“Oh, thank you. You’re an answer to prayer.” Ruthie clapped her hands.
My insides warmed. Never before had I been called someone’s answer to prayer.
Then Peter’s throwaway comment scrolled across my mind. You look like the kind of girl who does good works.
What exactly had I just gotten myself into?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
On Monday morning I ran myself ragged, assisting a June bride who grew increasingly fractious and demanding as the day wore on, like a toddler in need of a nap. Or maybe it was my own attitude that needed refreshment, along with my sore feet. However, being busy helped me keep my mind off other things. Once again I’d lain awake most of the night, wondering what on earth I was doing marrying Richard while having feelings for Peter. My mind ran through scenarios of breaking off my engagement, of the pain of telling Richard there was someone else. But there wasn’t someone else—not as long as Peter was a scofflaw who, in any case, was squiring a gorgeous redhead around town.
These mental gymnastics kept me from sleeping, making me groggy and mistake-prone at work. Mrs. Cross criticized more than usual, maybe because of my listless demeanor and the dark circles under my eyes. In spite of my success with customers, she kept me busy in the back, doing maintenance tasks, like checking inventory and re-pressing a shipment of white linen robes too wrinkled for her liking. I didn’t really mind these jobs. Being sequestered behind the scenes gave me time to think.
Mrs. Cross came back to check on my progress. “When you’ve finished, Miss Corrigan, put them out on the rack next to the ecru peignoirs.” She noted my expression. “Is there a problem?”
I had nothing to lose by being frank. “Please come with me, Mrs. Cross. I want to show you something.” I picked up the garment and we walked out onto the sales floor. I held the white robe next to the ecru peignoirs. “See? The pale beige looks dingy next to the white, and the white just washes out. And white linen is a hard sell. It wrinkles like crazy. See?” I crushed a handful of fabric, causing it to dissolve into wrinkles.
“I’m aware of what linen does,” Mrs. Cross said.
“Of course. But easy wrinkling deters customers from buying. If we want these robes to sell, we’ll have to do something creative with them.”
“I suppose you have a better idea.”
I thought for a moment. “The trouble is, we’re thinking of them as bathrobes.”
Mrs. Cross blinked. “They are bathrobes.”
A spark of an idea floated up through my exhausted brain. I examined the robes with a critical eye. “How about we do a display with a nautical theme?”
“Nautical?” Mrs. Cross frowned. “You mean boats?”
“White, navy, and red,” I pronounced. “Crisp and clean. Sails snapping in the breeze. You know. Nautical.”
Mrs. Cross looked skeptical. “Who wears a bathrobe on a boat?”
“Not bathrobes,” I said. “Beach cover-ups. What woman wouldn’t appreciate a cool white linen robe to wear over her swimming costume?”
I forgot all about being tired.
“Picture it,” I continued, framing the imaginary display with my hands. “White linen robe. Navy swimming costume underneath. A daring red sandal. All displayed against a contrasting background of fluid, airy fabric.” Miss Smith’s words from art class came back to me. “Blue fabric. A cheerful blue, like Lake Michigan sparkling in the midday sun. And we’ll need a metallic touch. Gold jewelry—a necklace, a bracelet. The effect will mimic the shining brass hardware on a—on a yacht.” I made a mental note to hunt down the sailor hat that Dot had pronounced “perfect for yachting.”
Mrs. Cross pursed her lips. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Brass hardware, indeed. And what on earth do you know about yachts?”
“We need to paint a picture for the customer. Help them imagine the possibilities.”
“Yachting, indeed.” But she didn’t say no.
“We want to sell the robes, don’t we?” I coaxed. “I think it’s worth a try.”
“It sounds like so much nonsense to me,” she said, “but I don’t suppose it will do any harm to let you try. And with those bigwigs from Selfridge’s coming soon for a tour, we want to look our best.” She shook an admonishing finger. “Mind you submit the proper paperwork this time. I don’t need to have the other managers storming Ladies’ Nightwear, chasing after their merchandise.”
Later that afternoon, as I worked on the display, Peter came by the department. He gave a low whistle as he perused my handiwork.
“That’s some snazzy stuff,” he said with admiration. “Say, kid, you’ve got talent. Have you considered becoming a trimmer?”
My insides melted at his compliment. Or maybe just at him. “Oh, I couldn’t. I haven’t had any training.”
He shrugged. “I think you should consider it. Don’t sell yourself short. When a position opens up on the design team, you should apply for it.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Definitely.”
“That’s kind of you to say.”
“I’m not just saying it. It’s true. You’re really good at this.”
I thought my heart would burst. Peter was the first person since Jack to encourage my dreams.
“I don’t know . . .” I demurred, but my mind started conjuring up images of what I could do inside Field’s enormous plate glass display windows lined up along State Street. What fun it would be, coming to work every day from my fashionable penthouse apartment, dressing the mannequins while passersby whispered to each other, “Isn’t that Marjorie Corrigan, the famous window designer?”
Peter’s next remark shook me out of my reverie. “I came by to ask whether you’d like to grab a bite to eat this evening.”
A shadow of disappointment passed over me. “I’m sorry. I already have plans.” This wasn’t a manufactured excuse—I’d arranged to meet Ruthie at the settlement house.
He shrugged. “That’s all right. Short notice and all. How about tomorrow night?
I winced. “Sorry. Art class on Tuesdays.”
Wednesday. Ask me about Wednesday, I pleaded inwardly. I didn’t want to appear overeager, but neither did I want him to think I was putting him off. I smiled my biggest, most encouraging smile. But he only said, “All right. Maybe another time,” and walked away.
As I rode to meet Ruthie after work, the scene outside the streetcar window turned from downtown office buildings and stores to ramshackle tenements and shabby storefronts. The sharply dressed office workers seated around me gave way to women in headscarves and men in shirtsleeves and suspenders. When I reached my destination, a cacophony of languages hit my ears: Italian, Yiddish, Polish. Everyone talked at once: gossiping, bargaining, arguing. Automobile horns honked and horses whinnied. An unfamiliar smell pervaded the air, like a mixture of cabbage, raw meat, garlic, factory smoke, and unwashed bodies. Swarms of children dodged traffic, skipped rope, or gathered in doorways, many of them dressed in rags. I felt overdressed in my smart navy frock and straw hat—proudly purchased with my first paycheck—and wished I’d worn what Frances called a “washday dress.”
The settlement house had seen better days as a private home, back when the neighborhood had been more prosperous. But though dilapidated, its stately facade stood out from the rest of the buildings on the street. As I stepped inside I could feel energy and excitement pulsing through the hallways. Young people swarmed everywhere: running up and down the stairs, chattering, yelling, pushing, shoving. I stood in the front hall, feeling at loose ends, until Ruthie emerged from the melee.
“Marjorie, there you are,” she said. “We’re just getting started. Come with me.”
I followed her through the house into a large room that had been a ballroom at one time, but now served as a makeshift gymnasium, with basketball hoops at either end and stripes painted on the scratched wooden floor. At one end stood a rickety set of risers, on which a dozen or more children of varying ages and sizes fidgeted, squirmed, and tri
ed to push each other off. Ruthie clapped her hands sharply.
“All right, children. Settle down. This is Miss Corrigan. She is going to help us with our program. So give her your full attention and mind what she says.”
A dozen pairs of curious eyes turned my way, evaluating me. A couple of the older girls whispered to each other and giggled. What on earth was I doing here?
When the rehearsal got underway, though, things went more smoothly. A surprising number of the smudgy-faced urchins had angelic voices.
When a husky, black-haired man walked into the room, some of the boys started hollering.
“Hey, Mister Joe. Wanna play some dodgeball?”
“Mister Joe, do we hafta sing this stupid song? Singing is for girls.”
Ruthie rapped a ruler on the podium. “Children, children, come to order.”
“She’s right, boys,” the man named Joe said good-naturedly. “There will be time enough for dodgeball when your rehearsal is over. Pay attention now.”
“Aw, nuts,” said Tommy O’Malley, who appeared to be the ringleader of the boys. But despite his scowl, he joined the others in singing “Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean,” in a clear high soprano that belied his tough-guy image.
My main job, besides helping to keep some semblance of order, was to help with the costumes. I already had a simple idea in mind: patriotic striped pinafores and hair ribbons for the girls and matching vests and bow ties for the boys, provided I could find some appropriate fabric at a decent price. I wondered if the store might donate some and made a mental note to ask.
Next the little angels tackled “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
“Oh, say, can you seeee, by the dawn’s early liiight, o’er the red parts we waaashed by the twilight’s last gleeea-ming. . . .”
Ruthie rapped her ruler. “Ramparts, children. Ramparts. O’er the ramparts we watched.” She sighed and pointed to a boy who waved his hand. “Yes, Frankie?”
“What’s a rampart?”
Just then a slim, dark-haired woman came up beside me, shaking her head as she watched the choir. “Francis Scott Key is spinning in his grave right now,” she murmured. I’d noticed her earlier, standing next to Joe. Wife? Girlfriend?
I laughed. “You’re probably right. But I’m awfully glad the boy didn’t ask me what a rampart is, because I don’t think I know.” I held out my hand. “Marjorie Corrigan. I’m a friend of Ruthie’s.”
“Oh, yes, Ruthie told us you’d be coming.” She shook my hand warmly. “Thank you so much. We need all the help we can get. I’m Annamarie Manelli. And that’s my husband, Joe.”
“Nice to meet you.” I gestured to the youngsters squirming on the risers. “Do you work with the children, too?”
“Oh, no,” she said. “That’s Joe’s department. I’m just here to pick up my nephew. He’s the one over there on the end, crossing his eyes.” She cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled, “Paulie, stop that. Do you want them to stay that way?” She sighed. “He’s here under protest because Joe said the choir was short on boys. Paulie’d do anything for Joe.”
“The children sure do seem to like him.”
“And he sure likes them,” Annamarie agreed. “We grew up in this neighborhood, and by helping out here, Joe feels he’s giving something back. Making it a better place to grow up, you know? Besides, he genuinely enjoys the children. Some of them are orphans. Others are just youngsters from the neighborhood who come here after school and on weekends. During the summertime, they practically live here. Most of their parents are at work in the factories all day, and there’s nobody at home. We do what we can to keep them off the streets.”
“That’s admirable.”
“But it’s a drop in the bucket compared to what they really need.” Annamarie shook her head. “An afternoon of singing and dodgeball won’t keep them safe from the local gangsters.”
“Gangsters?” I shivered, thinking of my streetcar ride home after dark.
“Bootleggers. Smugglers. They try to entice the children into drinking liquor and get them involved in running errands for them. Joe has seen too many boys and girls end up on the wrong side of the law for making friends with those crooks. Especially this one man—Luigi Braccio.” She practically spat the name. “He’s the worst. A real menacing sort of fellow, but he’s got this tough, powerful swagger about him, and too many of the neighborhood boys think he’s worthy of respect.”
Luigi Braccio. The name rang a bell, maybe from the newspaper. I started to say, “Tell me more,” but the rehearsal had ended and the children were running and shouting, loosed from their constraints. Annamarie excused herself and went to corral her nephew.
I helped Ruthie and Joe clear away the bleachers to make room for dodgeball. Most of the older girls siphoned off into giggling groups, but one girl stood off to the side, by herself. I’d noticed during the singing that she had one of the clearest, sweetest voices in the bunch. With uncombed hair and a patched dress, she looked to be about Helen’s age. I walked over to her and held out my hand.
“How do you do,” I said. “My name is Miss Corrigan. What’s yours?”
“Gabriella,” she said, looking down at her scuffed shoes. “Gabriella Grimaldi.”
“That’s a pretty name.”
The girl smiled but didn’t meet my eyes.
“How old are you, Gabriella?”
“Sixteen.”
“I have a sister your age,” I said. “Her name’s Helen. She loves to sing.”
“So do I.” She brightened. “It’s my favorite thing.”
“Well, you certainly have a lovely voice.”
“Thank you.”
After that brief exchange, Gabriella became my shadow, trailing me around the gymnasium and helping me take the children’s measurements.
The evening flew past. As Ruthie and I said our good-byes at the streetcar stop, she said, “What do you think? Will you come back?”
“Yes, I’ll definitely be back,” I said. “I knew I’d be helping a worthy cause, but I never knew I’d have so much fun.”
I also realized, with a shock, that I hadn’t given a single thought to my own problems during the entire evening.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
On Friday Mrs. Cross was all aflutter, making sure that Ladies’ Nightwear was shipshape to host a distinguished visitor. Mr. Harry Selfridge was something of a legend, having launched his career at Field’s in the early days, working his way up from errand boy to executive. Then some twenty years ago he’d moved to London and opened his own elegant department store there. Now he was coming back for a visit, bringing his top executives with him. They were to tour the store that day, and a fancy reception in their honor was scheduled for Friday night at the tony South Shore Country Club, to which all section managers were invited, including Mrs. Cross, who was blazing with determination that Mr. Selfridge would not find so much as a ruffle out of place.
“Everything must be perfect. We must show Mr. Selfridge that Marshall Field & Company is still the world’s greatest store, second to none.” She stood on a stepstool, using a feather duster to brush an imaginary cobweb from a lighting fixture, lest the Selfridge crew find Ladies’ Nightwear not up to snuff. “Miss Corrigan, please make sure all the glass cases are free of fingerprints.”
As I turned my back to polish the cases, Miss Ryan sidled up to me and whispered, “Methinks she carries a torch.”
“What?”
Her eyes glinted with intrigue. “Mr. Selfridge and Old Rugged. Moccasin trail says they had eyes for each other when she was a young clerk and he was a rising star. But then he married Rosalie—”
Crash! We wheeled around to see the stepstool upended and Mrs. Cross lying on the ground, still clutching her feather duster.
“My ankle! My ankle!”
I dropped the polishing cloth and rushed to her side. Already her ankle was swelling. I loosened her boot. A small crowd gathered and Miss Ryan telephoned down to the infirmary. Before the floor
walker and an elevator operator hoisted her off on a stretcher, she reached out and clutched my forearm. “Miss Corrigan,” she rasped, “you’ll need to go in my place tonight.”
“What? To the reception? But shouldn’t Miss Ryan go? She’s been here the longest—besides you, of course.”
“This is not a merit award, Miss Corrigan,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “We need someone who is best able to represent Ladies’ Nightwear in a good light. That’s you. Mr. Simpson already likes your work. Miss Ryan is too mousy to make a good impression.”
I cringed and glanced around, hoping Miss Ryan was out of earshot and relieved to see her engaged in conversation with Gladys from Hosiery—gossiping, no doubt.
“You’ll find the invitation in my reticule,” Mrs. Cross continued. “You’ll need it to gain admittance.”
I decided that the pain must have gone to her head, but I was secretly thrilled to comply.
That evening, as the taxi glided up to the grand entrance to the South Shore Country Club, my stomach did the Charleston and my palms sweated inside the silk evening gloves I’d borrowed from Dot. The grandeur of the place had my insides churning, never mind that I was going to an impressive formal event with store bigwigs after less than a month on the job. I stepped out of the taxi and gazed up at the club, an imposing Mediterranean Revival structure, the largest building for blocks. Lights glowed from dozens of windows, and the gentle music of a string quartet floated across the lawn as day slipped into evening.
As I followed a queue of fashionably dressed guests into the Grand Promenade, I became painfully conscious of my own simple frock, the same one I’d worn to the hospital auxiliary tea. Though I’d desperately wished I could have purchased something new, my budget wouldn’t allow it. At the last minute, however, I’d adorned the dress by plucking a small bunch of daisies from the landlady’s modest flowerbed and tucking them into the sash—an embellishment I’d spotted on a mannequin at the store. I thought the daisies added a perky touch, and besides, the landlady, Mrs. Moran, would never miss them.
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