“Imagine, a lady aeroplane pilot! I might do that too, someday.”
But upon learning that piloting a plane required a great deal of math—not her strong suit—she announced with confidence, “Then I’ll portray her on the screen,” reverting to her longstanding dream of movie stardom.
I was afraid I’d have to work straight through Thanksgiving Day to get everything done, but at the last minute, Mr. Fraser let me go home for the holiday.
Pop had been released from the hospital well in time for turkey dinner. Peter drove out from the city and joined us for the holiday. Frances treated him as kindly as she had ever treated Richard, even saying how proud she was of him for cracking the smuggling ring at Field’s. After dinner, he and I took a stroll around Kerryville. We passed his old house, the pond where we’d skated as youngsters, the park where he and Charlie had played baseball, the gazebo where he’d first told me he’d be going to war.
“It’s strange,” he mused. “Everything looks so familiar, and yet so different.”
“You’re a different man now,” I said, squeezing his hand.
“Yes, I am,” he agreed. “A better man, and a happier man, now that I have you.”
We drove back to the city that night, and plunged back into work: me at the store, Peter mopping up details from the Braccio case and pursuing other booze-related cases as the season of revelry unfolded.
I continued to spend weekends in Kerryville. On the Sunday before Christmas, we all piled into Charlie’s roadster for the drive to the settlement house Christmas concert—including Pop, who felt strong and eager to get out of the house. Charlie parked near the Congress Hotel, where he, Pop, and Frances would stay overnight, and we walked the short distance to Orchestra Hall. Helen would bunk with Dot and me.
While the family marveled at the elegant lobby and stashed their wraps at the coat check, I sought out Ruthie backstage amid the milling choristers.
“Marjorie!” she exclaimed, her face glowing.
“We made it.” I gave her a peck on the cheek and glanced around the backstage area. “How can I help?”
“I think everything’s under control. We’ve been so grateful for Dot’s help. She’s been a godsend.”
“Who’s a godsend?” Dot appeared, dressed in a column of ivory silk that made her look like a Grecian statue.
I hugged her. “You are. I can’t thank you enough for helping out when I couldn’t be here.”
“The pleasure’s all mine,” she said, then added, “You haven’t said anything to Charlie, have you? About tonight? I want him to be surprised. He’s never heard me sing.”
“My lips are sealed.”
Next I located Gabriella and tapped her on the shoulder.
“Miss Marjorie!” she squealed, flinging her thin arms around my neck. I returned her hug, then handed her a package. She eyed it curiously.
“What is it?”
“Open it and see.”
Quirking an eyebrow, she tore the paper and uttered a joyous cry as she unfolded yards of blue satin.
“For me?” she gasped, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears. “Oh, Miss Marjorie, I’ve never seen anything so lovely.”
“Go put it on,” I urged. “Let’s see if it fits.”
It did. No princess had ever looked more enchanting. I whispered a prayer of thanks to a God who can turn even the worst blunders into something good.
When I returned to the lobby, Frances and Helen had already taken Pop into the auditorium. Charlie paced the lobby. “Where’s Dot? She should be here by now.”
“I’m sure she’s helping out backstage,” I reassured him. “We’d better find our seats. She’ll catch up with us.”
Someone tapped me on the shoulder.
“Peter! You made it.”
I longed to throw myself into his arms right then and there, but being in public, we simply exchanged a warm handclasp. The look in his eyes was enough to tell me that he was as happy to see me as I was to see him.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s find our seats.”
The concert opened with a spirited rendition of “Go Tell It On the Mountain.” Everyone applauded, except for Charlie, who kept turning around to keep an anxious eye on the doorway.
“Will you stop?” I hissed. “You’re disturbing people.”
“She said she’d be here.”
“She will be. Relax.”
Ruthie, as choir director, stepped to the microphone. “Our next song will be a duet, performed by Miss Gabriella Grimaldi and Miss Dorothy Rodgers.”
Charlie’s eyes were riveted to the stage as the lights dimmed. A spotlight shone on the two ladies: Gabriella, shimmering in the blue satin dress, and Dot, tall and dignified in her ivory gown. Tears pricked my eyes and a lump formed in my throat as their voices soared and blended in a stirring duet arrangement of the beloved hymn.
While shepherds watched their flocks by night,
All seated on the ground,
The angel of the Lord came down,
And glory shone around.
And glory shone around.
His glory shone around all of us: me, Peter, and my family, and everyone in the auditorium. Peter took my hand in his. With the Lord in His heaven and Peter beside me, I knew that, no matter what, everything was going to turn out all right.
After the concert, we gathered in the lobby over coffee and cookies, basking in the afterglow and congratulating Dot and Gabriella on their performance. As we were collecting our coats, Helen said, “Let’s all go see Marjie’s windows!”
Laughing and huddling close for warmth, we all traipsed over to State Street and then the couple blocks north to Field’s, easing our way into the milling crowd of package-laden shoppers gathered in front of the huge plate-glass windows. Visiting Field’s brilliantly lighted Christmas windows was an annual tradition for many Chicagoans. I had to admit, under Mr. Fraser’s direction, our team had outdone ourselves, creating an enchanting spectacle of gently falling snow, mannequins resplendent in velvet and taffeta, piles of shimmering presents, and festive carols piped into the frosty air. I strolled over to my father and looped my arm through his.
“What do you think, Pop? A little too heavy on the razzle-dazzle?”
He patted my gloved hand but didn’t take his eyes off the window. “Magnificent,” he breathed, his breath forming an icy cloud. “Well done, Marjorie. I’m very proud of you.”
“We both are.” With a gentle smile, Frances took my other arm and gave it a squeeze. A satisfying warmth filled my chest, and I wished I could preserve this perfect moment forever in a little crystal snowglobe.
After we’d viewed all the windows, Helen stamped her red boots in the snow and announced, “I think we should celebrate Marjorie’s great accomplishment over hot cocoa. With whipped cream.”
Charlie gave her a playful shove.
“Sly fox. Why not just admit you want cocoa?”
“Well, so do I,” Pop said heartily.
“There’s a coffee shop on the next block that’s open ’til midnight,” Peter said, pointing. As the family shuffled off in that direction, he pulled me away from the rest of the crowd. “Your dad looks even better than he did at Thanksgiving. How’s he coming along?”
Our breath mingled, misted on the cold air.
“His health improves every day,” I said. “Dr. Perkins said he should be able to start back to work in January. So very soon you’ll have to put up with me being around here every weekend.”
“Not soon enough for me,” he said, squeezing my hand.
Ahead of us, Helen turned around. “Come on, you two slowpokes. You’re lagging behind.”
“Go on. We’ll catch up,” Peter said. Then he steered me into a doorway and kissed me. I returned his kiss. Finally he broke away. “Listen, Marjorie, we need to talk.”
“Oh, dear. More secrets?” I said, half joking, but my stomach clenched. I’d heard enough profound revelations out of his mouth to last the rest of my life.
“New York.” My heart plummeted. “So far away?” I feigned interest in a holly-festooned window so he wouldn’t see my expression. “Well, after all, I suppose you have to go where they send you.”
“I’m not going.”
“I hope they give you something more exciting than a department store. But nothing too dangerous, either. I hate to think of you out there with all those . . .”
“Are you listening?” he said, turning me to face him. “I said, I’m not going.”
My heart gave a little leap. “You’re not?”
“Nope. I’m staying right here.”
“In Chicago?” My breath whooshed out of my body. “Oh, Peter, I’m thrilled. What’s your new assignment? Or is it a secret?”
He took my hand, and we walked on a little farther. “That’s the thing. The bureau said ‘New York or nothing.’ I had to resign.”
“Oh, no.”
He shrugged. “It’s not so bad. I found something else.”
“Already? Good for you! Where?”
A smile played around the edges of his mouth. “A department store.”
“Huh?”
He stopped directly under the famous clock and turned to me. “You’re looking at the newest head of security for Marshall Field & Company.”
“At Field’s?” I threw my arms around his neck. “That means we can still work together!”
“Work, and plenty of other things. If you’ll have me.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. My knees turned to jelly. He opened the box. Something glittered inside, but I couldn’t quite make it out through my tears. “Marjorie Corrigan,” he said in a husky voice, “will you marry me?”
“Yes! A thousand times, yes.”
His voice trembled. “Another man could offer you more, but nobody on earth could love you more than I do.”
I brushed my fingers over his temple, scar and all.
“Any woman would be proud to have a man like you by her side.”
He hugged me so tightly, I thought I would burst. Beneath the clock, oblivious to the stream of passersby, we formed a little island of two. Over his shoulder, a familiar slogan caught my eye. “Marshall Field & Company . . . Give the lady what she wants.”
Thank you, Marshall Field . . . and thank You, God.
This lady could want nothing more.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Readers have asked me how much of You’re the Cream in My Coffee is true. It is a work of fiction, with invented characters, settings, and details. All of the primary characters and the entire plot are fictional.
Marshall Field & Co. was a real place. I have a fond childhood memory of dining in the store’s Walnut Room at Christmastime with my grandmother and cousins, the great shimmering tree casting a glow over the room. When I needed a suitable workplace for Marjorie, the flagship department store seemed the perfect choice. I learned as much as I could about the store in the 1920s from resources like old employee manuals, promotional material, newspaper ads, and books such as Give the Lady What She Wants, by Lloyd Wendt and Herbert Kogan, and Through Charley’s Door, by Emily Kimbrough. James Simpson was president of the company during the 1920s, and Arthur Fraser, designer of the famous windows, worked there from 1895–1944. The Ladies’ Nightwear department where Marjorie works, her supervisor, and all her coworkers are fictional, as is the entire plot. Marshall Field & Co. was acquired by Macy’s, Inc. in 2005.
The Art Institute of Chicago is also a real place, but Marjorie’s experiences there are entirely fictional.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
“Alone we can do so little; together we can do so much.” (Helen Keller)
To God be the glory.
I offer my deepest thanks to:
My agent and fairy godmother, Ann Byle, who works tirelessly on my behalf and makes this writing journey a lot more fun;
Marcy Weydemuller, whose skilled wordsmithery worked wonders on an early draft of the manuscript;
Kathryn Davis and the talented team at Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas, who sculpted the manuscript into a book;
Anita Aurit, Cassandra Cridland, Terese Luikens, and Pam Webb, cherished writer friends and eagle-eyed critique group, who let no lazy adverb go unremarked;
The brilliant Blogettes of Writing North Idaho: Nancy Owens Barnes, Elizabeth Brinton, Kathy Dobbs, Anna Goodwin, Mary Jane Honegger, and Jennifer Rova;
My parents, Donald and the late Patricia Lamont, who gave me a love for books and reading, as well as their constant love and support;
And especially to my husband, Thomas Leo, who encourages me daily, greets wild schemes (like “I think I’ll write a novel”) with unflinching courage, and never complains, even when deadlines loom and “dinner” is popcorn and coffee.
And thanks to you, dear reader, for taking a chance on a new author. I hope you enjoyed getting to know Marjorie as much as I did. Please visit my website at http://jenniferlamontleo.com to sign up for my newsletter or drop me a line. I’d love to hear from you.
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