Crossroads (9 page)

They didn’t have time to talk about fathers or birth mothers or secrets kept too long. If you saw them soaking up Paris together you would have thought that whatever differences they had, had been patched up.

On the plane going home, Cassandra said, “I’m going to fire Jewel Fairchild. I just wanted you to know.”

Jewel’s beautiful face with the ruby red lips and the extraordinary blue eyes floated in front of Gwen, and in those extraordinary blue eyes she saw once again the little gleam of triumph as Jewel told Gwen the devastating news. For a moment Gwen wanted to cheer her mother on. But then she looked at Cassandra sitting next to her, serene in her conviction that punishing Jewel would make everything all right.

“Why do you want to do that?” she demanded. “All Jewel did was tell me the truth.”

There was a certain kind of tear that could never be patched up. Not really.

Chapter Twelve

T
imes Past (“We sell gently used vintage couture,” said the ad in the phone book) was located in a small shopping center about a quarter of a mile north of the Algonquin Mall on the highway. The rent in the Plaza Shopping Center wasn’t as high as it was in the Algonquin Mall and the address wasn’t as prestigious. But it was close enough to attract the overflow from its more elegant neighbor. At least that was what Times Past’s owner, Patsy Allen, believed.

“We appeal to the woman who isn’t impressed by the trendy clothes at Sofia’s,” she liked to say. “She leaves the Algonquin Mall unsatisfied and here we are, practically next door, ready to show her the unique classic pieces she’s been craving.”

If by “unique” and “classic” you meant “old” and “dated,”Jewel thought, then Patsy was absolutely right. Although, of course, Jewel would never say that. Patsy was her boss, and Jewel had a new motto when it came to bosses: Never say anything they—or their daughters—don’t want to hear.

She could still remember the day, six months ago, when her supervisor at Wright Glass works had told her she was fired. The order had come from Mrs. Wright personally—it was the first thing she had done when she came back from her vacation in Paris. “I don’t know what you did to make her mad, but she didn’t even bother to take off her coat before she told me to can you,” said the supervisor.

Of course, Jewel knew what she’d done. She’d told Cassandra Wright’s dull daughter the truth about her father. Obviously, Gwen had gone crying to Mommy, and Jewel’s punishment for those few seconds of satisfaction had been the loss of her weekly paycheck, followed by three months of panic while she tried to find work and her meager savings ran out. Without a college education and only the minimal computer skills she’d been able to pick up in her one course at night school, the pickings had been slim. By the time she’d landed the job as salesgirl at Times Past her landlord was threatening to evict her. So even though the pay was less than she’d made at the glass works, and she had to spend eight hours a day on her feet in a store that was only air-conditioned in the front section where the customers browsed, she wasn’t going to make waves. No, sir.

“Now, this dress is absolutely divine!” Patsy said, as she pulled a white lace garment out of the tissue paper in which it had been lovingly packed. She’d just come back from a buying trip and she liked to show Jewel her “finds.”

“Can you imagine?” she’d crow over a gown. “An original Pucci and they let it go for a song!” Or, “A Donald Brooks! Just locked away in a closet before I rescued it.”

And Jewel would ooh and aah because it made Patsy happy. So now, when Patsy held out the lace dress and said, “Look at the workmanship, Jewel; they just don’t make things like this anymore,” Jewel nodded reverently, and said, “I love the bolero jacket. You’re amazing, the way you uncover these treasures.”

Privately, she thought, she wouldn’t be caught dead in a dress that looked like something someone’s grandmother would wear. Although, she’d actually bought a few items from Times Past herself. The clothes were classy—they reminded her of the suits and silk dresses Cassandra Wright brought back from her trips to Paris—and there was no other way Jewel was going to own a cashmere sweater. Even with her generous employee’s discount from Patsy, her few purchases had stretched her budget. But the truth was, she really didn’t enjoy wearing them. No matter how pretty an outfit was, or how much it had cost originally, Jewel simply couldn’t forget she was wearing secondhand clothing—someone else’s leavings. Like the secondhand furniture in her apartment.
Someday I’ll be able to go shopping and buy everything
I want—all of it brand-new! I don’t know how, but I’ll do it.

“Whoo, it’s warm!” Patsy said and she fanned herself with an invoice sheet. It was going to be a scorcher of a day and they were unpacking the clothes in the back workroom where the air-conditioning did not penetrate. “Let’s go out front for a minute and sit.” She started out of the workroom. “Don’t bring the white lace out,” she said over her shoulder. “Hang it here in the back. It’s delicate and I don’t want people handling it. We’ll show it when we have the right buyer.”

It took Jewel a couple of seconds to find one of the special padded hangers they used for the clothes that were especially fragile, and by the time she left the workroom, Patsy was already perched on one of the stools that had been placed next to the counter in front of the cash register. She’d been leafing through the
Wrightstown Gazette
—Jewel had suggested that they keep a copy for the customers to look at—and now she bent a page back and handed it to Jewel.

“I’d kill to be invited to that party.” She indicated the lead story on the page. “I’d wear the Armani—you know, the purple satin from the spring collection in ’82—and I swear, it wouldn’t take me more than twenty minutes to have all those fancy women dying to come here to do their shopping. That’s the thing about selling, all you have to do is show people. . . .”

But Jewel had stopped listening. Because there was a picture accompanying the magazine story and Jewel had recognized the subject. It was Gwen Wright, looking as dull as ever. She began skimming the story, which was all about the party Cassandra Wright was throwing for her daughter’s birthday—the daughter who had been responsible for Jewel being fired.

The party was scheduled for that evening, and, according to the newspaper, it was going to be huge, with tents on the front lawn and a lighting system installed especially for the occasion. The caterer—the best one in the area—had been working on the entrée for three days, and the florist was quoted as saying he hadn’t had any sleep for the last two nights. The governor had been invited and he had accepted, as had two state senators—and, Jewel had no doubt, all the eligible young men Cassandra Wright had rounded up to meet her daughter. That was the way the parents of rich girls made sure their daughters stayed rich; by introducing them to the sons of the rich. Jewel’s pop had always said wealthy people protected their kids by sending them to expensive colleges where they made friends who gave them six- and seven-figure jobs—networking, he called it. And maybe that was true for boys, but Jewel knew it was different for girls. No matter how many women became lawyers or doctors or heads of companies, the best bet for a girl was still to marry a rich man. But first she had to meet one. That was why Gwen would belong to all the right clubs, and she’d go on vacation to all the right places, and lavish parties with all the right people would be held in her honor. Because sooner or later some rich boy would be attracted to her—the glass works she’d inherit one day would help—and he would marry her and they would combine their fortunes and have children who were even richer than they had been. The tight little world of the rich would go on for another generation. And no outsider, no matter how pretty or charming she was, was ever going to break into it. That was what was so unfair—there was no way for a girl like Jewel Fairchild to get a chance at the rich boys who would attend a party like this.

Jewel looked down and realized that she was gripping the magazine so hard she had crumpled it. She put it down carefully. “I’m all cooled off,” she told Patsy. “I think I’ll go back to the workroom and finish unpacking.”

“It’s got to be a hundred degrees back there!” Patsy protested.

But Jewel needed to be busy so she’d stop thinking.

Gwen’s probably picked out her jewelry already—I’d wear that
gold and diamond bracelet if it was me. There will be a hairdresser
coming to the house and someone to do her nails and her makeup
and—
Jewel stopped herself.

“It’s not that bad in the workroom,” she told Patsy with a cheery smile. “I’ll turn on the fan.” And she hurried to the back of the store. Anything, including hundred-degree heat, was better than sitting around imagining how Gwen was preparing for her big night.

*                           *                           *         

According to the thermometer, it was ninety degrees in the shade. Gwen looked out through the kitchen window, where a man was hanging electrified lanterns on the new posts that had just been installed between the house and the hill. Along with the lanterns, there was a large white tent at one end of the back lawn, and round tables covered with white cloths dotting the other end. Huge, flowery umbrellas had come with the tables to shade them from the sun, but the crew that was setting up the party had taken them down. They wouldn’t be of any practical use after dark. Cassie—for some reason, now that she knew her father’s identity Gwen had started thinking of Cassandra as Cassie—had purchased the umbrellas and the tables because she had assumed Gwen would be entertaining regularly. That was part of the social life that a nice young girl should be enjoying.

But at this particular moment, Gwen was wondering, as she often did wonder, what someone who wasn’t a part of her social world, say, someone like the young workman who was stringing up lights, might be thinking about all these elaborate preparations.

He was interesting-looking rather than classically handsome, she decided. His dark hair was a little too long so it kept falling in his eyes and he had to push it aside. His features were strong, and his eyes were brown. As Gwen watched him through the window she thought they looked light, almost hazel. But that could have been a trick of the sunlight. He moved easily—the way people who do physical jobs tend to move—and there was a surety in the way he worked. He knew what he was doing.

Right now, he had stooped to pick up a bottle of water, but apparently finding it empty, had laid it down again on the grass. Gwen scanned the lawn; the workmen who had just finished putting up the tent had taken a break for lunch and the place was deserted. Wouldn’t it be nice to give the young man with the unruly hair some of the lemonade that she had just taken out of the refrigerator? She filled a small pitcher, placed it on a tray with a glass, and went outside with it.

“I thought you must be thirsty in this heat,” she said.

“Oh, this is so nice of you!” His eyes
were
hazel, it hadn’t been the sunshine.

She saw that he was unsure whether he ought to stand up in the blazing sun while he drank, or move under the trees where there were lacy, wrought-iron chairs in the shade. Of course, Cassie would say—and most men would agree—that a man wasn’t supposed to sit down while a woman was still standing. So perhaps Gwen ought to go back into the house and let him drink in peace. But how, after a few polite words, does a person simply turn around and walk away? Wouldn’t that seem odd? Or rude? The lacy iron chairs were just a few feet away. She walked over to them and so did he. But then after they’d both sat down, neither one of them seemed to know what to say. It occurred to her that perhaps he was waiting for her to speak first, but the only thoughts that came to her mind were the kind of shallow questions people asked at social gatherings when they didn’t care about the answers. She didn’t want him to think she was like that. On the other hand, it was getting embarrassing sitting and listening to the silence.

“Do you live here in town?” she finally asked.

“Yes, I have for a while now. Originally, I was planning to go to New York to work with a cousin, but I changed my mind.”

“But it would’ve been nice to work with your cousin, wouldn’t it?”

Shallow,
she thought.
Shallow chitchat.
But he looked like he was considering the question seriously.

“Well, that depends. We had a falling-out. He put a big dent on somebody’s car on the street, and I told him to leave a note with his name and telephone number, but he wouldn’t do it. He has a head for business, you see, and thank goodness, I really have not. At least for that kind of business. What kind of world would it be if we were all like that?”

So the conversation wasn’t going to be shallow after all. Because he didn’t do that.

“How old is your cousin?” she asked. “If he’s still just a kid maybe he doesn’t know . . .”

“He’s twenty-two. If you don’t know whether you’re a decent person by then, when will you know?”

“Well, later. It’s never too late.”

“Yes, it is. Some things are already there when you’re born. I knew a kid who could play the violin when he was seven, and he’s in an orchestra now. He just had it in him.”

She hadn’t noticed that there was a jagged scar on one of his hands. “Goodness, what happened to you?”

“Cut it when I was in school, like a careless idiot.”

“Oh, my!”

He had finished his lemonade, so it was time for her to put his glass on her tray and take it back inside. But having begun to talk to the man, she was not sure how to stop without being awfully rude. And shallow.

“What school?”

“Trade school.”

“To be an electrician?” Stupid question. He wouldn’t be doing this if he’d trained to be a carpenter or a plumber, would he?

“Yup. And what about you?”

“It’s vacation time. In the fall, I’ll be going to the college here in town to learn how to teach nursery school.”