Betty shrugged. “I’m highly motivated by a chiseled jaw.”
Dot leaned over the table. “Keep your hats on, girls. If that’s the new manager, then it’s all over the moccasin trail that he’s a real sheik with the ladies. Be on your guard.”
“All over the what?” I asked.
“The moccasin trail,” Ruthie explained. “Field’s version of a grapevine.”
“Looks like he’s working on a conquest right now.”
I stole another glance at the mysterious Mr. Bachmann, who was chatting up a statuesque redhead. The “sheik” description sounded nothing like the Jack I remembered, who’d been shy around girls. Now as I watched Peter Bachmann share a laugh with Kurt and the beautiful redhead, the green-eyed monster wrapped its ugly tentacles around my heart. I couldn’t deny my attraction to this man. If he was Jack, clearly he had no recollection of ever knowing me before. And if he wasn’t Jack, then there was no way he’d ever give me a second glance. Not with all these glamorous city women around. All at once I wished fervently that I looked and acted more like Dot and less like a milkmaid fresh from the farm.
“You don’t need to worry about him, of course,” Dot said to me with a conspiratorial wink, interrupting my thoughts. “You’re already spoken for.”
“You are?” Agnes lifted one neatly penciled eyebrow.
“Marjorie here has a hometown honey,” Dot explained. “She’s engaged to be married. To a doctor, no less.”
“Oh, how exciting,” Betty squealed. “When’s the wedding?”
“Not until September.” No longer hungry, I stood and hoisted my lunch tray. “Sorry, girls, I have to scram. I can’t be late getting back on my first day, or Mrs. Cross will tan my hide.”
“Food drive meeting next Wednesday,” Ruthie said. “See you there.”
I nodded. I didn’t remember saying yes, but now was not the time to argue. I had more important things to think about.
I scanned the room once more for Peter Bachmann, but he had gone. As I loaded my tray onto the conveyor belt, I shot up a quick prayer that God would make it clear once and for all who Peter Bachmann really was. If he was Jack, I prayed he’d remember me, and that he once loved me. On the other hand, if he really was Peter Bachmann, I could abandon this pointless quest and resume my normal life. If I indeed wanted to resume my normal life.
And I tossed in a quick prayer for forgiveness, for feeling unaccountably annoyed with Dot for telling everyone I was off the market. Which was, after all, the truth, regardless of how I might feel about it.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
If there was one thing I hated, it was running late. My anxiety peaked as the packed streetcar inched along State Street. Arriving tardy the second day on the job would hardly earn points with Mrs. Cross, who’d made it clear that, “As old Mr. Field used to say,” punctuality was of vital importance for a clerk under her supervision.
When we’d boarded the streetcar, a fellow commuter had taken one look at Dot, tipped his hat, and offered her his seat—the last one available—so I clung to the overhead strap and leaned as far as possible from the odiferous man standing next to me. My blouse grew damp and I longed for a breath of fresh air, but with a thunderstorm slashing furiously against the sides of the vehicle, the chance of someone opening a window was unlikely. I could practically feel my hair turning to frizz in the early June humidity, springing out of a hastily gathered bun. I hadn’t had much time to style it, thanks to Dot’s hogging of the bathroom. She looked just dandy, though, reading a newspaper with her legs daintily crossed and tossing an occasional dimpled smile to the gentleman who’d given up his seat.
Finally the streetcar belched to a stop, disgorging us near the employee entrance. I scurried into the locker room, shoved my raincoat and hat into a locker, and punched the time clock with seconds to spare. When I reached Ladies’ Nightwear, Mrs. Cross made a point of consulting her wristwatch. Within minutes I was too busy to think about Peter or anything else that wasn’t made of organdy or silk charmeuse. All morning long, the department buzzed with customers, mostly busy society ladies stocking up on nightwear for trips to Europe and their summer homes. We also had a steady parade of spring and summer brides purchasing honeymoon attire. I enjoyed helping them, but I felt indifferent about choosing items for my own trousseau. I knew I needed to break off the engagement, or at least postpone the wedding, until I could sort out my feelings. I’d started many letters, but hadn’t gotten much beyond “Dear Richard” before tearing them up.
I spent the morning scampering between the dressing room and the sales floor, my arms filled with silks and chiffons and my ears filled with the critical tones of Mrs. Cross.
“Miss Corrigan, do hurry up. Mr. Field always said that time is money.”
“I asked for a size eight, Miss Corrigan. See here that you’ve brought us a ten.”
“As Mr. Field used to say, the customer is always right. Our motto is ‘Give the lady what she wants.’”
Around lunchtime we finally had a lull in customers as ladies revived their spirits at the Walnut Room or the Tea Shoppe. With sore feet and a growling stomach, I was looking forward to my own break when Mrs. Cross assigned me to straighten the fitting rooms, retrieving garments discarded helter-skelter by customers, and replacing them neatly on their hangers. Much as I longed for a rest, putting things back in order helped me organize my thoughts, and was a relatively peaceful task, free from Mrs. Cross’s prying eyes and her endless quoting of the sainted Mr. Field.
Because I ended up taking lunch later than usual, I had to brave the lunchroom without my friends. Nibbling at my lonely sandwich, I glimpsed a copy of the Chicago Tribune someone had left lying around on a nearby table and stood to grab it. Maybe catching up on the comic-strip adventures of Winnie Winkle over lunch would distract me from my own pathetic life.
“Excuse me,” said a polite male voice. “I believe that’s my newspaper.”
“Oh, sorry, I thought this table was unocc . . .” I glanced up, and something like electricity shot up my arms as I found myself gazing straight into the astonishing eyes of Peter Bachmann. Lashes that long were wasted on a fellow. “Unoccupied,” I finished in a weak voice.
He blinked like a startled owl. “Oh. It’s you. The girl from the train station.”
“Yes.”
We stared at each other for a brief moment, then he averted his gaze. “You seemed rather upset that day,” he said evenly as he set down his lunch tray and took a seat. “I hope things are looking brighter for you now.”
My face grew hot. “Yes. Sorry. I—I mistook you for someone I knew a long time ago.” In truth, I was not yet convinced I was mistaken, but thought it best to let him think so for the time being. “I felt as if I’d seen a—a ghost.”
“A friendly ghost, I hope.”
“Oh, yes.” I grinned and fervently hoped there was no lettuce in my teeth. I waited for him to invite me to join him, but he didn’t.
Instead he said, “I didn’t know you worked here.” He unfolded his napkin and placed it on his lap, something Jack Lund would never have thought to do unless prompted.
“I didn’t,” I faltered. “I mean, I didn’t at the time, anyway, when we met. Not that we met, exactly. . . .”
He extended his hand. “Might as well make it official. Peter Bachmann. Store for Men.” His smile seemed friendly enough, but his glance darted around as if locating the nearest exit. Was I that threatening?
“Marjorie Corrigan. Ladies’ Nightwear.” I wished desperately that I could say something more suitable for mixed company, like Books or Leather Goods.
“Corrigan, eh?” A flicker of hope lit my spirit. Did my name sound familiar to him? Trigger a memory of the girl he once loved? But he said nothing, and simply tugged at one impeccable cuff. That was another difference between this man and Jack. Jack had gone around perpetually rumpled, not caring much about clothes and things. I’d been forever straightening his collar. Peter looked as if he had a per
sonal valet standing by at all times. For untidy Jack to turn into a fastidious man seemed unlikely, but maybe military discipline instilled orderliness in a man.
I realized he was waiting for an answer. “I like it fine,” I said. “Busy. Lots to learn, and so many special occasions this month. Weddings and honeymoons and . . . you know.” Ugh. Why did I have to bring up honeymoons, of all things?
“I do know. It’s the same in the Store for Men. Graduations, Father’s Day. There’s always a big run on silver cufflinks and bay rum this time of year. Sometimes I think every male in Chicago ends up with either cufflinks or a bottle of bay rum, or both, on every possible gift-giving occasion. The bathroom shelves of America are groaning under the weight of bay rum bottles.”
“Really? I thought importing bay rum was off-limits since Prohibition took effect.” Not for nothing was I the stepdaughter of a WCTU chapter president.
He shrugged. “It’s legal as long as it’s blended into something undrinkable, or if it’s for medicinal purposes.” He stirred his coffee. “At any rate, I’m sure your father would appreciate receiving something else. Or your husband.”
“Oh, I’m not married.” I felt my face turn crimson and silently cursed how easily my pale skin gave my feelings away. I wished I could banter easily like the other women, but once again I couldn’t think of anything clever to say. The word “husband” felt like an indictment. I wasn’t being disloyal to Richard just by talking to this man, was I? Not technically. After all, this was a workday, and he was just a coworker. Just a friendly chat between colleagues. That’s all this was, despite the butterflies flapping around my midsection.
“Not married?” He held my gaze for a second, then glanced away. “I guess I assumed—”
“I’m engaged,” I blurted. “Engaged to be married.” Honesty was the best policy. Wasn’t it?
His expression shifted. “I see. Well, I guess I should eat up and get back before there’s a mutiny at the cufflink counter. Nice seeing you again.” He picked up his coffee cup with one hand and the Tribune with the other. Desperate to prolong our conversation, I stood rooted to the spot. He glanced up, saw I wasn’t leaving, and extended the newspaper toward me. “Please, take it.”
“Oh, no, it’s yours,” I said hastily. “You keep it.”
“All right.” He returned to reading the headlines as he sipped his coffee.
My mind scrambled for something to say
“Mr. Bachmann, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”
A sharp sidelong glance. “What is it?”
Holy mackerel. Think of something, Marjorie!
“You see—”
“Yes?” Impatience frosted his tone.
“I know you’re probably really busy and everything—That is, if you have the time . . .”
That’s it. Time. I need to spend time with you, to get to know you. Once I know you, I can satisfy myself that you’re not really Jack and stop all this nonsense.
In a rush I blurted, “I’m wondering if anyone has talked to you about—about the employee food drive.” Ugh. Did I really say that?
“Food drive?” His expression froze, then his lips curved into a smile. “What do you need? Donations of canned food or something?” He gave a shaky laugh, as if relieved. Gracious, what did he think I was about to ask?
“I thought you might consider serving on the committee. With me.” So that we could get to know each other, working side by side for hours on end, getting acquainted. “And several other people, of course,” I added hastily so he wouldn’t think I was suggesting we’d work together à deux . . . appealing as that option might seem, to me at least.
He dabbed at his mouth with the napkin. “I’m afraid my schedule won’t allow me to take on any additional commitments at this time. But thank you for asking.” He smiled gently. “It’s good that you’re getting involved, though. Field’s likes that in an employee.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“You know, from the moment I met you, I said to myself, ‘Now, she looks like just the sort of girl who does good works.’”
I cringed, thinking of Ruthie’s earnest face and no-nonsense demeanor and doubting that that was the kind of compliment he gave to his statuesque redheaded friend.
“Now if you’ll excuse me. . .” He lifted his sandwich.
“Oh. Sure.” I backed away.
Good works, indeed. I returned to my table and stared glumly at my half-eaten sandwich. Who wants to be thought of as the sort of girl who does good works?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“If you’d bob your hair like I’ve told you, this sort of thing wouldn’t happen,” Dot scolded without sympathy when I told her about Peter’s “good works” remark. I immediately regretted telling her anything. We were seated at the kitchen table in front of the electric fan. I wore a fresh cotton nightgown, newly purchased from Field’s using my employee discount. Before Dot had waltzed in, I’d been perfectly content, sipping iced tea and reading a detective novel while my freshly washed hair hung down my back to dry. Now Dot was giving my long locks the evil eye.
“Pardon my saying so, but with your hair always up in a bun, you look positively Victorian. Why wouldn’t a fellow take you for the earnest do-gooder type, too heavenly minded to follow fashion?”
“Who cares what Peter Bachmann thinks?”
“You care. Otherwise why bring it up?”
“I just didn’t think it was a very flattering comment, that’s all. It doesn’t matter who said it.”
“Oh, I think it does,” Dot said knowingly. “You have to admit, Peter Bachmann is some real date bait. But he goes for the smooth modern type of girl.”
Like that redhead. I stared unseeing at the book in my lap. “I don’t care about date bait. I’m engaged. Remember?”
“Yes, I know, to a man who thinks you’re a loon. I don’t know why you’re still thinking of marrying him after the whole Dr. Cragin fiasco.”
I wasn’t sure either, except for some high-minded yet fuzzy ideals like duty and honor and keeping my promises, and not embarrassing myself or my family with a broken engagement.
“I don’t take my commitments lightly. I’m sure he meant well. No doubt he’ll apologize. In any case, he always says a woman’s hair is her crowning glory.”
Dot winked at me. “Do you take it down when you two are together? Pull the pins out and let it tumble dramatically around your shoulders, and wrap it around yourself like Lady Godiva?”
The kitchen grew even hotter. “No, of course not. How silly.”
She snickered. “Then what difference does it make whether it’s long or short, if you always wear it all squished up in that bun?” She stepped over to the icebox. “Want a refill on your tea, or can I entice you to try my ginger lemonade?”
“Neither, thanks.” Dot’s signature secret-recipe ginger lemonade contained, of all things, bootleg gin she’d obtained from Louie. No doubt refreshing, if you liked that sort of thing. Still, she knew I didn’t approve, which is why she kept it in its own pitcher at the back of the icebox, well away from my innocent iced tea.
I drew my hair over one shoulder and stroked it protectively. “Richard says there are more important qualities than beauty. He thinks women should look natural.”
“Natural, my foot,” Dot scoffed. “That may be what he says, but deep inside, every man is a sheik in search of a glamorous sheba. Oh, come on, Marjie. Just give it a try. You’ll love it—I know you will. Bobbed hair makes you feel so—free. Untethered. Ready to take on the world.” She made some sweeping Isadora Duncan-style moves around the tiny kitchen, then plopped down in a chair. “Tell you what. I’ll march you up to the salon myself on Monday and introduce you to my favorite hairdresser. She works wonders with even the most difficult hair.” She eyed my locks with pity.
“Are you listening to me? I said I don’t want to have it bobbed.”
“Now don’t get in a lather. It’s up to you.” Dot shrugged. “But to be ho
nest, doll, you do look miles behind the times. You could at least put on a spot of rouge and a little lipstick. Try my shade, High Society Red. The world won’t end if you shorten your skirts or roll your stockings. You’re young, live a little. Give Richard something to look at besides his medical charts.” She slid me a sidelong smirk. “Or maybe it’s not Richard’s eye you’re worried about catching.”
I avoided her gaze. “Nonsense. I’m not worried about catching anyone’s eye.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” she purred. “You seemed pretty riled up a minute ago that Peter Bachmann complimented you on your do-gooderism instead of . . . whatever it was you were hoping for.”
“You’re crazy,” I mumbled, embarrassed at how defensive I sounded. “I’m extremely loyal to Richard.”
“I never said you weren’t. But didn’t you say Peter reminds you of your old beau?”
“Yes. The resemblance to Jack is remarkable.”
Dot’s dark eyes sparkled. “Maybe he really is Jack. Maybe the government faked his death and has him working incognito as a spy at Marshall Field & Company. I read something like that in a novel once.”
“Now you’re just being silly,” I said with forced laughter—as if that weren’t exactly what I’d been thinking all along.
“Just be careful,” she said. “As I told the girls, I hear he has quite the reputation. I’ve even spotted him around Louie’s a time or two, and not for the spaghetti, if you know what I mean. And if you’re interested in him—not saying you are, but if you were—Peter Bachmann definitely goes for the glamorous type.” She glanced at the clock. “Well, I should get ready for the club. Have you finished in the bath?”
After she’d gone, I settled in my chair, spread my hair out across my back to dry, and picked up the mystery novel. I tried to concentrate as the hardboiled detective grilled the not-so-grieving widow, but in my mind’s eye the detective looked like Peter Bachmann and the widow looked like . . . well, it was too hot to read, anyway. I threw the book on the table, walked over to the cracked mirror, and wondered how strenuously Richard would object if my lips bore just the slightest hint of High Society Red. And tried to ignore the fact that I really cared less and less what Richard thought.
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