Or maybe the flutter was the attraction she felt toward him compounded with her satisfaction at his answer. It was unusual for a man to hold that belief.
He spoke again before she could respond. “Would you like to go somewhere with me after you get off work? There’s something I want to show you.”
Alice’s pulse quickened at the thought of it. “What do you have in mind?”
“It’s a surprise. And the fact that you have a mind of your own is a must.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” He’d certainly piqued her curiosity.
“Oh, please don’t misunderstand. I meant it as a compliment—in that many girls might not say yes to this, but I think you would like it. I know that you don’t know me, really, but I’m asking you to trust me.”
There was every reason to say no. A photograph in Life was a great accomplishment, but it was not a personal reference.
But she heard herself saying yes.
He said he’d meet her by the clock in the grand concourse at seven o’clock.
She wondered what the evening would bring.
As she watched him walk away, she saw him give the pack of Pall Malls to Bertie, unopened.
Chapter Twenty-One
Alice worked awhile longer before her father arrived to relieve her. Emmett had wanted to take her to wherever they were going right after that, but she told him that she had to meet up with her mother first. They had a standing appointment to catch a movie together every Friday evening, and Alice would have to tell her that she couldn’t make it. She knew Vera would understand.
So she and Emmett agreed to seven o’clock. And she was already counting down the hours.
She skipped down the steps of the Thirty-Third Street exit. She looked up at the building across the street to the windows of their third-story apartment. Her father had left them open. He loved the fresh air, winter, spring, summer, fall. The clouds were light gray, and she was concerned about the possibility of rain, but if she went home to close them instead of heading straight to Macy’s, she’d be late meeting her mother.
And the Bellavia women were never late.
Besides, her grandfather was at home. And although his health was poor—he’d been a sandhog who built the tunnels under the rivers—he’d be able to get up and close the windows if it rained.
She headed to Thirty-Fourth and rounded the corner to the familiar department store. It was the place of firsts. Her first black patent-leather shoes for her first day of school. Her First Communion dress. Her first brassiere.
Her mother had never forgotten her tenement years and what it had been like to work in a factory. So Vera shopped only for winter clothes in the summer and summer clothes in the winter, when the discounts were the most lucrative. And being an employee, she always knew when the best sales were coming up. Alice and Vera both dressed quite well for little money.
Angelo was more practical. He wore the same shirts he’d worn since Alice was a child and simply patched or sewed them as needed. But he loved to see his wife and daughter delighting in something new they’d brought home.
She headed through the revolving doors and into the wonderland that always took her breath away. Columns lined the room floor to ceiling, flanked with rows of glass cases offering everything an imagination could dream up. A banner hung saying “World’s Largest Department Store,” and though Alice had no experience outside New York City, she deemed this to be true. Brass elevators, wooden escalators, grand staircases all moving people up and down the eleven floors to purchase everything from chocolates to fur coats to radios.
The glove department was on the second floor. Alice liked to ride the escalator and watch the wooden slats consume one another step by step as it ascended. They’d been installed forty years ago—1902—and Macy’s was the first building in the world to have them.
Another first. Alice beamed with pride to have a connection with such a place.
It was often said: Who needed to leave New York when the best was right here in her city?
But as much as she loved it, she ached to see more of the world.
She arrived on the second floor, where a dreamland of ladies’ hats greeted her. As she approached the glove counter, she saw that her mother was working with a customer. Vera wore her usual beguiling smile, her lips colored in the red that was Angelo’s favorite. “The color of the suffragettes,” her mother would say. When her father thought no one was around, he’d call her Vera, my vixen, and pinch her rear end, and she’d squeal and kiss him. Alice had witnessed their affection all through her life and hoped that someday she’d have a marriage like that.
Her thoughts migrated to Emmett, but it was early, too early, to consider such notions.
The man at her mother’s counter was holding a pair of violet leather gloves in his hands. The kind that had buttons that would run up the sides of a woman’s arms. Expensive. Alice knew that much. His knee-length coat was made of a camel-colored wool that screamed of quality, and his shoes shone like the way the sun kissed the Empire State Building. Vera would be pleased with making that sale today to such an obviously wealthy gentleman.
Alice paused and stood next to a mannequin wearing a long silk robe. There was something odd about her mother’s behavior, though, and Alice wanted to watch before approaching them.
The man placed the gloves on the counter as if they were unimportant and instead took Vera’s hands in his. Her mother blushed to a color that Alice could see from ten feet away.
Vera smiled and rubbed the man’s hands and looked at him with adoration. Adoration—and a beaming gaze that she usually reserved for Angelo and Alice. Who was this stranger who merited such acclaim? Alice knotted up inside at the notion that her mother—her mother—was captivated by this younger man. He was handsome, of that there was no doubt. And Alice thought that she herself, in her mother’s shoes, probably couldn’t have controlled her reaction any better.
The man was a head taller than Vera and better looking than most movie stars, with his wavy brown hair and dimpled cheeks. An aura—that’s the word that came to Alice’s mind. And Vera seemed to have been caught in it.
Alice turned around, a bit alarmed at this scene and not knowing quite how to feel about seeing her mother look at someone else that way. But she was too late.
“Alice!” she heard. Her mother’s voice sounded like a tinkling bell.
She took a breath and turned back toward the counter, where her mother was waving her over. She took short steps to reach it.
“Darling,” said Vera, “I’ve just had the most wonderful surprise. You have to come over here.” Vera came around, lifting the platform that separated her from customers. She ran her hand down the arm of the stranger and looped her elbow through his. They looked at each other with a glance of familiarity that Alice didn’t understand.
When Alice approached, Vera detached herself from him and locked arms with her daughter.
“My sweet boy,” she said to the man. “This is my daughter, Alice. Alice, this is William Pilkington.”
William Pilkington. His name had been spoken in their household for many years with a combination of reverence and regret. Alice knew the story. The son of their friend Pearl. The boy whom Vera and Angelo had loved as if he were their own. The one who had been taken from them right on the steps of Penn Station and never seen by them again.
He was a phantom brother to Alice, always remembered in evening prayer and mourned around the Christmas table. They’d known his whereabouts—that part was no mystery. A mention in the society page here and there told them that his grandparents—Pearl’s parents—had raised him, and he had spent much of his youth in boarding schools overseas. But Vera always maintained that it would have broken Pearl’s heart to see him absorbed into that world that she herself had renounced.
“William Pilkington,” he said in deep, rich tones as he held his hand out to Alice.
“Alice Bellavia,” she breathed. His formidable presence might hav
e been intimidating were it not for a softness in his demeanor.
“I was almost a B-Bellavia.” He laughed.
She was surprised by the ease with which he spoke of the tragedy that had haunted their family for so many years. Either he said it with affection or he was unaware that his absence had been felt as fully as his presence would have been.
She also noticed the trace of the stutter that her mother had described.
What did a man of his standing have to feel nervous about?
“So I’ve heard,” said Alice, realizing that her curt response might have sounded unfriendly. But this was a whole lot to take in. A legend in flesh and bone, both within her family and in all of New York City. She’d once torn a picture of him out of a magazine and pinned it to her wall by her pillow, underneath one of Cary Grant. She didn’t want her parents to see it. To them, he was a son. To her, he was among the names giggled over by her schoolmates as one of the city’s dreamy bachelors.
“You are v-very lucky to have had this woman as your mother. She was mine, sort of, for part of my childhood, and she was the one I always hoped would walk into my b-bedroom when I was sick and sit with me until I was better.”
That was certainly the Vera that Alice knew. Always nurturing. First her own father through his highs and lows suffering from the bends. Then Pearl through the tumult with her family and her aspirations of social justice. And as a surrogate parent to Will. Angelo, in his first years getting used to his injury. All of that before Alice was born. So when the time came to have a child of her own, Vera was well practiced in the art of taking care of others.
But Alice knew her mother felt inadequate. As if her love could have cured her father, saved Pearl, held on to Will, grown Angelo’s leg back.
As Alice looked at Vera’s radiant face right now, there was a completeness about it. A peace that wiped away years of concern.
“I am indeed lucky to have her for a mother, and to have my father as well,” Alice agreed. She considered for the first time what it might feel like to be William. To have had the love of people like Vera and Angelo and then to be snatched away from them. Had it scarred him at all?
William responded, “Dear Angelo. Of c-c-course I have also harbored memories of him being a f-father to me. How is he doing?” The question seemed directed to Vera, although he never took his eyes off Alice. She felt herself blush.
“He lost his leg during the war,” said Vera.
Will’s face grew dark as he turned to her. “Bad business, that war. And this one.”
It struck Alice that, like Emmett, he seemed the right age to be fighting with the boys overseas. Maybe on the old side of that but still within range.
“Indeed,” said Vera. “But let’s talk about much happier things. Are you married, dear William? Do you have any children?”
Alice knew that her mother scanned the pages of newspapers every day in hopes of such information. They already knew the answer.
“No,” he acknowledged. “My grandfather has had no shortage of suggestions in that regard, but, w-well, I j-just haven’t agreed with him.”
Her mother clapped her hands together and spoke in an excited tone. “William, it would make me so happy if you would join us for dinner tonight. You, Angelo, Alice, and me. It will take no persuasion for Angelo to close up shop early as soon as he hears that I have found you. Or that you found us. We have so many years to catch up on.”
He smiled and turned to her. “For you, Zia Vera, anything. B-but one caveat. Let me take you all to dinner. I know what it means to have unexpected c-c-company, and I don’t want to impose. But I have been craving a steak at Delmonico’s and would love for you to all be my guests.”
“Delmonico’s!” she exclaimed. “That is too much.”
“Nothing is too much for you and Angelo. And A-Alice.” He looked her way again and smiled.
Alice felt her mother squeeze her arm and knew how very much Vera would want this to happen. Not because it would be at Delmonico’s—a place that would take them a year to save for—but because it had been her hope for twenty years to see Will again, and here he was. Wanting to spend time with the family.
But she had already promised to meet Emmett this evening. He had a surprise for her, which intrigued her almost as much as it excited her to spend more time with him.
“I can pick you up in my car at seven o’clock.”
“How can I refuse? Yes, of course!” Vera agreed on behalf of both of them.
She held out her arms to hug William. He returned it, and Alice watched as he closed his eyes and pulled her mother in tighter.
A quick pain shot through Alice’s chest. Was she not enough to make her parents perfectly happy?
She pushed it away. It was foolish to feel anything like jealousy when this was the one thing she knew her parents had hoped for more than anything else. And it would be quite an evening. Getting to know the intriguing William Pilkington. Eating at Delmonico’s. She just wished it weren’t happening on the very night she’d planned to meet Emmett.
Will pulled back and turned toward Alice. He extended his hand, and when she put hers in his, he brought it to his lips in an old, chivalrous gesture. Her pulse quickened where he’d touched it, and she felt herself blush, leaving her confused about her feelings.
Just the gesture of a gentleman, she told herself.
But it was more than that. She felt something pass between them, unspoken and unseen but very real.
Emmett Adler. William Pilkington. Two men from entirely different worlds.
Both competing for space in her thoughts.
Alice was in trouble.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Vera dispatched Alice to return home and see that Grandfather was settled in before they all left for the evening. She would run over to the station and tell Angelo the glorious news.
Alice had hoped to reverse the tasks, as she needed to find Emmett and tell him about the change of plans. That was, if he was even around. If he thought she was standing him up, it might be the end before there was a beginning.
She trotted off to their apartment. There were two sets of doors that required two sets of keys just to get into the building, unlike the posh kind that had a doorman to tip his hat and welcome you home. Not that any of her friends lived in such places, but she had a few regular clients who tipped well if she delivered their newspapers and cigarettes and candy to them in person.
The second lock always took some jiggling to open, but she managed it despite holding the bag of bread rolls she’d stopped for on the way home. She shut the door with her hip, checked the mailbox to find it empty, and climbed up to the third story, where the usually dim hallway was even darker due to a light that had been out for two months. She had half a mind to replace it herself but didn’t want to spare the change for a bulb when they already paid a ransom in rent. Her father always dreamed of buying their own place but could never save enough. All his money went to indulging his wife and daughter with scarves and earrings that they insisted they didn’t need, or in spontaneous charitable contributions to the ever-growing homeless population that gathered outside the train station steps. All this gave him more joy than a mortgage payment would. And so they rented.
The door to their apartment required another two keys, and Alice had those open in no time.
“Opa,” she called to her grandfather. He always found comfort when they addressed him in German. Alice’s knowledge of the language was limited, but she knew enough to ask if he was comfortable and what she could get for him.
He was not entirely an invalid. A couple of decades ago, he’d lived in an institution in Albany. But as soon as her parents had married and found an apartment large enough to include him, they did so. His condition had improved, she’d been told, by the time he’d spent in the capital city. He’d suffered none of the horror stories that often came out of asylums and had been part of experimental treatments in improving the lives of those with his ailments. The oxygen r
ecompression therapies introduced by Dr. Albert Behnke had been particularly helpful, as well as efforts to keep the patient well hydrated.
He still suffered, though, from the fundamental effects of the bends—fatigue, rashes, joint pain, confusion—but mercifully they were rarely present all at the same time and rotated, as if to not overtax him or those who cared for him.
“Aleit,” he responded, using the German version of her name. Her Italian relatives pronounced it a-LEE-chay, as a “ce” in that language sounded like “ch” in English. She marveled at the many variations that existed for such a simple name.
Although Alice in Wonderland, spoken by the lips of Emmett Adler, might be her favorite now.
It sounded as if Opa’s voice was coming from the bedroom. The lone one shared by her parents. Opa and Alice shared the living room, the sofa for her and a narrow bed for him. His snoring would often wake her, but she was also grateful for it—it meant that he was sleeping soundly. Perhaps the only time he was ever truly at peace.
Today, as she often did, she found him in a confused state, sitting on a chair in the bedroom looking out the window at the eagle atop Penn Station.
“Aleit,” he said when he saw her. His bushy eyebrows were untamed, obscuring his vision, but he wouldn’t let anyone near him even with the tiniest scissors. Every piece of him sagged—his jowls, his bottom lip, his shoulders. Except when Alice was in the room. Whatever piece of him had awareness brightened when she was near. Ever since she was a little girl, she could calm his terrors and soothe his pains.
She entered the room and rubbed his arm.
“What is it, Opa?”
He pointed to the train station. It was a viewpoint that always amused Alice—watching the people come and go. The concerns of life that seemed so vital when you were walking on the street dissipated once you were three stories above, looking down. Her parents had taken her, on her ninth birthday, to see the lights come on at the Empire State Building for the first time. President Hoover himself had pulled the switch all the way from Washington, DC. A few months later, they took her to its sky-high observatory, and she noted how all the little people looked like ants.
The Way of Beauty Page 21