry writing desk. “Has anyone asked Cappy yet what she thinks? Let’s give her a jingle.”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake, Abby, no need for the charade. I’m not in the least offended. To be completely honest, I find your proposition rather intriguing, if not tempting. It sounds like great fun and on Newbury no less, how lovely.”

  “Now, you’re kidding!”

  “No, I’m not.”

  Cordelia couldn’t believe the
se next words were about to come out of her mouth. “When do I begin?” But she was incredibly grateful for the opportunity. There is indeed a God and thankfully He values my pride.

  Abby clapped her hands in rapid succession. “Oh, I’m so happy!” And she straightaway shook her first employee’s hand. “We’ll make a great team, and I’ll certainly need your discretion in hiring one or two other people to join us in this endeavor. I simply can’t believe you said yes. Thank you, thank you.”

  The last three years had held many unforeseen changes for Cordelia— losing the love of her life to a person she deemed unworthy at best, her parents’ sudden deaths, and a conflict with her only sibling that severed all relationship to the point of not even knowing where he was living.

  After the ill-fated dinner with Pip, she continued to live life almost as she’d known it: quietly, comfortably, predictably. Her days were filled with volunteer work, cultural events, family, and friends. Sundays were, as always, for attending services at Park Street Church, where she gained strength and solace from Pastor Ockenga’s hope-filled sermons.

  Park Street Church

  BOSTON, MASS.

  Where “America” was first sung,

  July 4, 1832

  Quite unexpectedly, upon learning her trust fund had run dry, the financial freedom and protection Cordelia Anne Parker had been accustomed to was gone. The presumed amount squandered to a vastly lower sum by her trustee brother. His betrayal broke her heart.

  Price Irving Parker III neglected to tell his sister about the adjustment, and here she was, certainly not without assets, but definitely in need of steady income if she was to keep her house. Monetary difficulties were uncharted territory for the Beacon Hill heiress, who feared she might have to sell the only home she’d ever known.

  Cordelia loved every square inch of 91 Mount Vernon: the way it smelled slightly of evergreen the minute you walked in the front door, due to a cedar-lined entry closet; and the inevitable squeak of that door no matter how often Rolf tended to it; the rippled, divided, window panes, several randomly aged to an opulent violet; and the way she felt when approaching the house at night, light within glowing safekeeping and welcome. Her cozy bedroom, even now with the choice of three others, remained a private retreat, its familiar atmosphere a comfort like no other when she slipped into one of the twin beds at night.

  Above everything else, there was the sense of her parents’ presence all about the house. Price Parker’s pipes remained on a rack in his study, and from time to time, Cordelia would cradle one in her hand and breathe in the piquant tobacco aroma. Her mother’s special touch was everywhere, most things unchanged from when she’d systematically managed house and garden with optimum grace and skill. Cordelia’s bittersweet joy was to follow in her mother’s footsteps, and she often drew on the memory of her sage advice.

  “No matter what may take place in the world as time goes by, always remember these three things about good housekeeping. Good food, good mattresses, and a good deal of loveliness—flowers, candles, books, and music—all of which make for a happy home.”

  It was Cordelia’s way to visit each room before locking up the house at night, and when it came to the bedrooms, she lingered. Her parents’ was just as they’d left it, Caroline and Price’s nightclothes neatly laid out. Pip’s room, with missing photos and other absent framed items, had phantom ovals, rectangles, and squares on every wall. The guest room, as always, remained ready. Her decidedly feminine room stayed unchanged, and Cordelia wondered whatever was to come.

  Abby’s father was “a frog,” as her maternal grandfather jovially called him. And she grew up visiting Grand-mère and Grand-père at their elegantly eccentric, Parisian apartment and simple summer home in Provence. An observant girl, she took in every enchanting detail of French style, housekeeping, food, and linens.

  Providence truly did step in when Abigail Adams Dubois Chandler finally decided to take hold of her long-time dream of offering quality domestic selections and specializing in European imports with an emphasis on French linens and a modicum of Irish. The wealthy young matron was briefly tempted to call her store La Vie en Rose but ultimately chose something much more “New England-sounding,” Chandler’s Linens ~ 33 Newbury Street, Boston, Massachusetts.

  Abby needed help, and Cordelia appeared to be a lady of leisure. Productive, yes, but nonetheless perceived as a single woman with time on her hands.

  Cordelia saw Abby’s offer as a Godsend that required no clever explanation about her new working status other than “I’m helping a close friend out for now.”

  It pleased Abby her store would coincidently be opening in May, a time of year when the French customarily purchase a bouquet or plant of Lily of the Valley as a token of love and good wishes for family, friends, and even themselves. The tiny, bell-shaped, white flower is literally known as a porte-bonheur, or “bringer of happiness,” or what some prefer to call “good fortune.”

  CHAPTER 26

  We make our choices, and our choices make us.

  PRICE IRVING PARKER II

  TIME AND AGAIN, OVER THE past few months, Cordelia was stunned to discover she actually enjoyed the routine of regular working hours and adjusted with relative ease, considering she’d been raised with a silver spoon in her mouth, household chores and cooking left to the care of hired help.

  She’d grown quite accustomed to preparing her own breakfast: set the table at night with dishes, cup, and juice glass turned upside down just as Hilda had done “to keep the dust and germs away, Miss,” and got the coffee pot ready. So next morning when she meandered into the kitchen half asleep, these days rising two hours earlier than usual, a mere twist of the wrist got things underway.

  There was a quick bath while the coffee was perking and a dash downstairs again, with Cordelia half-dressed in full slip, skirt, stockings, slippers, and a long dressing gown that billowed behind her. In short time, she’d enjoy a light but nutritious breakfast of juice, a soft-boiled egg, and whole-wheat toast or oatmeal and fruit, followed by dishes washed at once, dried, and put away—the thought of an unkempt kitchen intolerable. After breakfast it was upstairs again to finish getting dressed and then an invigorating walk over to Newbury Street, where Cordelia Parker opened Chandler’s Linens with such aplomb a passerby would take her for proprietress rather than wholehearted employee.

  She particularly enjoyed pulling up the store’s sizable window shades and looking out on the new business day, Newbury Street still shimmering from the damp of dawn. Cordelia absolutely relished what she came to refer to as fluffing: She made sure water in vases was fresh, pillows on the French Provincial, wood-accented settee and two armchairs of the same design were arranged just so. She double-checked that every single thing in the store was artfully, temptingly, irresistibly in place: from bed linens to towels, a few unique kitchen items and books, handkerchiefs, lingerie keepers, sachets, silk tassels for cabinet doors, soaps and fragrances, petite-point accessories, coin purses, glass cases, bookmarks, and cigarette cases, among numerous other luxury items.

  A turn of the burnished brass key in its antiquated lock, and Chandler’s was ready to serve, suggest, and sell.

  Cordelia had taken to wearing her reading glasses on a chain rather than to hunt all about Chandler’s and keep customers waiting. Caroline often came to mind, like mother like daughter, and prompted within Cordelia a recurring longing to be in her much-missed mummy’s company just one more time.

  Surrounded by beautiful things and given free rein by Abby to do whatever she deemed best for business, Cordelia was in her element and flourishing, as was Chandler’s Linens.

  At day’s end, she left the store with a great deal of personal satisfaction from a job well done. But as she set her course for home and saw people meeting up along the way, presumably en route to have dinner together, a feeling of forlornness often crept in, as did the reality of returning to an empty house, eating alone, and going to bed without another soul to say “good night”
or “see you in the morning.”

  But Cordelia resisted dwelling on such thoughts, as the result of a childhood lesson. Her father was the type of man who frowned on his children ever missing school, and when she, often at her mother’s urging, wanted to stay home because of a minor malady, such as a cold, runny nose, or “tummy ache,” he greatly objected.

  “Cordelia, life isn’t always easy, and you must learn to steel yourself against dallying, dwelling, and giving in. We make our choices and our choices make us.”

  Although Cordelia had sold back her interest in the Martha’s Vineyard property under the guise of consolidating when it was, in fact, to help prolong her stay on Mount Vernon, the cousins insisted she regard the eighteen-room cottage always as her home away from home.

  The stoic young Beacon Hill woman’s life had become much more solitary than she’d ever expected. Certainly there were friends, neighbors, and acquaintanceships, tradespeople, Chandler’s staff, and of course, Hilda and Rolf, but when it came to flesh and blood, there was an aching absence of family. Cordelia seldom saw the cousins, her late father’s deceased brother’s children, and their families, except for weddings, funerals, and Christmas, and they never missed the Fourth of July fest on Martha’s Vineyard. Her mother had been an only child.

  The aunties were gone now, having passed away only a month apart. Symbiotic endearment kept them going all those years, and then there was one, but not for long.

  Aunt Agatha and Aunt Martha had been enormously grateful for Cordelia’s assistance as old age caught up with their robust Yankee health. She escorted them to doctor and dentist’s appointments, biannual beauty shop dates for “a quick clipping” and “low upkeep, if you please,” social obligations, and any other need that required a helping hand or the comfort of a car. Walking about the city and public transportation had become daunting challenges for the aunties’ frail limbs.