You're the Cream in My Coffee

by Leo, Jennifer Lamont

  He nodded and shifted a lever. The elevator rose smoothly at breakneck speed, a vast improvement over the only elevator in Kerryville, a menacing contraption at the hospital that lurched and shuddered with a great rattling of chains. I could not suppress a grin. This was better than a ride at the county fair. Tempted as I was to ride up and down a few more times, just for the thrill of it, the operator called out “Six,” and I felt compelled to hustle out.

  The bridal area was resplendent in Wedgwood blue and creamy white. Chandeliers dangled from ornate plaster medallions. Snowy gowns hung behind glass, softly spot-lit like museum exhibits. I felt torn between stepping onto the pale blue carpet and running for my life.

  A young woman with the glossy good looks of a North Shore socialite examined a gown critically in the three-way mirror, flanked by a fawning saleswoman. Her eyes caught mine in the glass. She raised an eyebrow and I hastily looked away, caught in the act of staring.

  Just then another black-garbed saleswoman, practically a duplicate of the first, materialized at my side. I hadn’t heard her approach. At Field’s, clerks apparently glided rather than walked.

  “Good afternoon,” she said. “Have you an appointment?”

  “I’m afraid not. Do I need one?”

  The saleswoman smiled with her mouth, if not her eyes. “I happen to have an opening.” She produced a clipboard from behind her back and took up a pencil. “Are you the bride?”

  “Yes.”

  She made a notation on the clipboard. “And what is the date of your nuptials?”

  “September fifteenth.”

  Her forehead creased. “Of this year?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m afraid a custom gown requires many weeks to—”

  “Oh, no,” I interjected. “I don’t need a gown. I’m sewing my own.”

  Her smile stiffened. “What a courageous undertaking.” She cocked her head. “How may I help you, then?” She glanced down at her clipboard. “Headpiece? Veil? Shoes?”

  “Gifts for the wedding party.”

  She brightened. “Ah. Such a thoughtful tradition. We have a lovely selection. Step this way, please.” She led me to a fancy desk adorned with white-and-gold curlicues, where she produced a brochure titled “Special Gift Ideas for Your Special Day.” She opened it to a two-page spread of merchandise. “Any of these would make delightful attendants’ gifts. Will it be a large wedding party?”

  “Not large.” I glanced over the brochure. Crystal bud vases. Jewel-backed compacts. Sterling silver cigarette cases. I chuckled, trying to picture what Helen would do with a cigarette case—probably use it to hold her baseball cards. My chuckle turned to choking when I read the prices. I handed the brochure back to the saleswoman. “Thank you, but I’m looking for something . . . simpler.”

  “I see,” she sniffed. “Well, perhaps you’ll find something more suitable in Housewares. Here’s a list that might help you.”

  I thanked her, and she bustled off to assist her colleague with the glossy bride-to-be. I glanced over the list. The possibilities in forks alone were staggering. Fish forks. Pickle forks. Dessert forks. Meat forks. Strawberry forks.

  If I’d been able to marry Jack Lund, we would have lived happily ever after with forks and knives from Meyer’s Department Store. But as the future Mrs. Richard Brownlee, I knew I would be called upon to host many dinners for the likes of Mrs. Cavendish, for whom only the best would do. My anxiety over this was only heightened by the knowledge that there were such things as strawberry forks to worry about. Chastened, I set the list down on the fancy desk and made tracks for the elevator. I could only tolerate wedding chores for so long before panic threatened. What kind of a bride was I?

  I was ready to abandon the quest and return to Miss Brownlee’s in defeat. But when the elevator operator called out, “Fifth floor. Millinery,” the perfect solution to my gloomy mood suddenly became apparent.

  What I needed to lift my spirits, more than anything, was a new hat.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I stepped off the elevator like Alice through the looking glass. Before me lay rows and rows of hats of every description: cloches, toques, derbies, picture hats, knit caps, riding hats. I touched a soft brown felt hat with a jaunty feather, perched on a mannequin’s stylish head. Brown was my usual choice, a practical nondescript color, but the feather gave it an extra kick. A saleswoman floated forth in the Field’s manner.

  “Good afternoon, miss. Have you been helped?”

  “Just looking,” I replied.

  This clerk looked different from those presiding over Bridal. For one thing, she was younger, closer to my own age. And even though she wore a similar plain black dress, the dress was form-fitting and startlingly short, almost revealing her knees. She wore her shiny dark hair in a stylish chin-length bob (“chopped off like a boy’s,” Frances would have sneered), charcoal pencil around her dark eyes, two spots of rouge, and dark red lipstick. Against all the strong colors, her skin looked alarmingly white. She might have looked almost ghoulish, if she hadn’t been so pretty.

  She gazed back at me and smiled. “What lovely blue eyes you have. Wait here. I have the perfect thing for you. Please take a seat.”

  I did as I was told. Knowing I wasn’t likely to make a purchase, I hesitated to waste her time. On the other hand, the department wasn’t busy, and it would be fun to try on a few hats.

  The clerk, whose nametag read “D. Rodgers,” produced a fashionable cloche in a brilliant shade of yellow, trimmed with a navy grosgrain ribbon. I removed my own hat and set it on my lap. She handed me the cloche and I gingerly placed it on my head.

  “No, no. Not like that. You wear it down like this.” She grabbed the hat on each side and firmly tugged it down until it rested low on my forehead, shading my eyes. “There. That’s better. What do you think?”

  I gazed at the three-way mirror. I almost didn’t recognize the sophisticated woman who looked back. I examined my head from all angles. “It’s lovely,” I admitted.

  “It’s amazing what a difference the right chapeau can make,” Miss Rodgers exclaimed. “Just look what it does for your coloring.” My complexion did indeed look brighter—what I could see of it beneath the lowered brim. “It’s a darling hat,” she continued. “And so classy. You know what the great fashion designer Coco Chanel says: ‘A girl should be two things: classy and fabulous.’”

  I hadn’t known, but I doubted Kerryville was ready for both classy and fabulous. Reluctantly I pulled off the hat and smoothed my flyaway hair. “I’m not sure. It might be a little too fashionable. I live in a small town, you see.”

  “Then be a fashion leader. Someone has to set the standard.”

  I doubted I’d be setting a standard in Kerryville anytime soon, for fashion or anything else. “I love it, but the brown suede would be more practical.”

  “Oh, piffle. Who needs practical? That dull brown makes you fade into the woodwork. I should think you’d be tired of it and want a change.”

  If she only knew how much I wanted a change—and not just of my hat.

  Under other circumstances I might have found the clerk’s forthright manner offensive. But strangely, talking with Miss Rodgers felt like an amicable argument between friends.

  “It’s not the same hat at all,” I protested. “The one on the mannequin has a feather.”

  “Feather, schmeather,” she said. “Don’t you want something entirely new, something fresh and exciting?”

  I glanced down at my old hat, which was looking sorrier by the minute.

  But canary yellow! In such a daring, modern style. Every head on Main Street would swivel my way if I wore a hat like that. Did I dare?

  The clerk sensed my waffling and winked at me in the mirror. “Come on, doll,” she coaxed. “Live a little.”

  “Miss, may we have your help?” called a voice from a small clutch of ladies gathered around a display of wide-brimmed sunhats.

  “I’ll be with you in a moment,” Mi
ss Rodgers caroled back. To me she whispered, “Meat packers’ wives.”

  I glanced at the women. “How can you tell?”

  “By their hats, of course. Will you excuse me a moment?”

  As Miss Rodgers sailed off to attend to the customers, I checked the price tag on the yellow cloche and swallowed hard. It would take most of the money I’d earmarked for bridesmaids’ gifts to buy it.

  Yet it was such a darling hat . . . a smart, summery, sunshiny hat. A sophisticated city hat, infused with the power to transform even me into a sophisticated city girl. When would I ever find one like it again? Certainly not at Meyer’s Department Store.

  Suddenly Frances’s voice popped into my head. Yellow is such an impractical color. You’ll never be able to keep it clean. Isn’t that style a little bold for you?

  That settled my decision. “I’ll take it,” I blurted when Miss Rodgers returned.

  “Now you’re cooking with gas!” Miss Rodgers cocked her head and gently grasped the thick coil of hair pinned at the nape of my neck, weighing it in her hand. “If I may make a suggestion, this style of hat would look even better if your hair were bobbed. Have you thought of having that done? There’s a beauty salon upstairs that’ll fix you right up.”

  I recoiled. “Oh, no. My fiancé says girls who bob their hair look like . . . well, let’s just say he wouldn’t approve. This hat will be about as much ‘modern’ as he can stand.”

  Miss Rodgers laughed. “Oh, men don’t know what they like.” She swept the hat out of my hands. “We’ll wrap this up and get you on your way. Unless, of course, you’d like to see more hats. We have an adorable little sailor number, just the thing for yachting.”

  “I’d better not. I’ve done enough damage to my budget as it is. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to wear it home.”

  “Why, sure, doll. I’ll wrap up your old one. Maybe you can donate it to some worthy cause.”

  I set the Darling Yellow Hat on my head and tugged it down the way she’d shown me. “Like this?”

  “Like that.” She grinned. “Perfect. Now there’s a girl who’s ready for an adventure.”

  As I left the store in the Darling Yellow Hat, I did indeed feel ready for an adventure, but couldn’t think of anything particularly adventurous to do. I came upon a theater showing a matinee of Love, a John Gilbert film I hadn’t yet seen, and I went inside.

  Two hours later, though, I wished I hadn’t, as the Gilbert/Garbo retelling of Tolstoy’s tragic love story cast a pall over the lovely evening. I left the theater with a vague hollow yearning in my heart. Perhaps I was just lonely for Richard, as any good fiancée would be.

  Before bed I scribbled a few lines to him on a postcard I’d bought at the Art Institute. Richard wasn’t a big fan of art, but I thought he might find this one amusing. It had a dog on it; he liked dogs. I did my best to drum up enthusiasm for going home to Kerryville, and to think happy thoughts of marital bliss.

  But later that night, the face haunting my dreams belonged not to Richard, but to the young man who never came home.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Darling, I’ve missed you.” Richard’s smile beamed across the telephone wire. I felt unaccountably irritated at his cheerfulness. “Just one more appointment with Dr. Cragin and you’ll be on your way home.”

  “Yes, that’s right.” I tried to match his enthusiasm, but frankly, I hated leaving the city I’d only just begun to discover. The thought of returning to Kerryville so soon depressed me. How could I explain this to Richard?

  “I’ve cleared my schedule on Saturday and told your folks I’ll meet you at the station,” he continued.

  I shifted the receiver to my other ear, drew a deep breath, and plunged ahead. “Actually, I am thinking of staying in the city a little while longer.”

  Surprise tinged his voice. “How much longer?”

  I twisted a piece of fringe on the arm of Miss Brownlee’s horsehair sofa, half listening for Miss Jessop’s footsteps in the hall. “I’m not sure. A few more days, I guess.”

  “You guess?” He sounded perplexed. I couldn’t really blame him. I felt pretty perplexed myself. “Why?”

  “I want to see the sights. I’ve been so busy.” This was at least partially true. I hadn’t seen many of the sights because I’d spent most of my time at the Art Institute, soaking up the beauty and peace of the galleries.

  But the real reason was that this was my last taste of freedom, to do what I wanted to do, no matter how silly or time-wasting it seemed to others, before returning home to Kerryville and married life. It sounded so selfish to say it out loud. I wanted to wear a yellow hat, and eat real Italian food, and go to a movie in the middle of the afternoon without feeling guilty. Was that too much to ask?

  “You want to see the sights?” Richard parroted. “What sights?”

  “Oh, you know. Museums. Lincoln Park Zoo. The opera.”

  “The opera?” A strong note of disbelief crept into his voice. “Since when do you like opera?”

  “Since . . . I don’t know. How do I know if I like it if I’ve never been there?”

  Richard sighed. “I don’t understand. I should think you’d be eager to come home.”

  My words tumbled in a rush. “I thought so too, but—well, I don’t feel quite ready to come home. After all, soon we’ll be married, and I might not have the opportunity to come back, ever.”

  He sounded amused. “Sweetheart, it’s not as if we’ll never set foot in Chicago ever again. I attend medical conferences there on occasion. Now that I know you’d enjoy it, I’ll bring you along. Right now, though, you need to come home.”

  A vision flashed before my eyes of Richard and me, some day in the future, the respectable Dr. and Mrs. Brownlee. We’d check into one of the nicer hotels, the Conrad Hilton or the Drake. While he attended meetings, I’d join the other wives for shopping, perhaps an afternoon concert at Orchestra Hall or a matinee at one of the glittering theaters. We’d attend ladies’ luncheons, with chicken salad in a pastry shell and dainty portions of raspberry sherbet in little glass dishes. We’d visit the museums, maybe even the Art Institute. The other wives would murmur politely about this or that painting or piece of sculpture, how this one was divine, and that one (perhaps some artfully disrobed Greek athlete) shocking and appalling. This they would linger at the longest, shaking their heads in disgust to reinforce how shocked and appalled they were, while their eyes remained glued to the statue’s rippling torso. Then we would all return to Kerryville and committee work and the endless planting of zinnias.

  “Hello? Marjorie? Are you still there?”

  “I’m here.” The vision made me feel frantic. But I didn’t know how to convey that to Richard over the telephone, so all I said was, “I’d like to stay.”

  “Darling, you don’t sound at all like yourself.” His voice oozed concern. “Are you not feeling well?”

  “I’m fine, Richard. No dizziness whatsoever.” This realization startled me. Was there something about being away from home, away from Richard, that kept the dizziness at bay?

  “Has Dr. Cragin told you anything you’re not telling me?” he pressed.

  I felt like a child accused of fibbing by a teacher. “Honestly, Richard, I fully expect him to give me a perfectly clean bill of health tomorrow.” I fought to keep my tone pleasant. “You mustn’t worry. I’ll be home in a few days.”

  When we hung up, I felt proud of my negotiating skills. But he must have immediately relayed the news to Frances, because when Miss Brownlee’s telephone rang fifteen minutes later I could practically see steam rising from the receiver.

  “What’s all this nonsense about your staying in the city?” Frances asked. “Of course you’ll come home Saturday, as planned. Your father needs you at the store, and we have endless wedding tasks to do. Or have you forgotten? Will I have to do all the preparations myself?”

  I saw my excuse and grabbed it. “That’s one reason I need a few more days.” I tried my best to sound
apologetic. “I haven’t bought the bridesmaids’ gifts yet.” Thanks to my Darling Yellow Hat, I no longer had much money to do so, either, but that was beside the point.

  I pictured Frances standing at the other end of the line, one fist gripping the receiver, the other firmly planted on her aproned hip. “For heaven’s sake, Marjorie. I asked you to do one simple thing . . .”

  “I know. I’m sorry. Say, is Pop there? May I speak to him?”

  She ignored me. “Marjorie, I’m not going to argue. You mustn’t impose any longer on Miss Brownlee’s hospitality. As for the attendants’ gifts, well, we’ll just have to make do.”

  “Please put Pop on the line.”

  But she had already hung up.

  I resigned myself to going home as planned. It didn’t seem worth the trouble of upsetting everyone by remaining in the city, especially with no clear idea what I would do if I stayed, or where I would live, or how I would pay for such an adventure. Pop wasn’t likely to lend money to cover my expenses if Frances vehemently opposed the idea.

  At the hospital on Friday, I was prepared for Dr. Cragin’s brusque, dismissive manner. The last time I was in his office, he’d avoided all eye contact. So I was alarmed when he sat down and looked intently into my face.

  “Miss Corrigan,” he began. “I’ve carefully gone over the results of your tests.”

  “And?”

  “I believe there’s a case for having further tests done.”

  I went cold all over. “I’m that ill? Is it serious?” A dozen possibilities raced through my mind. Seizures. Epilepsy. A brain tumor.

  “No, no, nothing like that,” the doctor soothed. “I believe you have what used to be called a bad case of nerves.”

  Relief flooded my body. “Nerves! That’s it?” I gathered up my handbag and gloves and stood. “I’m sorry to have taken up your time, doctor.”

  “Now, Miss Corrigan,” he said. “Your tests show you to be healthy. Physically, that is. But I still have some concerns.”

  I sat back down. “Go on.”