While My Pretty One Sleeps

by Mary Higgins Clark

  Neeve glanced through the open door onto the sales floor. The first customer had arrived, and a new saleswoman was showing her gowns that were absolutely unsuitable for her. Neeve bit her lip. She knew she had something of Renata’s fiery temperament and had to watch her tongue. “For Ethel’s sake, I hope so,” she commented, then with a welcoming smile went over to the customer and the saleswoman. “Marian, why don’t you bring the green chiffon Della Rosa gown?” she suggested.

  It was a briskly busy morning. The receptionist kept trying Ethel’s number. The last time she reported no response, Neeve had the fleeting thought that if Ethel had met a man and ended up eloping, no one would cheer louder than Ethel’s former husband, who after twenty-two years was still sending alimony checks every month.

  • • •

  Monday was Denny Adler’s day off. He had planned to spend it following Neeve Kearny, but on Sunday evening there was a call for him at the public phone in the hallway of the rooming house.

  The manager of the deli told Denny he’d have to come in to work the next day. The counterman had been fired. “I was figuring out the books and the sonofabitch had his hand in the till. I need you.”

  Denny swore silently. But it would be stupid to refuse. “I’ll be there,” he said sullenly. As he hung up, he thought of Neeve Kearny, the smile she’d given him the day before when he delivered lunch, the way that coal-black hair framed her face, the way her breasts filled out the fancy sweater she’d been wearing. Big Charley said that she went to Seventh Avenue on Monday afternoons. That meant there’d be no point trying to catch up with her after work. Maybe just as well. He’d made plans for Monday evening with the waitress at the bar across the street and hadn’t wanted to break them.

  As he turned to walk the dank, urine-smelling hallway back to his room, he thought, You won’t get to be another Monday’s child, Kearny.

  Monday’s child was fair of face. But not after a few weeks in the cemetery.

  • • •

  Monday afternoon was Neeve’s usual time to spend on Seventh Avenue. She loved the bizarre bedlam of the Garment District, the crowded sidewalks, the delivery trucks double-parked on the narrow streets, the agile delivery boys manipulating racks of clothes through the traffic, the sense of everyone rushing, no time to spare.

  She’d begun coming here with Renata when she was about eight years old. Over Myles’s amused objections, Renata had taken a part-time job in a dress shop on Seventy-second Street, just two blocks from their apartment. Before long, the aging owner turned over to her the job of buying for the shop. Neeve could still visualize Renata shaking her head no as an overeager designer tried to persuade her to change her mind about an outfit.

  “When a woman sits down in that dress, it will crawl up her back,” Renata would say. Whenever she felt strongly, her Italian accent would leap into her voice. “A woman should get dressed, look in the mirror to make sure she doesn’t have a run in her stocking, a drooping hem, and then she should forget what she is wearing. Her clothes should fit like a second skin.” Renata had pronounced it “skeen.”

  But she also had an eye for new designers. Neeve still had the cameo pin one of them had presented to Renata. She had been the first to introduce his line. “Your mama, she gave me my first break,” Jacob Gold would remind Neeve. “A beautiful lady, and she knew fashion. Like you.” It was his highest compliment.

  Today as Neeve wended her way from Seventh Avenue through the West Thirties, she realized she was vaguely distressed. There was a throbbing pain somewhere in her psyche, like an emotional sore tooth. She grumbled to herself, Before long, I’ll really be one of those superstitious Irish, always getting a “feeling” about trouble around the corner.

  At Artless Sportswear, she ordered linen blazers with matching Bermuda shorts. “I like the pastels,” she murmured, “but they need a dynamite something.”

  “We’re suggesting this blouse.” The clerk, order pad in hand, pointed to a rack of pale nylon blouses with white buttons.

  “Uh-uh. They belong under a school jumper.” Neeve wandered through the showrooms, then spotted a multi-colored silk T shirt. “That’s what I mean.” She picked up several of the T shirts in different color patterns and brought them over to the suits. “This with the peach; that one with the mauve. Now we’ve got something going.”

  At Victor Costa, she chose romantic boat-necked chiffons that floated on the hangers. And once again Renata drifted into her mind. Renata in a black velvet Victor Costa, going to a New Year’s Eve party with Myles. Around her throat she’d worn her Christmas present, a pearl necklace with a cluster of small diamonds.

  “You look like a princess, Mommy,” Neeve had told her. That moment had been imprinted on her memory. She’d been so proud of them. Myles, straight and elegant with his then prematurely white hair; Renata, so slender, her jet-black hair piled in a chignon.

  The next New Year’s Eve, a few people came to the apartment. Father Devin Stanton, who was now a bishop, and Uncle Sal, who was still struggling to make his mark as a designer. Herb Schwartz, Myles’s deputy commissioner, and his wife. Renata had been dead seven weeks . . .

  Neeve realized that the clerk was waiting patiently at her elbow. “I’m woolgathering,” she apologized, “and it isn’t the season for that, is it?”

  She placed her order, went quickly to the next three houses on her list and then, as darkness began to fall, headed for her usual visit to Uncle Sal.

  The showrooms of Anthony della Salva were now spread throughout the Garment District. His sportswear line was on West Thirty-seventh Street. His accessories on West Thirty-fifth. His licensing on Sixth Avenue. But Neeve knew she would find him in his main office on West Thirty-sixth. He had started there in a tiny two-room hole-in-the-wall. Now he occupied three sumptuously equipped floors. Anthony della Salva, né Salvatore Esposito from the Bronx, was a designer on a par with Bill Blass, Calvin Klein and Oscar de la Renta.

  To Neeve’s dismay, as she crossed Thirty-seventh Street she came face to face with Gordon Steuber. Meticulously dressed in a tan cashmere jacket over a brown-and-beige Scottish pullover, dark-brown slacks and Gucci loafers, with his blaze of curly brown hair, slender, even-featured face, powerful shoulders and narrow waist, Gordon Steuber could easily have had a successful career as a model. Instead, in his early forties, he was a shrewd businessman with an uncanny knack of hiring unknown young designers and exploiting them until they could afford to leave him.

  Thanks to his young designers, his line of women’s dresses and suits was exciting and provocative. He makes plenty without having to cheat illegal workers, Neeve thought as she stared coldly at him. And if, as Sal hinted, he was in income-tax trouble, good!

  They passed each other without speaking, but it seemed to Neeve that anger emanated from his persona. She thought of hearing that people emitted an aura. I don’t want to know the color of that aura right now, she thought as she hurried into Sal’s office.

  When the receptionist spotted Neeve, she rang through immediately to the private office. An instant later, Anthony della Salva, “Uncle Sal,” came bounding through the door. His cherubic face beamed as he hurried to embrace her.

  Neeve smiled as she took in Sal’s outfit. He was his own best ad for his spring line of menswear. His version of a safari outfit was a cross between a paratrooper’s jumpsuit and Jungle Jim at his best. “I love it. It will be all over East Hampton next month,” she said approvingly as she kissed him.

  “It already is, darling. It’s even the rage of Iowa City. That frightens me a little. I must be slipping. Come. Let’s get out of this.” On the way to his office, he stopped to greet some out-of-town buyers. “Are you being helped? Is Susan taking good care of you? Wonderful. Susan, show the lazy-time line. It will walk out of the store, I premise you.”

  “Uncle Sal, do you want to take care of those people?” Neeve asked as they cut through the showroom.

  “Absolutely not. They’ll waste two hours of Susan’
s time and end up buying three or four of the cheapest pieces in the place.” With a sigh of relief he closed the door of his private rooms. “It’s been a crazy day. Where does everyone get the money? I raised my prices again. They’re outrageous and people are fighting to put in rush orders.”

  His smile was beatific. His round face had become puffy in the last years, and now his eyes crinkled till they were lost under his heavy lids. He and Myles and the Bishop had grown up in the same Bronx neighborhood, played stickball together, gone to Christopher Columbus High School together. It was hard to believe that he too was sixty-eight years old.

  There was a jumble of swatches on his desk. “Can you beat this? We have an order to design interiors for scale-model Mercedes for three-year-olds. When I was three I had a secondhand red wagon, and one of the wheels kept falling off. Every time it did, my father beat me up for not taking care of my good toys.”

  Neeve felt her spirits lift. “Uncle Sal, honest to God I wish I had you on tape. I could make a fortune blackmailing you.”

  “You’re too good-hearted. Sit down. Have a cup of coffee. It’s fresh, I promise.”

  “I know you’re busy, Uncle Sal. Five minutes only.” Neeve unbuttoned her jacket.

  “Will you drop the ‘uncle’ business? I’m getting too old to be treated with respect.” Sal eyed her critically. “You look good, as usual. How’s business?”

  “Great.”

  “How’s Myles? I see Nicky Sepetti got sprung Friday. I suppose that’s tearing his guts out.”

  “He was upset Friday and pretty good over the weekend. Now I’m not sure.”

  “Invite me up to dinner this week. I haven’t seen him for a month.”

  “You’re on.” Neeve watched as Sal poured coffee from the Silex on a tray beside his desk. She glanced around.

  “I love this room.”

  The wall covering behind the desk was executed in a mural of the Pacific Reef motif, the design that had made Sal famous.

  Sal often told her about his inspiration for that line. “Neeve, I was in the Aquarium in Chicago. It was 1972. Fashion was a mess that year. Everyone sick of the miniskirt. Everyone afraid to try something new. The top designers were showing men-tailored suits, Bermuda shorts, skinny unlined suits. Pale colors. Dark colors. Ruffled blouses that belonged in boarding school. Nothing that makes a woman say, ‘I want to look like that.’ I was just wandering around the Aquarium and went up to the floor with the Pacific Reef exhibit. Neeve, it was like walking underwater. Tanks from floor to ceiling were filled with hundreds of exotic fish and plants and coral trees and shells. The colors on everything—you’d think Michelangelo painted them! The patterns and designs—dozens and dozens, every one unique. Silver blending into blue; coral and red entwined. One fish was yellow, bright as the morning sun, with black markings. And the flow, the grace of movement. I thought, If I can only do this with fabric! I started sketching right on the spot. I knew it was great. I won the Coty Award that year. I turned the fashion industry around. Couturier sales were fantastic. Licenses for the mass market and accessories. And all because I was smart enough to copy Mother Nature.”

  Now he followed her gaze. “That design. Wonderful. Cheerful. Elegant. Graceful. Flattering. It’s still the best thing I ever did. But don’t tell anyone. They haven’t caught up with me yet. Next week I’ll give you a preview of my fall line. The second-best thing I’ve ever done. Sensational. How’s your love life?”

  “It isn’t.”

  “What about that guy you had to dinner a couple of months ago? He was crazy about you.”

  “The fact you can’t remember his name says it all. He still makes a pile of money on Wall Street. Just bought a Cessna and a co-op in Vail. Forget it. He had the personality of a wet noodle. I keep telling Myles and I’ll tell you: When Mr. Right comes along, I’ll know it.”

  “Don’t wait too long, Neeve. You’ve been raised on the fairytale romance of your mother and father.” Sal swallowed the last of his coffee with a great gulp. “For most of us, it don’t work like that.”

  Neeve had a fleeting moment of amusement reflecting that when Sal was with close friends or ready to wax eloquent, the suave Italian accent disappeared and his native jargon took over.

  Sal continued. “Most of us meet. We get a little interested. Then not so interested. But we keep seeing each other and gradually something happens. Not magic. Maybe just friendship. We accommodate. We may not like opera, but we go to the opera. We may hate exercise but start playing tennis or jogging. Then love takes over. That’s ninety percent of the people in the world, Neeve. Believe me.”

  “Was that the way it happened for you?” Neeve asked sweetly.

  “Four times.” Sal beamed. “Don’t be so fresh. I’m an optimist.”

  Neeve finished the coffee and got up feeling immensely cheered. “I think I am, too, but you help bring it out. How’s Thursday for dinner?”

  “Fine. And remember, I’m not on Myles’s diet and don’t say I should be.”

  Neeve kissed him goodbye, left him in his office and hurried through the showroom. With a practiced eye, she studied the fashions on his mannequins. Not brilliant but good. Subtle use of color, clean lines, innovative without being too daring. They’d sell well enough. She wondered about Sal’s fall line. Was it as good as he claimed?

  She was back in Neeve’s Place in time to discuss the next window display with the decorator. At six-thirty, when she closed the shop, she began the now familiar job of carrying home Ethel Lambston’s purchases. Once again there had been no message from Ethel; no response to the half-dozen phone calls. But at least there was an end in sight. Tomorrow morning she’d accompany Tse-Tse to Ethel’s apartment and leave everything there.

  That thought made her mind jump to a line from the poignant Eugene Field poem “Little Boy Blue”: “He kissed them and put them there.”

  As she tightened her hold on the armful of slippery garment bags, Neeve remembered that Little Boy Blue had never returned to his pretty toys.

  5|

  The next morning, Tse-Tse met her in the lobby promptly at eight-thirty. Tse-Tse was wearing her hair in braided coils pinned over her ears. A black velvet cape hung loosely from her shoulders to her ankles. Under it she was attired in a black uniform with a white apron. “I just got a part as a parlor-floor servant in a new play,” she confided as she took boxes from Neeve’s hands. “I thought I’d practice. If Ethel’s there she gets a kick out of it when I’m in costume.” Her Swedish accent was excellent.

  Vigorous bell-ringing did not elicit a response at Ethel’s apartment. Tse-Tse fumbled in her purse for the key. When she opened the door, she stepped aside and let Neeve precede her. With a sigh of relief, Neeve dropped the armful of clothes on the couch and started to straighten up. “There is a God,” she murmured, then her voice trailed off.

  A muscular young man was standing in the entrance of the foyer that led to the bedroom and bath. Obviously in the process of dressing, he was holding a tie in one hand. His crisp white shirt was not yet fully buttoned. His pale-green eyes, set in a face that with a different expression might have been attractive, were narrowed by an annoyed frown. His as yet uncombed hair fell over his forehead in a mass of curls. Neeve’s startled response to his presence was replaced by the immediate sense that his tangled hair was the product of a body wave. From behind her, she heard Tse-Tse draw in her breath sharply.

  “Who are you?” Neeve asked. “And why didn’t you answer the door?”

  “I think the first question is mine.” The tone was sarcastic. “And I answer the door when I choose to answer it.”

  Tse-Tse took over. “You are Miss Lambston’s nephew,” she said. “I have seen your picture.” The Swedish accent rose and fell from her tongue. “You are Douglas Brown.”

  “I know who I am. Would you mind telling me who you are?” The sarcastic tone did not abate.

  Neeve felt her temper rising. “I’m Neeve Kearny,” she said. “And this is Tse-T
se. She does the apartment for Miss Lambston. Do you mind telling me where Miss Lambston is? She claimed she needed these clothes on Friday and I’ve been carrying them back and forth ever since.”

  “So you’re Neeve Kearny.” Now the smile became insolent. “Number-three shoes go with beige suit. Carry number-three purse and wear box-A jewelry. Do you do that for everyone?”

  Neeve felt her jaw harden. “Miss Lambston is a very good customer and a very busy woman. And I’m a very busy woman. Is she here, and if not, when is she coming back?”

  Douglas Brown shrugged. Something of the animosity left him. “I have no idea where my aunt is. She asked me to meet her here Friday afternoon. She had an errand for me.”

  “Friday afternoon?” Neeve asked quickly.

  “Yes. I got here and she wasn’t around. I have a key and let myself in. She never came back. I made up the couch and stayed. I just lost my sublet, and the Y isn’t my speed.”

  There was something too glib about the explanation. Neeve looked around the room. The couch on which she’d laid the clothes had a blanket and a pillow piled together at one end. Piles of papers were thrown on the floor in front of the couch. Whenever she’d been here before, the cushions were so covered with files and magazines it was impossible to see the upholstery. Stapled clippings from newspapers were jumbled on the dinette table. Because the apartment was street level, the windows were barred, and even the bars had been used as makeshift files. At the opposite end of the room, she could see into the kitchen. As usual, the countertops looked cluttered. The walls were haphazardly covered with carelessly framed pictures of Ethel, pictures that had been cut from newspapers and magazines. Ethel receiving the Magazine Award of the Year from the American Society of Journalists and Authors. That had been for her scathing article on welfare hotels and abandoned tenements. Ethel at the side of Lyndon and Lady Bird Johnson. She’d worked on his 1964 campaign. Ethel on the dais at the Waldorf with the Mayor the night Contemporary Woman had honored him.