Astor Place Vintage: A Novel (2 page)

After going through everything and making my selections, I came up with a number and hoped it would sound high. If she insisted, I’d go up to thirteen hundred for the lot. I took a few stacks of clothing into the living room. Mrs. Kelly sat on the sofa with her eyes closed and her mouth open. Unsure how to rouse her, I proceeded as if she were awake. “I’d be willing to pay you a thousand.”

Her eyes flicked open. “For which piece?”

“All of it,” I said, suppressing a smile.

“Are you crazy?”

“I’m in business.” I crossed my arms.

“Two thousand,” she said.

“Twelve hundred, but that’s as high as I can go.”

She pulled a sixties shift from the pile. Really cute, with a mod black-and-white flower-power design and an unfortunate stain on the bust that I hoped to get out.

“You don’t want this. It used to be my favorite dress. I was at a party laughing at some stupid joke and spilled red wine . . . never forgave myself.”

“I could take a shot at cleaning it.”

“If you want to waste your time.” She tossed it to me. “For eighteen hundred, I’ll throw in the trunk.” She nodded toward an old flat-top steamer trunk. It had a few scratches and age wear, but with some olive oil and lemon juice, it would shine up just fine. Still, I had no space to put that clunky thing, and nobody used them anymore.

“There’s clothing inside,” she said. “Things that go back a long time. We’re talking Edwardian. On second thought, nineteen hundred for everything.”

Amazing how the urge to bargain could be so strong, even when facing the grave. “May I look inside?”

“Go ahead.” She leaned her head back on the sofa and closed her eyes again.

Kneeling on the parquet wood floor, I removed a stack of
New Yorker
magazines and lifted the top. A whiff of dust shot up my nostrils with the familiar cocktail of mothballs and mold. A removable top shelf was crammed with buttons, lengths of ribbon and lace, white silk gloves, and a faded but darling striped parasol.

The main part of the chest was packed tight. Someone smart, presumably Mrs. Kelly, had stored the clothing inside pillowcases—a good way to protect it. Inside one, I found some white cotton nightgowns. The next one had some petticoats and camisoles. Another held a surprise treasure: a matching fur stole and muff. The plush stole was about a yard long, with a fox head and two feet on one end, the tail and two feet on the other. Black vacant glass eyes stared back at me; small white fangs seemed poised to bite. A label on the stole said
C.G. GUNTHER
’
S SONS FIFTH AVENUE NEW YORK
. The label made it worth more. I snuggled my hands inside the muff. Something hard pressed against my knuckle.

Strange.

I looked inside. The black satin lining had been torn at the seam and sewn closed with uneven stitches. Had someone hidden something inside? A wad of cash, perhaps?

I sneaked a look at Mrs. Kelly. She snored lightly with her mouth hanging open. Did I dare investigate? I crept silently across the room to retrieve my hobo bag. The big brown leather bag originally belonged to my mother. She bought it back in the seventies on one of our excursions to Altman’s department store. Decades later, I rescued it from the top shelf of her closet. Now the soft and slouchy bag went with me everywhere, and so did the sewing kit I kept inside.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor by the trunk, I dug out the old Schrafft’s candy tin that held my sewing supplies. I used the seam
ripper to remove enough of the stitching so I could pull out the object hidden inside: a black leather-bound book.

Inside the front cover, the name Olive Westcott had been written in neat cursive script. I turned the page and realized it was a journal. Why had it been sewn inside the muff?

A feeling of déjà vu came over me, as if I’d done this before, right here in this room. I shook it off and read the first entry.

September 18, 1907

I’ve had this journal for ages. Father gave it to me when I turned twelve and I never bothered to use it. Now that I’m twenty I finally have something to write about. As of today I’m an official New Yorker! Father is managing the Woolworth’s on 34th Street and we’ve just moved in to an apartment-hotel on the corner of 29th Street and Madison Avenue. It’s awfully grand and up-to-date: long-distance telephone, electricity, hot and cold running water, steam heat, and—luxury of luxuries—daily maid service. I can’t wait for my future to begin!

I wanted to read more. The adventures of a young woman arriving in Manhattan never got old for me. I could ask Mrs. Kelly to let me borrow it, but what if she refused? Did she even know it was there? It would be simpler to just take it and return it later, no harm done.

After checking to make sure Mrs. Kelly was still sleeping, I slipped the journal into my hobo bag—totally impulsive and dishonorable and not like me at all, as if I’d momentarily been possessed.

Turning back to the trunk, I continued to sort through. Everything appeared to have been laundered before being stored and was in good shape; no moisture or creepy-crawlies had compromised the condition. A white lace tea gown might sell; some women liked
using those as wedding gowns. Otherwise, hardly any of it would appeal to my customers. The long skirts were heavy and cumbersome. The white puffy shirtwaists did nothing to flatter a woman’s shape. Inside the last pillowcase, I found the prettiest item: a gorgeous green satin dress with a purple sash. I held it up to admire.

“That’s in perfect condition,” Mrs. Kelly said, almost giving me a heart attack. Her piercing voice gave no clue that she’d been asleep.

“Not really,” I replied. “The material is extremely fragile, and these perspiration stains under the arms will never come out.”

“You could put that on right now and go to dinner at the Plaza.”

“If the Plaza wasn’t closed for renovations because it’s being turned into condos.”

“The world is going downhill fast,” she said with a crooked smile. “I’m lucky to be getting out now.”

I sighed in sympathy—and to prepare her for my verdict. Clothing from before the twenties was more often for display than for wearing. It was almost cruel to traumatize the delicate fabric and trimmings by inserting a body. I’d be nervous letting customers try it on. “I don’t generally carry stock this old. As much as I love clothing from this period, I don’t get the sort of customers who would buy it.”

I preferred dealing with clothes from the thirties to the sixties, and only pieces I really loved. I had a special attraction to minidresses, go-go boots, and black capris. Funny how styles from your own parents’ day tend to call out with that seductive aura of nostalgia. Fashions that evolved after the sixties never impressed me like clothes from earlier decades could. The seventies were practically ruined by polyester. That material would probably survive along with the cockroaches after the human race got wiped out by global warming or the next ice age, whichever came first.

“Just give me two thousand for everything,” Mrs. Kelly said, “and we’ll call it a day.”

We were back at two thousand? “No, sorry.”

“Are you telling me these lovely garments aren’t worth as much even though they’re older?”

“They’re worth something—sometimes quite a bit. They just don’t move well. Look, here’s what we could do. I’ll take the other clothes for twelve hundred, and I’ll take the things from the trunk on consignment. If they sell, we’ll split it. The trunk itself you can keep. I don’t have room for it.”

“What’s the split?”

“Sixty/forty.”

“Sixty for me?”

I smiled. “For me.” On that, I would not budge.

“Fine, take it,” she said, as if everything had turned into garbage. “I don’t want to see any of it again.”

“Before I go, I’ll make up an itemized list of the consignment pieces, and I’ll need you to sign my standard agreement on the terms.”

“Go ahead.” She aimed a remote at the television. “Do what you need to do.”

While she watched
The View,
I wrote out an inventory of all the Edwardian clothes from the trunk. After that was done, I handed her the list, along with a copy of my agreement and a pen. She put on her glasses and read every word of the agreement before signing it. She didn’t bother to check the list.

“I can take a few things with me,” I told her, “but would it be possible for you to have the rest delivered to my shop?”

“I’ll have my grandson bring everything else.”

“That would be great,” I said, taking care not to reveal the journal as I opened my hobo bag. I placed the hourglass dress, stained A-line, stole, and muff at the top. “When he comes, I’ll give him a check for the rest. Here’s a card with all my contact information.”

“I know where you are,” she said, waving a hand in dismissal.

“Okay, then.” I started out of the room. Clearly, she wasn’t
going to say good-bye, so I added for my own sense of closure, “Nice meeting you.”

There was no sign of the grandson, so I tried opening the front door, but it was locked. I turned the deadbolt, but the door still didn’t open. The grandson reappeared. “I’ll get that.”

“That’s okay. I’ve got it.” I turned the bottom lock, but the door refused to open.

He turned the deadbolt back to its original position. The door opened. “There you go.”

“Thanks,” I said, wishing he’d let me do it, though I knew he was just being polite.

“Take it easy,” he said.

I nodded. “You, too.”

As I walked down the hallway, past the impressionist posters to the elevator, he shut the door behind me.

“ANYTHING INTERESTING IN
the news?” I asked, spreading a thin layer of butter on my roll.

“Not much,” my father said from behind the paper. “The tone at the stock exchange seems more cheerful. Lots of talk about recovery.”

I dabbed a bit of marmalade on top of the butter. “We’ve heard that before.” Just two weeks earlier, Father and I had moved to Manhattan from Cold Spring, a town about two hours north of the city by train. My favorite part of living in our brand-new apartment-hotel was breakfast delivered every morning on a dumbwaiter. Boiled egg, bread basket, pot of coffee, butter, marmalade, copy of the
Sun
, and a bud vase with sprigs of fresh flowers; no effort required beyond carrying the tray to your table.

“At any rate,” Father said, closing the paper, “the market closed firm.”

“Let’s hope it’s a trend.”

“Don’t you worry, Olive, those bears will be shaken out soon.”

Like so many others, he’d lost a chunk of money in the market that past March. I didn’t know exactly how much. Father rarely divulged details about his investments, but I had utter confidence in his expertise. He’d always been perfectly responsible when it came to our finances. As a Woolworth’s manager, he earned about ten thousand dollars a year, more than enough for us to live comfortably, and we had no reason to worry about future prospects. With everyone worried about the economy, it was an excellent time to be in the business of selling cheap goods. The Woolworth empire was doing better than ever.

“Do you have any special plans for today?” my father asked. “Or just taking inventory again?”

That’s how he referred to my frequent visits to the department stores. I could spend hours analyzing stock and comparing prices. “As a matter of fact,” I said in my most efficient-sounding voice, “I do have more merchandise to inspect.”

“You really ought to treat yourself to a new gown for the dinner next month.”

“That’s very generous, Father dear, but I already have some perfectly lovely dresses.”

Frank Woolworth was planning to throw a party in his Fifth Avenue mansion with Father as a guest of honor. It would give him an excellent opportunity to socialize with the New York executives. But Father seemed more eager for me to mingle with any eligible bachelors who might be in attendance. Though I had nothing against the idea of meeting someone who would sweep me off my feet, past experience suggested that I’d remain planted on the ground. I’d never been in love and wondered if any man would inspire such feelings.

Truth be told, I’d never been the inspiration for any boys from Cold Spring to fall in love, either. Perhaps I was too tall—or doomed by an urge to prove myself the more intelligent one instead of flirting pleasantly, as I was supposed to.

“I don’t mean to badger, Olive, but you’re such a pretty girl, and it would seem you don’t want anyone to notice.”

“You only think I’m pretty because I’m your daughter,” I said with a pout.

“That’s ridiculous. You’re far too modest. And a new wardrobe is the best way to build up confidence. Take some enjoyment in your new status as a young lady in New York.”

He couldn’t let go of the idea of my becoming a fashionably decked-out ingenue. I preferred the simplicity of a skirt and waist. Comfort was more important to me than appearance. I didn’t bother with a corset. No point trussing myself up with laces and bones, especially considering my figure, which resembled—or so I’d been told—the proverbial beanpole.

“You’re very sweet,” I replied, “but I don’t need a shopping spree to feel better about myself.”