Tiffany Girl (36 page)

The man to her side gave a soft curse of surprise. She turned and saw his wrist captured within Mr. Wilder’s.

“You touch her,” Mr. Wilder said under his breath, “and there will be the devil to pay.”

The man reddened. “I didn’t know she was with you.”

“She’s not.”

He scowled. “Then what’s it to you?”

“I’ll not stand by and see a woman abused.”

The man curled his lip, but kept his voice down. “If she wants respect, then she needs to stay at home where her father or husband put her. But if she wants to act like a man, then she can be treated like one.”

“Are you in the habit of pawing other men?”

He flushed bright red. “Let go of me.”

“I’ll
let go, but if you even look at her disrespectfully, I’ll knock you out flat.” Mr. Wilder released the man’s wrist.

The men on all sides of her created a tiny circle of space. When the car stopped and more people boarded, the space remained around her.

With a bang and a jerk, the horses took off again without regard for the life or limb of the car’s passengers. She hung onto the strap, feeling as if each joint in her body might be separated. After a moment, a man sitting beside her stood and gave her his seat.

“Thank you.” She sat, letting out a sigh of relief.

Mr. Wilder’s body rocked with the motion of the car. She studied the brown weave of his sack suit jacket, the silver chain of his pocket watch, his paisley tie, his stiff collar, his sharp jawline, angular nose, and green eyes. Eyes that watched her but offered no window into what he was thinking.

Her stop was next. He followed her to the door, protecting her back and her sides. When she stepped off, she turned to ask him what on earth this was all about, but he hadn’t stepped off. Instead, he paused on the bottom step.

She searched his eyes. “What is it, Reeve?”

“I like it when—”

The streetcar jerked and began to pull away.

Lifting her skirts, she walked briskly beside it. “You like it when what?”

He hesitated only a second. “When you call me Reeve.”

Then he was gone. Swept away by the streetcar, yet he stayed on the bottom step, hanging slightly out as he watched her. She stared at him as he grew smaller and smaller. She gave no notice to the roaring wagons beside her, the pedestrians crisscrossing the street and whistling for cabs, for the growing confusion inside her upstaged all else.

CHAPTER

51

T
he workroom felt eerily vacant. Cartoons and paper patterns had vanished. Half the glass easels were gone, including the
Entombment
window with Joseph of Arimathea.

Mrs. Driscoll strode into the room, slamming the door behind her. The girls froze.

She swept the near empty room with her gaze, then fisted her hands. “As you’ve probably guessed, the men are back.”

No one moved.

“I’ve managed to hold Mr. Tiffany off as far as letting any of you go, but we need to do something to justify his need for us. We need
 . . .
” Pressing her lips together, she searched the ceiling. “We need an idea. Something we can do that will take the company in a new direction.”

Flossie ran her thumb along the handle of her glasscutting tool. How in the world could they come up with a new direction? They never started on anything without first having received an order from a church or a wealthy customer.

“Mr. Tiffany has a showroom downstairs.” Mrs. Driscoll began to pace in front of the windows. “Let’s give him something to put into it. Something that will sell.” She stopped and planted her fists onto her waist. “I want an idea from every single one of
you. The new girls can give their ideas to Nan, the rest of you can give them to me. I don’t care how outlandish your idea is, just come up with one. If we don’t do something, a great many of you will have to go back from whence you came.”

Flossie rubbed her arms. At one time, she wouldn’t have been the least bit concerned about her chances of staying. Now she wasn’t so sure. Being Mr. Tiffany’s second choice to go to the fair had been bad enough, but the way he constantly commented on Lulu’s talent troubled Flossie more than she cared to admit.

She needed to come up with an idea, and it needed to be a really good one.

CHAPTER

52

R
eeve dipped his pen in the inkwell, gave a quick flick of his wrist, then brought pen to paper.

Managing comes naturally to a woman. She’s been managing homes since the beginning of time. But the quality we, of the stronger sex, assume she lacks is business ability. Yet this writer had an opportunity to sit with the head of the only shop of woman glasscutters in the world. She and the dozen young women who work under her direction made—without any assistance from men—the award-winning windows of Tiffany’s chapel now being exhibited at the World’s Columbian Exposition.

A shadow crossed his desk. He looked up.

Flossie stood in the doorway, her red-striped skirt, navy shirtwaist, and white cuffs reminding him it was the Fourth of July. He’d ridden the streetcar with her every morning since the soiree. He’d told her he wanted to see for himself the harassment women faced.

Of course, that had been demonstrated the first morning he’d ridden with her. He’d heard plenty of talk about the loose morals of New Women, but none of the Tiffany Girls he’d met
were like that, and neither was Miss Jayne. To simply assume any woman on a morning car was loose was not only preposterous but unthinkable. So, he’d continued to accompany her. Protect her. Shelter her. He never spoke to her, never bothered her, just made sure the men left her alone. His only regret was he couldn’t do the same in the evenings, for her quitting hour fluctuated depending on her workload.

“Hasn’t anyone told you today’s a holiday?” she asked.

He glanced at his paper. “Today may be a holiday, but my deadline is approaching.”

She leaned her shoulder against the doorframe. “You’ll be finished in time for tonight’s roof party, won’t you?”

The sunlight from his window picked out the highlights of her black hair, the brightness of her eyes.

“I don’t think so.”

“We’re going to make ice cream and watch the sunset, then enjoy heaven’s glorious expanse of stars while an occasional rocket goes up in the horizon.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll have a good time, then.”

Looking down, she crossed her arms beneath her breasts. He took in now what he’d avoided before. The curves filling out her bodice. The tightly cinched waist. The skirts hiding the shape of her hips, though he’d imagined their shape many a time.

“Being lonely is a choice, you know,” she said.

His body went rigid. “I beg your pardon?”

She looked up, her arms still crossed, her shoulder still on the doorframe, but her eyes snapping. “You heard me. You’re lonely. You know it and I know it. What I can’t understand is why you refuse to do anything about it.”

He pushed his chair back, its legs scraping the floor. Cat shot from the bed and crawled beneath it.

“Lonely?” he said. “You think
I’m
lonely? Well, that’s certainly the pot calling the kettle black.”

Her arms came uncrossed. “What on earth are you talking about?”

He rose. “You. That’s what I’m talking about. You, the sun which all planets orbit around. I can’t imagine anything more isolating.”

She pulled away from the doorframe. “The sun?”

“Yes, the sun.” He swept his arm in an arc. “You have this entire household at your beck and call. When you enter a room, you outshine all within it. So much so, that the occupants are quick to do your bidding. Whether it be answering questions beneath their plates, playing games after dinner, or watching fireworks on the roof. The sad thing is, you think of them as family, but they think of you as nothing more than a housemate who keeps them entertained.”

She propped a hand on her waist. “That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard, and we’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you. How many friends do you have, Reeve?”

“I have plenty of friends.” His chest rose and fell.

“Name them.”

“Mrs. Dinwiddie.”

“Mrs. Dinwiddie is an aging widow who is very sweet, but I’m talking about friends our age.”

His brain scrambled. He pictured the fellows at work. He’d never done anything with them other than visit when he went into the office, but they’d certainly do. “I have a dozen, at least.”

A brow lifted. “Is that so? And how many of them do you have a real connection with?”

He reared his head back. “Connection?”

She took a step toward him. “Connection.” Another step and another until she stood no more than a foot away. “You know
 . . . Right
.
Here
.” She punctuated her words with two pokes to his chest.

He fell back a step, his mind once again scrambling.

She followed him. “Tell me. I want to know. When is the last time you’ve felt connected to another person? Really connected. Engaged with not just your mind, but your heart. Your very soul.”

Again, he thought of Mrs. Dinwiddie, but was afraid that would prove Miss Jayne’s point, not his. Then he thought of the year he’d lived with his father in Seattle. He’d been sixteen and had his first taste of life away from his grandparents. He’d had the kind of friends then that she was talking about. They went tobogganing in shoots festooned with Chinese lights while a huge bonfire crackled nearby. They picked berries, played cricket, and raced horses. He’d attended parties where he’d stayed out to all hours dancing waltzes, reels, and polkas.

But one night he remembered above all the others. The night he’d attended a wedding ball and danced with his best friend’s sister. During that dance, he’d felt a connection like none he’d ever experienced before or since.

He pulled in a breath, his nostrils flaring.

“When?” She grabbed his lapels and gave him a shake. “When is the last time you’ve connected with another person?”

“In the middle of a dance,” he bit out, shoving her hands down and away from him. “We were in the middle of a dance.”

“How long ago?” she asked.