by Jill Barnett
She closed the door none too lightly, removed her gloves with jerky movements, hung up her jacket, jabbed the hatpin into the hat's crown before she tossed it on a bench and stormed across the room, sitting down at her desk.
Mr. Edward Lowell, Lowell & Green
Dear Mr. Lowell:
I am contacting you about
She wadded up the paper and tossed it in the trash bin, took out another sheet, addressed it and started again:
Dear Mr. Lowell:
You are violating my person.
"No," she said aloud and wadded it up, too. Then she started again....
Dear Mr. Lowell, Man of the Year, Harasser of Women, All Around Degenerate, Arrogant Fool, Trespasser of Privacy, Handsome Devil, Kisser of Woman...
One more for the bin. She sagged back against the chair back. This wasn't working. She crossed to the window and looked outside. She didn't see him. So she looked out the narrow bedroom window and didn't see him. Down the back steps to a water barrel, where she hitched up her skirt and stood on the barrel so she could see over the fence and down the street.
He was out of sight or gone. Back inside, she glanced at the mantel clock, showing it was not yet 4 o'clock.
Okay, Mister Lowell, Mister -Can-Do-Anything.
No, she would not write to the man, she thought as she shrugged back into her jacket and pulled on her gloves. She would confront him face to face. Then she reached for the brass doorknob but stopped. She turned on her heel, opened a metal box and pulled out a hammer, dropping it into her bag.
There! She was confronting him face to face, but just in case, she had a good solid hammer.
7
The store delivered the tea table to his office by mistake. Ed returned from an afternoon meeting at the city planning office to find that his efficient secretary had unpacked the boxes and set up the tea service in a corner of his office, then promptly left for the day.
He wasn't surprised since he'd brought Penny in to work with him twice this past week. There was a stack of brightly dust-jacketed picture books on the same bookshelf that held his architectural manuals, schematics, and business books, and Ed knew a cloth bag filled with building blocks sat stored in the long drawer next to his blueprint tubes and rolled up floorplans.
The table, chairs, and china would go to the house tomorrow. He dropped his hat and coat on a chair and walked over to look at it. Finely gilt-edged, the china set was decorated in a familiar pattern of red roses with small blue flowers painted on the rim of the tea cups and the saucers. The teapot had a large rose on one side and blue flower on the other and the same decorative gold edgework. Made of dark mahogany, the tea table and chairs were identical to one in the formal room at the house, the same wood finish and delicate turned legs.
He wondered then how much it had cost him, since he hadn't asked. It looked sturdy, so he pulled out a chair and sat on it, his knees well above the tea table and his big feet straddling the delicately curved table legs. He picked up a teacup, held it to the light. Clearly fine English bone china, he thought and turned it over to see a small Minton a print mark with a crown.
It must have cost him pocketful.
"Hallo!"
Ed froze there.
"Mr. Lowell?" Miss Idalie Everdeane, chin high, shoulders back, handbag clutched in her gloved hands held primly in front of her, and a determined look on her face, marched through the open door of his office and immediately turned her blue eyed gaze on him, sitting at a child's tea table holding up one tiny teacup in his big clumsy hand.
She looked to be fighting back a smile. "I see I'm interrupting your tea...or is it playtime?"
He leaned slightly back in the chair, pulled back his legs and straightened them out, crossing them at the ankles, then toasted her with the teacup. "Care to join me, Miss Everdeane?"
The moment was lost and the room grew as icy as her expression. "You need to stop following me, sir."
He frowned. Following her? "I assure you, Miss Everdeane," Ed said seriously and stood, setting the cup down. "I have not been following you."
"Of course you have. You wish me to believe that you just happened to show up at my place of employment?"
"It's a department store, madam. Many thousands of people must show up there every day."
"On the 3rd floor--at the exclusive area of women's fashion and design?" she said in a facetious tone. "Why were you looking for a new tea gown?"
If she hadn't pissed him off he might have laughed at that. "I was with my niece and her nurse. You are aware the children's department is on the other side of the gallery."
She looked unsure then. "I saw no child. No nurse. I only saw your--" she cut off her words.
"My what, Miss Everdeane?" He couldn't resist taunting her. My mouth about to close over yours? Almost immediately he realized that was unfair and a stupid thing to do. She was perfectly serious. When she said nothing he added, "As a matter of fact, I bought this tea table and service for her when we were there. The store delivered it here by mistake. It should have come to my home."
"You deny you hired a man to follow me?
"I do."
She looked thoughtful, then said, "Your attorney was waiting at my home."
"I believe my business partner got your information from the police officer at the construction site that day and passed it on to our attorneys. I understood from him that everything was taken care of."
"I don't want your money, sir."
"Then give it to charity. The settlement money is part of the legal process."
She raised her chin and looked him straight in the eye. "Do you always try to buy people off?"
"Buy people off?" he said in a dangerously low voice that should have warned her to stop there. Clearly you do not understand how business works, madam."
"Believe me, I understand how business works, sir. If there's something you want, then you merely take it any way you can. I know because my sister paid the price with her life. Do not lecture me about how business works. I have met face to face with unscrupulous men who used their success and their money to wield power, whether it was morally right or not. It doesn't matter where the money came from, your attorney or from your own hands, sir, you were still buying me off and for a ridiculous amount of five hundred dollars."
"Yes, well, then. We bought you off," Ed said coldly. "You signed the release. Good afternoon, Miss Everdeane, I have work to do."
"Oh, what? More people to buy off or are you planning high tea?" She turned on her heel and walked away. "Good luck. I hope you get what you pay for, Mr. Lowell."
Ed leaned against the door jamb and said quietly, "Oh, I think filling my palms with your soft bottom, Miss Everdeane, was worth every penny."
She wanted to hit him with the hammer. Instead she walked out of the office building onto the breezy uptown sidewalk, into the colder air that signaled bad weather approaching, weather that felt like snow. The air burned her face because it was still so hot, and probably bright red. Her embarrassment was a live thing. Two more blocks, she thought, as she walked to the trolley like a logger--her mother's favorite expression when her girls forgot themselves and moved in less than ladylike steps.
The wind whipped down off the icy waters surrounding Manhattan, over the Hudson and dropping in temperature before they swept down the streets between the buildings like frosty breath of a monster nor'easter. She shivered as she jumped on the trolley, then switched to the closest El, which was enclosed.
By the time she got home the temperature had dropped below freezing, and she lit the stove as soon as she was inside, didn't even bother taking off her coat and hat.
Minutes later she was sitting at the table in the warm kitchen, a hot teacup warming her hands, her outerwear hung up and her feet encased in lovely fur slippers Jo had given her that last Christmas. That last holiday when any number of men of business and attorneys had followed both of them through the city incessantly. After Jo died, it had taken a court order to stop th
em from harassing Idalie.
She rose to refill her tea and stopped at the window, looking out at the flickering electrical lights strung haphazardly across the back streets. It began to snow, light flakes floating down past those lights and sticking to the cold ground, and soon, to the fences and roofs.
She didn't feel anyone watching her. No one followed her home. But it was freezing cold. Was she wrong? She looked into her tea cup and wished for a moment she could read tea leaves like her Aunt Agnes. Was it possible? Yes, it was possible. That would be embarrassing. What if he wasn't having her followed?
At ten minutes to eleven, Ed's secretary let him know Mr. Dunbarton had arrived for their meeting. Ed dropped what he was doing and had Gordon let the man in. He still needed the doll. In a moment of sheer stupidity one night, he had helped Penny write a letter to Santa Claus. She had asked for her mama doll. Nothing more, just the doll.
From the way the man walked in Ed could tell he'd been successful. Good news in the middle of a bad week. They'd had trouble at the site again. A fire at midnight on Wednesday, but it had been out off quickly, and some crates were broken into again and one of the wagons delivering shipments from the freight station had been vandalized.
He shook hands and said, "Have a seat, Dunbarton. From your expression I assume you have good news for me. Where's the doll?"
"I do have good news." He held up a hand. "But I don't have the doll. I did contact every toy store and retailer where the dolls were distributed, even as far west as Chicago and the stores are completely sold out. The distributor, who did give me the list of stores carrying the dolls, J Morris and Sons, claim they will have no more of the dolls until next fall."
"Then I don't understand. I need the doll for Christmas."
"I have located the dollmaker, sir. As luck would have it, she lives here the city, and it was not easy to find her. The distributor was very protective of her personal information. They wouldn't tell me anything. None of the stores know the maker behind the dolls. It seems it's a bit of a popular mystery, a legend now, as if the dolls actually come from the North Pole. But I'm more realistic than that." He leaned forward and placed a list and papers of whom he had contacted on Ed's desk.
"There are four dolls made by this dollmaker, a company named Hummingbird." Dunbarton told him. "The Josephine doll you want is the newest and most popular. She was only first for sale last year. Another is called Liza, just as popular, apparently, and there are two baby dolls, Marta and Annabelle. All are sold out. I was able to get my hands on one of the others, only because a friend's daughter had one of the baby dolls. The stamp on the head shows a manufacturer in Germany. I contacted them by telegram, too, but have received no word back.
"Then I got lucky. I was at the distributor again, hoping to get something out of one of the employees, when the dollmaker came in. I heard her talking because she brought in some doll clothing in to be sold for the holidays, custom made for those four dolls."
He handed Ed a card with an address written down. "Here is where she lives, sir. I thought you might have better luck contacting her than I would."
Ed read the address and rose. "This is good. See Gordon. He'll give you the rest of your money. And thank you." Ed shook his hand, grabbed his coat and hat and promptly left.
The snow in the streets was building. It had been snowing off and on for the past day and half. Ed hopped in his carriage and they headed for the address:
78 Barrow Street
The address stopped him for a moment, trying to remember where he'd heard of it before. Barrow Street. What was it?
The carriage pulled up and Ed hopped out. He remembered the instant he saw the two newer apartment buildings flanking the small, crooked little house dwarfed by its tall brick surroundings. A few years back the battle had been all over the newspapers. One little old lady was the holdout against expansion on this street. He had remembered the woman had been older.
He took the front steps two and a time and looked at the door knocker It was a hummingbird. He knocked on the door, and waited for the old woman to answer, then stood there frozen to the spot.
Miss Idalie Everdeane had opened the door.
For a silent heartbeat neither of them said a word.
She cocked on hand on a hip, looked him straight in the eye and said with no little sarcasm, "I thought you weren't following me, Mr. Lowell."
8
The last person on earth Idalie expected to be knocking on her door was standing in front of her looking as stunned as she was.
"Come inside please. Snow is getting all over the floor and it’s freezing out." She sounded snippy. Good, she thought. He looked all too handsome, standing there a head taller than she, snow falling round him and sticking to his hat and shoulders, looking at her with those eyes that made her feel things she should not.
Edward stomped the snow off of his shoes and came inside the tiny entry.
An even bigger mistake. They were almost as close as when he had tackled her and she found it hard to breathe and turned quickly away. He followed her into the parlor, which was warm from the coal brazier on the hearth, and Idalie watched him stand there, holding his hat by its brim and turning it in his hands.
She knew she should have taken his hat and coat but she hoped he would leave. She didn't want to make him comfortable. She wasn't comfortable.
He looked around awkwardly for a second. "Is your mother here?"
My mother? She frowned at him. "Why? Do you want to apologize to her for being rude to her daughter? I'm right here. You can apologize now."
He looked confused.
She was confused. What was Edward Lowell doing in her parlor? "Sit down, please," she said sharply waving her hand at the sofa. "It bothers my neck to have to look up at you."
He sat down in the chair next to her. Contrary man. "My mother is at home in LaFayette, with my father, and I would suggest you contact him first."
"You don't live here with your mother? I remembered a newspaper article about a woman who refused to sell. I assumed that was your mother. She was an older woman."
"That was Mrs. Haseloff. She sold the house to my sister. However my sister is dead, Mr. Lowell, and I'll tell you the same thing I have told everyone else. This house is not for sale."
He studied her for an uncomfortable moment. "I'm sorry about your sister. I just lost my sister less than two months ago. I'm not here about the house," he said.
"Then why are you here?"
"You make dolls," he said frankly.
"I do."
"I want you to make another Josephine doll. Before Christmas. For my niece."
"I cannot do that. You've wasted your time." She started to stand.
"Wait! Let me explain, please. My niece just lost her mother and father, in a boating accident. They lived in San Francisco, the only home she's ever known. Now she has had to come all the way across the country to live with me, a stranger, really. She's only four years old, Miss Everdeane." His story, the words, seem to spill out of him. "Her loss is acute, so much so, she stopped talking altogether. I've taken her to see a doctor, who says we shouldn't push her, and I haven't. I feel as if I have been walking a tightrope, but just this week she started to talk again, to me, though not much to anyone else."
"The tea table was for her," Idalie said.
He nodded. "I won't insult you. I won't offer you any amount of money to pay you to make another doll. She saw the doll in a store window but we couldn't stop. We were on the way to the doctor. She saw it and said 'mama' and other than my name when she met me, it was the only word she had spoken since her parents died."
There was no doubt in Idalie's mind. Edward Lowell was sincere. His words were filled with an emotion she understood, a helplessness she had felt, a bond with his sister she knew.
"When we went back to the toy shop after the appointment, the doll was gone." He sat with his hat in hands, his elbows on his knees, staring at nothing in front of him. "I have promised to get the
doll. Yes, I bought her the tea table; it seemed to be something she wanted. And yes, you are welcome to point out I am buying her off. I'm a desperate man who loved that little girl, who loved her mother. I will do anything to get the doll. Pay you anything. Donate to charities. Anything you ask. Because you see, now she has written to Santa Claus and the only thing she wanted was the 'mama doll.' I did not tell you, but the doll looks quite astonishingly like her mother, my sister, Josephine."
Idalie's breathe caught and her hand went to her neck. She closed her eyes and said, "Jo."
"I called her Josie,” he said, looking at her with an odd look.
Tears filled her eyes. "My sister was Jo. We called her Jo. Short for Josephine."
The air seemed to vibrate. Something had changed. Perhaps it was her heart breaking all over again. "My uncle is a dollmaker, as was his father, my grandfather. He owns the factory where I order the doll heads. I order them after the first of the year--it takes months-- and he sends them over from Germany, from Dresden, where the factory is. He made the doll head from one I sent to him. Josephine was a new doll to my small collection. At the time, I had only made Liza and one baby doll, since the babies were becoming very popular. I had made the head as a gift for my sister. Jo died a few months later."
At that moment Pirate leapt out from behind the sofa, onto his lap, and to her dismay, his hat, settled in and began to purr loudly.
"Oh, I'm so sorry. She started the take the cat from him, but he stopped her.
"He's fine, aren't you fella?" Edward Lowell was scratching his ears and Pirate rolled over, sprawled on his knees, getting range cat fur all over his wool trousers.
"Jo's cat," Idalie said. "He rules the roost."
He looked down kindly at the cat and then said, "It seems we both have something of our sisters' left behind. Something to car for."