You're the Cream in My Coffee

by Leo, Jennifer Lamont

  The Fourth of July dawned clear and hot. Dot won Helen’s heart by pinning up her long hair in a convincing imitation of a bob, without cutting off any length. My sister was equally thrilled with both the sophisticated new look and the prospect of giving Frances apoplexy.

  “Won’t she be fooled!” Helen crowed. “I won’t even tell her that it’s not really bobbed until she’s done screaming six ways to Sunday.”

  “That’s not nice, Helen,” I said. “Especially not after she let you spend the holiday in the city.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” she sighed. “It would be awfully funny, though, to see her pop a gasket.”

  “Not fun for Frances,” I said, though imagining the appalled look on our stepmother’s face did make me smile just a little.

  Helen and I rode a streetcar to Grant Park. Dot promised to catch up with us later, after meeting with Louie over lunch.

  “I think I’m going to call it off with Louie,” she confided. “I don’t know where things might go between me and Charlie. Maybe nowhere. But ever since I met him, I know a girl deserves something better in a fellow than what Louie has to offer.”

  I told her I thought she was making the right decision, and hoped I was right. Who was I to be handing out advice on romantic matters?

  At Grant Park, white sailboats bobbed in the sapphire waves of Lake Michigan. Flags festooned the grassy park, from giant ones snapping in the stiff breeze overhead to small ones clutched in the hands of children wearing sailor suits and ruffled dresses. Vendors noisily hawked lemonade and hot dogs and cotton candy, while trombones and tubas played stirring tunes honoring God and country.

  Helen and I located our gang at the designated meeting spot and did a thorough inspection of the children’s costumes, retying a bow here and a shoelace there. The official festivities kicked off with the ringing of church bells throughout the city, followed by a parade on Michigan Boulevard.

  I tried to relax and enjoy the fun, but between worrying about the concert and keeping an eye on the overexcited children, I was too distracted to feel very patriotic.

  Chicago Mayor Thompson spoke next. Then the band returned to their chairs. That was the signal for our little group to take our place on stage.

  The choir performed “You’re a Grand Old Flag,” looking sweet as could be in their tricorne hats and mob caps, waving their little flags. The audience applauded with enthusiasm. At the opening strains of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” the entire crowd rose to their feet. My throat tightened with pride and gratitude as children with roots in the Old Country sang loudly of their new home, the land of the free and the home of the brave.

  Afterward, once all the settlement children had been praised profusely and delivered to the safe hands of their families to enjoy the rest of the festivities, Ruthie, Helen, and I gulped down cups of iced lemonade.

  “Bravo. Bravo,” boomed a masculine voice behind us. “That was a mighty stirring performance.”

  We spun around to find two familiar faces grinning at us.

  “Kurt Steuben!” Ruthie said, all smiles. “Peter Bachmann!”

  Peter. My heart lurched at the sight of him. Quickly I glanced beyond him, but saw no sign of the redhead.

  “We had to see what you two have been working on so feverishly,” Kurt said, smiling at Ruthie. “Those little scamps did a great job.”

  “All thanks to Ruthie,” I said. “She was the one who pulled this whole thing together.”

  “And you, too,” Ruthie insisted. “I shudder to think what those costumes would have ended up looking like if you hadn’t stepped in to rescue me.”

  “In any case, it was magnificent,” Kurt said. “Made me want to stand up and salute Old Glory, right then and there. You’ve done yourselves proud. And now you must be starving. Would you ladies care to join us for a bite to eat?”

  “That sounds divine, but I’m afraid I’ll have to pass,” Ruthie said. “I’m supposed to meet up with my cousins for a picnic. They’re around here somewhere.”

  Kurt looked genuinely disappointed. Clearly he’d wanted to spend time with Ruthie, but I was better than nothing. “Marjorie? What do you say? Care to grab some Italian food with Pete and me on this most American of holidays?”

  I glanced at Peter, who smiled but said nothing.

  “That’s kind of you,” I said, “but my sister and I were just going to take a little rest in the shade.” I had no intention of introducing Helen to a bootlegger—not before I’d managed to reform him.

  “Speak for yourself,” Helen said, eyes sparkling. “I’m not the least bit tired.”

  “Helen,” I chided, but my conviction wavered. I didn’t really feel like resting, either, and after all, it had been awfully sweet of them to come to our concert. Surely even a bootlegger wouldn’t try to do anything unsuitably lawless in the middle of Grant Park on the Fourth of July.

  “Please, Marjorie,” Peter said quietly. “I’d like you to come.”

  He would? Maybe this would be our chance to clear the air. “All right. We’ll be happy to join you for dinner.” I introduced my sister to the two men. By her glowing face I could tell she found Kurt to be, in the lingo of her social set, a “real he-man.”

  The gentlemen escorted us to an Italian restaurant just a few blocks’ walk from the park, so we could easily return to watch the fireworks display.

  The restaurant was practically empty, a refreshing oasis away from the noisy crowds. Over plates heaped with spaghetti, Peter visibly relaxed. We chatted and laughed while Helen regaled us with uncanny imitations of silent-screen stars. I’d always known she was a bit of a ham, but now I realized she had a real gift for entertaining. Peter and Kurt teased and kidded with her just the way Charlie did at home, and she thrived on being the center of attention. Grateful for the amusing distraction she provided, I shoved all thoughts of bootlegging and leggy redheads to the back of my mind.

  In the ladies’ room she startled me by saying, “Don’t you think Mr. Bachmann looks an awful lot like Jack?”

  I gaped in surprise. “Jack Lund? Charlie’s old friend?”

  She nodded. I shrugged, held my voice steady. “Maybe a little bit. But I wouldn’t mistake them for twins or anything.” I prayed she’d never learn of my outrageous behavior at the train station that first day.

  “Really?” she said, eyes wide. “I think they look so much alike, it’s almost spooky.”

  “I’m surprised you even remember Jack. You were such a little thing when he used to come by the house.”

  “I’ve seen that picture of him that you keep in your sewing basket.” Before I could question what she was doing in my sewing basket, she added, “Of course, he isn’t really Jack, although he is rather good-looking. But I think Kurt is much better looking, don’t you?”

  “You mean Mr. Steuben.”

  “He told me to call him Kurt.”

  “Did he? Well, never mind what Kurt looks like. He’s too old for you.”

  “I know that, silly. My goodness, he’s practically as old as you are. But it’s still fun to pretend like I’m older, just for today.”

  I patted some powder on my prehistoric nose. “As long as it’s just pretending.”

  Back at the table we finished up our spumoni ice cream, then strolled back to the park. We found a spot near the lakeshore to spread a blanket which Kurt had thoughtfully provided. Helen spotted an excursion boat offering rides up and down the shoreline. “Come on, Marjie. Let’s go for a ride,” she begged.

  “Not me,” I said, patting my middle. “After that enormous dinner, I don’t think a boat ride on the lake is such a good idea.”

  “Aw. I think it would be the cat’s whiskers.”

  “Come on, kid, I’ll take you,” Kurt offered. “I feel like stretching my legs anyway.”

  Helen’s face lit up. “You will?”

  Kurt glanced at me. “Do you mind?”

  “No, I guess not,” I said. “Just make sure to be back in time for the fi
reworks.”

  After they’d gone, Peter and I sat quietly for a while. He seemed tense, moody, constantly scanning the crowd as if looking for someone.

  “Are you all right?” I said.

  “Too many people here.” His voice sounded strained. “I don’t much care for crowds.”

  “I’m glad you and Kurt came.”

  “It was his idea. I’m just along for the ride.”

  “Oh.” His lack of enthusiasm stung a little. “I’m sure Kurt appreciates it. It sounded like he wanted to see more of Ruthie today.”

  Peter shrugged. “Just as well she had other plans. He thinks she’s cute, but she’s not his type.”

  “What is his type?”

  He shrugged again. “Not her. Not someone who goes to church and does charity work. He likes a challenge, that’s all, and Ruthie’s a challenge. If she ever agrees to go out with him, boom, he’ll be on to the next.”

  “I don’t think she will,” I said. “The girls talk about how slick he is.”

  He said, “To be honest, Marjorie, I didn’t come here to keep Kurt company. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

  A sudden breeze swept up off the darkening lake, making me shiver. “We are talking.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” He reached for his jacket and settled it around my shoulders. “I think you might have the wrong idea about me.”

  “How so?” I said, pulling the jacket around me.

  “You’ve been avoiding me.”

  “I’ve just been busy. You know how it is. And then I took Dot on a visit to Kerryville.”

  “Ah, yes,” he said, resting back on his elbows. “Getting ready for the wedding, I suppose.”

  I plucked at the cuff of his jacket. “There isn’t going to be a wedding, after all.”

  He sat up. “What? You mean—” The way his eyes lit up made my heart leap.

  “We’ve called off the engagement.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry,” he said, not sounding the least bit sorry.

  I shrugged. “Nothing to be sorry about. It was for the best.”

  Neither of us said anything for a long time. Then he spoke, not looking at me, his gaze directed out over the water.

  “I feel as if something went wrong between us the night of the reception at the South Shore. I know you said you weren’t feeling well, but it seemed like more than that—like it had something to do with me, something I did or said. I’ve replayed that evening over and over in my mind and can’t think of what might have gone wrong.”

  I drew a deep breath. “Look, Peter, I’ll be honest. It isn’t that I don’t like you. I do. I like you very much. But I know you—you drink liquor.”

  He frowned and pulled at a clump of grass. “Why would you think that? Have you seen me take so much as a sip of liquor?”

  “No,” I admitted, “but at the party with the Selfridge people I overheard you ask the waiter where to find some. That’s your own business, of course, but I’ve vowed never to date a man who drinks alcohol.” Not to mention a man who makes money off it, I added silently. I didn’t mention that part, though, as the bootlegging bit was still just a rumor.

  He lifted his eyebrows. “You vowed never to date—? But we’re not dating. We’re just friends. Friends and colleagues. Right?”

  “Right. Of course,” I said, with a desperate hope that the shadows hid how deeply I was blushing. Clearly his heart already belonged to that stuck-up redhead in Fine Jewelry. How could I forget?

  “I mean, you’re engaged. You were engaged. Back then, I mean. When we saw each other at the party.” It was unlike him to stumble over his words. Usually he was so poised.

  “Yes, of course.” Me and my big mouth. “All I meant was, I don’t feel comfortable around people who drink. My brother developed a real problem with it after the war, and I saw firsthand how it can ruin lives. I mean, I suspect Dot may take a sip or two of demon rum when she’s at the club, but she avoids it around me. Mostly,” I added, remembering the perpetual pitcher of “ginger lemonade” sitting in our icebox.

  “I see.” He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “I wish you’d said something earlier. About the drinking.”

  “I don’t know why I didn’t,” I admitted. “I guess I was disappointed, that’s all. I didn’t take you for that kind of man.”

  “What kind of man?”

  “Someone who . . . skirts the law.”

  “I see. Well, I admire a woman who stands by the strength of her convictions.”

  “Thank you,” I said, wishing fervently that convictions didn’t always come at such a high price.

  We sat in silence for a while, watching the lake turn a shimmering purple and gold. Our shadows lengthened as the sun set behind us. Finally he said, “Marjorie, may I ask you something rather personal?”

  “Of course.”

  But the question never came, because just then Helen and Kurt returned from their ride on the excursion boat, accompanied by Dot, who’d managed to spot them in the crowd. Helen flopped down beside me.

  “Have fun?” I said.

  “It was cold,” was all she said. I suspected she was regretting taking a boat ride after such a big meal, as I’d warned. I opened my arms to her and together we snuggled under Peter’s jacket.

  After sundown we were treated to a spectacular illumination of naval vessels anchored in the harbor. Then fireworks exploded across an appropriately star-spangled sky, reflected in the black waves below. My heart pounded from the nearness of Peter as much as from the thundering skyrockets. But when I glanced over at him, hoping to see my feelings reflected in his eyes, his face was tight, his expression tense. After the first few starbursts, he stood abruptly.

  “I’m sorry. I have to leave.” His breath came hard, as if he were angry.

  “But why? Peter—Wait, your jacket.”

  “Keep it,” he said gruffly. And he was gone.

  Afterward Kurt drove us home in his jalopy. He, too, seemed mystified about where Peter had gone so suddenly. Helen remained uncharacteristically quiet during the drive, so after settling her onto the sofa, I gave her some tea and bicarbonate of soda to settle her tummy. Then I climbed into my own bed and lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Why had Peter left so abruptly, apparently in anger? Had I said something wrong? Driven him away with my accusations? He hadn’t admitted to drinking, but he didn’t deny it, either. How was I going to convince him to give it up forever, if I didn’t even know for sure that he was doing it?

  Why did he leave? Where did he go?

  And what “personal” question had he been about to ask me?

  Over the next few days Helen regained her usual pep. She perked up considerably when Dot and I took her on the promised shopping trip, including, of course, a visit to the venerable Marshall Field & Company.

  “Is Kurt Steuben here today?” she asked in a carefully modulated voice as we toured the elegant main floor.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “This is normally his day off.”

  “Oh.” She visibly relaxed and began oohing and aahing over the store’s palatial splendor. Apparently she’d gotten over her brief infatuation with the handsome security guard and possibly felt embarrassed. Or maybe she was mortified that she’d gotten seasick in his presence. A teasing remark sat on the tip of my tongue, but I thought the better of it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  When Dot and I put Helen on the train for home on Saturday morning, with a new red plaid skirt and matching beret in her suitcase, she seemed back to her old chipper self. Even though the ensemble had severely depleted my budget, it was worth every penny to atone for letting her down at Spring Fling. From the glow on her face as she waved good-bye, I knew I’d succeeded.

  Mrs. Cross was back at work, her injured ankle nearly completely healed. The enforced rest must have renewed her energy, because she surveyed Ladies’ Nightwear with a gimlet eye and declared a state of emergency. “Goodness, ladies, what has happened here? It’s time for an u
pdate.” And the next thing I knew, we were rearranging Ladies’ Nightwear “from stem to stern,” to use one of her favorite phrases.

  “Would you mind staying late this evening, Miss Corrigan?” she asked. “I could use your keen design eye. And as we work, you must tell me all about the Selfridge’s reception.”

  I readily agreed. First, I was amazed that she asked me about staying late instead of telling me, and second, that she acknowledged I might have the merest smidge of talent. Had I passed some sort of unspoken test in her eyes?

  Together with the Misses Bryant, O’Brien, and Ryan, we worked late into the evening, moving racks of gowns and stacks of folded garments from one end of the department to the other to make a more pleasing arrangement.

  Sometime around ten o’clock, Mrs. Cross dispatched me to check on a delivery of lace peignoirs that was supposed to have arrived earlier that day.

  “Check down at the loading dock,” she instructed. “Sometimes shipments linger down there in limbo.”

  I had to take the stairs since the elevator was no longer running at that time of night. When I reached the ground floor, something seemed odd. There were a great many men loading cartons onto Marshall Field & Company delivery trucks. From where I stood, it looked like all of the cartons had the words “Old Jamaica Hair Tonic” printed on them. Who would have ordered such a massive quantity of hair tonic?

  “Hey, you! Where do you think you’re going?” shouted a stern male voice behind me. I whipped around to see Kurt Steuben, the security guard, stomping up to me. He looked startled to see me. “Marjorie? What in blazes are you doing down here this time of night?”

  I explained my mission to locate the missing shipment of peignoirs. With experience, I was becoming more matter-of-fact about discussing things like peignoirs with gentlemen, without blushing. Kurt grimaced and firmly put his hands on my shoulders to steer me around toward the stairs. “Say, you’d better scram, Marjorie. Nobody’s on duty in receiving at this hour. Try again on Monday.”