The Dressmaker (48 page)

Van Anda eyed Pinky as she made her way across the newsroom to his desk. Even with plenty of practice, he couldn’t quite read her mood. She had lost a little of her bounce lately, and he knew the signs—she was getting bored with the
Titanic
beat. But hell, she was still churning out great stories.

“So, what’ve you got for me from the fashion show?” he said with a grin, but she didn’t seem to be in a joking mood.

“They had to pack the room with women salesclerks to make it look respectably full,” she said. “Not a good day for the House of Lucile.”

“How much can you give me? And get something in there about the clothes, for God’s sake. Women want that.”

“There was a nice yellow dress. Silk.”

“You have an eye for fashion, I see.”

It was their usual comfortable back-and-forth. But Pinky couldn’t leave it at that, not today. “Carr, the
World
offered me a job.”

Van Anda straightened fast, his chair creaking under him. “Job? What sort of job? They don’t use women.”

She stared him in the eye. “Yes, I know. Just good reporters.”

Van Anda cursed silently; he had flubbed that one. “They can’t have offered you much. You’re not considering this, are you? You’d be crazy to leave the
Times
.”

There it was, her opportunity. All the way back from Lady Duff’s loft, she had been rehearsing what she would say. She could do anything—dive into any story, ask any outrageous question, pursue a lead or a source with total persistence—and she didn’t give up until she got what she wanted. She was proud of what she did, and proud of how she did it. She was all of this. And she had the respect of other reporters and her editor. So what was tying her tongue?

“Look, maybe you need a break from disaster stories. I can put you on a team investigating the mayor’s cronies—some good stuff there. We—”

“I want a raise.”

“What?”

“I want more money. I deserve it.”

“You get good money, for this business.”

“The typesetters get fifty cents an hour, and I get less.” She smiled at his expression. “Didn’t think I knew that, did you?”

Van Anda groaned, leaning forward. “Pinky, you’re a smart woman. But things are tight in this business right now.”

“They’re always tight.”

“I wish I could help you on this.” She had to be bluffing—she would never leave the
Times
. No sane reporter would leave the classiest paper in the city.

But her courage was growing. “I want a raise. I want a dollar an hour.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.” Van Anda was stalling now. Lose one of his best reporters? Not a good idea. “Why don’t we talk a few months from now, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Pinky tried to swallow past the dryness in her throat. Here she was, walking the plank, sawing it off behind her. “No, sir, I need a raise
now
.”

Van Anda leaned back in his chair, staring at her. “You would actually go work for that rag?”

She thought of her father, of her constant money dance with Mrs. Dotson. “Yes.”

“Go write your story; let me think about this.”

“I would rather settle it now. Get that off my mind, which will let me write a better story.”

Here she stood, demanding to be paid almost the same as his other reporters and, truth be told, she was worth it. That much money for a woman? It wasn’t done. But times were changing. Lord, who knew what was next with women like this. She wasn’t backing down, or smiling, or trying to win him over. She was setting the bar. Amazing.

“What are they offering you?”

“A dollar an hour.”

“Jesus, where do they get the money?”

“Beats me.”

“Okay, kid. Seventy-five cents an hour. Best I can do.”

“One dollar.”

They stared at each other. If there was ever a time when she mustn’t break eye contact, it was now.

Van Anda threw his pencil down on the desk. “Okay, one dollar. You better be worth it.”

She grinned wide, but her legs were trembling. “You already know I am, Carr.”

“Yep. Do me a favor, will you? Keep this under your hat or all the men will want more money, too.” He was scratching his ear, looking a bit shocked at himself; they would joke about it later, maybe tomorrow.

Pinky sailed back to her desk, humming. She had done it; she had good news to bring home to her father. Forget the chicken. Tonight it would be fresh corn and a flank steak. Today, she felt she could see the future. It was all right. And she would, as her father said she would, somehow, herself, someday, dance on the moon. Or, at least, see Africa.

The solid click of the lock on her apartment door was an incredible relief. Alone, Tess sank into a chair and pulled her mother’s letter from her pocket. Just the sight of the familiar handwriting gave her a sudden longing for home, so much so that the first words on the page were shocking:

There was more, mainly news about her father and her brothers and sisters, and about the neighbors and the price of cheese and meat and the bad year for potatoes. She read eagerly, starved for the plainness of her past life. And then at the end:

Tess folded the letter smooth, staring at it on the table in front of her.

You are not foolish to try
.

Try for what? Jack would open the whole world for her. Not only that, he could help her open up the world for her mother. To think of it, to think of her mother freed of the grinding labors of her life, of having some ease and comfort, was overwhelming.

What an extraordinary thing to have a man like that love her. It made her feel valued in a way she had never known, as if she danced inside a fairy tale. She had dreamed about him, and had then found herself gently enfolded into his version of the world. But perhaps the same had been true of the second Mrs. Bremerton. And the first.

She could allow herself to think of Jim, too. To remember the energy and excitement of life bursting from him, surrounding her, making her laugh and dream and think—that’s what he represented. Not security, just hope.

There was no more time to avoid the only question that mattered. Why was she thinking of choosing a man who could make her whole? How could she do that when she didn’t yet know who she was in this new world?

She stood and walked over to the dresser, where she had placed Jim’s lifeboat, picking it up, tracing its lines and curves with her finger, wondering suddenly if it would float. She carried it to the washbasin, drew water, and placed it gently inside. It rocked a bit on its slightly rounded bottom, then moved forward, bumping against the side of the basin. How skillfully it had been carved. She thought of
Jim’s deft fingers, his excitement when he took her to the carpentry shop. She waited. Why did this matter? It didn’t, of course. But it did float. And she found herself yearning to hope.

The sky was fully dark when she knocked on the door of Jack Bremerton’s office. She waited, it seemed for a long time, before she heard the rattle of the chain inside as it was unhooked.

The man named Mr. Wheaton—Jack’s secretary—opened the door, his eyes widening. “He isn’t expecting you.”

“I know, but I have to talk to him.”

“Oh, dear.” He hesitated, as if debating whether to let her in. “Well, he’s not here at the moment, but please come in. He’s with Mr. Ford at dinner. Is something wrong?” He was watching her carefully.

“I do need to talk to him, Mr. Wheaton.”

“Of course. Would you like a sherry?” He moved to a sideboard, picked up a crystal decanter, and poured a glass of the wine-red liquid, giving a quick little bow as he handed it to her. “You mean a great deal to him, you know. I do hope nothing is wrong.”

Tess sipped the sherry, wishing Jack would appear. She didn’t want to talk with Wheaton, not now.

“I’m happy to hear the seaman who rowed Lifeboat One escaped the trap set by the Duff Gordons,” he said.

“It was a great relief,” she replied in surprise. She wondered how he knew.

Wheaton turned and placed the decanter on the sideboard. He seemed to make a sudden decision. He looked at her, his features sharpening. “You know who arranged that, I presume?”

It took a second or two before she realized what he was telling her. “It was Jack?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, my goodness.” He had done that for her. He had saved Jim from shame and trouble. He had done that, taking a burden of worry from her shoulders. The fact that he was powerful enough to do it so quickly was amazing. What an act of tremendous charity.

“He doesn’t want you to know.”

“Why?” she asked. She wished he would come in the door right now, this minute, so that she could thank him to his face immediately.

“He didn’t want it to influence you. He didn’t want you to marry him because you were—grateful. It wouldn’t be enough.”

“No, it wouldn’t.”

“I’m guessing by your manner why you’re here. I realize Jack is impulsive and all this has happened quickly. But I must say, if you have concerns he is a fine, upstanding man.”

“I know that—I truly have never doubted it,” she said.

Together they heard the click of the lock on the front door.

“Goodbye, Miss Collins.” Wheaton smiled faintly and disappeared through another door, closing it gently behind him.

And now Jack was standing in front of her. He blinked, startled, then seemed to know, without a word being spoken, why she was there.

“Let me hold you first,” he said.

“I can’t, I just have to say it.”

“No, I will. You aren’t going to marry me.”

“You are an amazing, quite wonderful man. But no, I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t feel what I want to feel.” It hurt to say it; his eyes widened.

He strode to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of sherry. His voice, though still relaxed, had an edge. “Tess, I love you. I will make you happy, you can do anything. There’s plenty of money. I told you, if you want a design shop, I will give you one. What do you want? I’ll get it for you. I want to spoil you.”

Tess’s thoughts flew to Cosmo and Lucile. “I don’t want to be spoiled.”

“It’s perfect, you and me. Where is your courage?”

“I’m trying to exhibit some now.”

“Go ahead, then. I’m listening.”

There was no way to express her doubts gently. “I feel borne along on your enthusiasm and certainty, but it isn’t real enough for me.”

Jack seemed back in total control of himself. “Tess, do you think
I’m under any illusions about the source of your attraction to me? May I say it bluntly, dear? It’s all right to want money and security; women have their reasons for marrying older, established men. It’s the way the world works.” He flashed one of his calm, wry smiles. “We each have our bargaining chips.”

“I wonder if we both are acting on what we
want
to be real. You’ve had two wives already.” She thought of the first Mrs. Bremerton, standing at Lucile’s doorway, as hard and contained as a marble statue.

He blinked. “That’s cruel of you. I can’t undo my past mistakes.”

She swallowed. “You might eventually want a fourth one.”

“So
that’s
what this is all about.”

“The fear of that might make me become someone different. But that’s not why, Jack. It’s much more.”

“What
matters
? What matters besides us? I adore you. What more do you want?”

What more, indeed? She would have comfort beyond her dreams. But not to be able to give back in similar measure—to love him equally—would leave an emptiness that couldn’t be filled. And then, eventually, she wouldn’t try. She would take; she wouldn’t give. She would be left with a tepid heart.