Tiffany Girl (37 page)

“Years.”

A peddler outside passed by the window. “Roman candles! Pinwheels! Firecrackers!”

Her gaze zigzagged back and forth between his eyes. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

He was so bamboozled, he obeyed. In two shakes, she returned, winding up a tiny music box. Plopping it down on his desk, she opened the lid.

The Blue Danube
filled the silence, its tinny quality unique to music boxes. Stepping up to him, she grabbed one of his hands
and held it out while resting her other hand on his shoulder. She smelled of roses. An entire garden of them. He stood unmoving, his arms heavy, his legs leaden.

“Are you going to lead or shall I?” Her tone brooked no argument.

He wasn’t about to let her lead. Placing his hand on her back, he applied the slightest bit of pressure. She responded immediately.

One-two-three. One-two-three
.

At first, it took every bit of concentration to simply execute the steps. Then it all came rushing back. He closed his eyes, listening to the music, memories flooding him. The murmuring of the crowd. Rhythmic footfalls on a wooden floor. Corseted women. And the rush of youth roaring through his veins.

In his mind’s eye, the features of the woman in his arms had transformed from a young girl on the cusp of adulthood to a fully grown woman with black hair, fair skin, brown eyes, and curves that made his mouth water.

She brushed against his desk chair and stumbled. Jerking her close, he opened his eyes, and narrowed the scope of their circle.
One-two-three. One-two-three
.

He understood now why the dance halls popping up across the city had outraged so many, for in what other instance could a man embrace an unmarried woman? Hold her flush against him, his legs lost within the folds of her skirt?

His hand spanned the small of her back. He flexed his fingers, spreading them, lightly caressing her.

Her head fell back, her eyes slid shut. The music box began to wind down, as did their steps.

One . . . two . . . three . . . One . . . two . . . three.

Slower and slower they went until they could do no more than sway, wringing every last note out of the box. Finally, the music stopped.

She opened her eyes, her long lashes heavy.

He brought the hand he held to his shoulder, then slid his hand down the whole of her arm and the entire length of her side until he had her well and truly within his embrace.

Her lips parted.

Die and be doomed, but he wanted to kiss her. Yet a man did not kiss a woman like her without following up with very real and very lasting intentions. Still, he was reluctant to let go just yet.

He moved his hands up and down her back, his fingers brushing the curve at its base, his thumbs skimming her sides, learning, memorizing, relishing.

Her fingers tightened on his shoulders.

“
Shhhhh
.” He smoothed a tiny piece of hair from her face, then brushed her eyebrow with his thumb.

She leaned her face into his hand, her eyes closing, her lashes resting against her cheek.

The front door slammed, chattering voices following it. They jumped apart. The voices ventured off toward the kitchen, but to pull her back into his arms would be sheer folly.

Her chest rose and fell, her breath fluttered the lace on her bodice. “Will you come and watch the sunset and firecrackers with us? With me?”

His chest squeezed. “I’m sorry.”

Confusion filled her eyes. Her lips turned down. “Why not?”

“I have to work.”

“You don’t. You know you don’t.”

He didn’t bother denying it. All he knew was that if he went to the roof with her tonight, she’d expect him to acknowledge the warmth and proximity he’d felt in her arms. Something he’d gotten along without all these many years.

And though deep inside he might long for what she offered, he was used to things the way they were. Simple. Uncluttered.
Orderly. Starting something with her would be messy and complex. He’d be on unsure footing, slipping and sliding the entire way.

Her shoulders wilted. Her expression fell. Turning, she walked from the room, leaving her music box on his desk open, but silent.

HARPER’S BAZAAR
FASHION PLATE  
³⁰

“Flossie stepped into the parlor, her accordion-pleated skirt of blue rippling with every step.”

CHAPTER

53

O
ne look at her mother and Flossie knew Papa had gone to the races again.

“How much?” she whispered, closing her bedroom door.

Mother laid Flossie’s dress out on the bed, her eyes ringed with worry. “Come, I’m anxious to see how this looks on you, and we don’t want to keep everyone in Mrs. Klausmeyer’s parlor waiting.”

Flossie began to unbutton her shirtwaist. “How much?”

Mother’s lips trembled. “Oh, now, nothing for you to worry about.”

“Tell me.”

She swallowed. “He said we have to move, we can no longer afford our house.”

“No.” Sucking in a breath, Flossie held her shirtwaist suspended in her hand. “That much?”

“He won’t tell me, but it must have been a lot.”

Flossie slipped off her skirt. “What are you going to do?”

“Move, I suppose.” Mother picked up the new gown she’d made and slipped it over Flossie’s head.

“But what about your customers? What if you move to a part of town they won’t go to?” Flossie turned her back.

Mother began to close up the dress with a buttonhook. “I’ll just have to go to them, then.”

“What about Mrs. Vanderbilt’s cousin? How are the wedding gowns going? Do you need me to help?”

A slight pause. “I told Mrs. Vanderbilt I wasn’t going to do it. I didn’t know this was going to happen and didn’t think we’d need the money.”

“Oh, Mother.” Flossie caught her mother’s reflection in the mirror. “Maybe my painting will sell quickly.”

“Either way, I want you to enjoy yourself tonight. It’s not every day a woman debuts at an art gallery—that
you
debut at an art gallery. Promise me you’ll put this from your mind for now and enjoy your evening? Please?”

Flossie took a deep breath. “On one condition. You bring me some sewing. Just leave it on my bed and I’ll work on it as much as I can.”

“No, you need to be sketching up ideas for Mrs. Driscoll. How can you do that and sew my things as well? You can’t. Besides, you hate to sew. I’ll be fine.”

“I mean it, Mother. I should have done that the minute you gave me the money, but we were so busy at work, I was meeting myself coming and going. It’s slowed down now, especially since the men are back. So, either you bring me some sewing or I’ll come and get it myself, but I am going to help.”

Mother gave her a pained look.

“It will only be until the painting sells,” Flossie said. “Which might even be this very night.”

“Fine, fine.” She fluffed Flossie’s sleeves. “Now, what do you think of the dress?”

Swallowing, Flossie put on a brave smile. “You outdid yourself. It’s gorgeous.”

Plastering a gay expression onto her face, Flossie stepped into the parlor, her accordion-pleated skirt of blue rippling with every step. The crisscrossed front of royal-blue silk left the neckline slightly open. Velvet bows caught large puffed sleeves at her elbows, and deep epaulettes of duchesse lace rested atop her shoulders. The entire family of 438 broke into spontaneous applause. All except for Reeve, of course.

“Here she is! Our own little star.” Mrs. Dinwiddie hauled her close for a back-breaking hug, the scent of camphor filling Flossie’s lungs. Over the woman’s shoulder, she looked up at Reeve, his expression unreadable. Even so, she knew what he was thinking.

You, the sun which all planets orbit around.

She shut her eyes. It was no longer about her debuting at an art gallery. It was about selling her painting and paying her mother back—and then some. Still, she had promised her mother she’d enjoy the evening. It was a dream come true. There would be plenty of time to worry later. If that made her the sun, so be it.

Pulling back from the hug, she looked about the room. “Where’s Mrs. Trostle?”

Reeve pinched the bridge of his nose. Heat rose up her neck. She hadn’t meant to imply everyone at the house was required to attend the opening. It was simply that the Trostles were the ones who’d arranged everything to begin with, so she naturally wondered at Mrs. Trostle’s absence.

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.

He was wrong about that, too. They were her family. They wouldn’t all gather like this to celebrate her night if they were mere housemates. Just because he’d shut himself off didn’t mean everyone else had.

Over and over their conversation had replayed itself.
How long ago
, she’d asked him, expecting him to say it had been a few
weeks or maybe even a few months since he’d last connected with another person his age.

Years
, he’d said, and her heart had broken. How many years? She hadn’t had the courage to ask, wasn’t sure she wanted to know. She only knew she wanted him to be free of that wretched wall of loneliness. One little waltz, however, wouldn’t break down a barricade that had been years in the making, although it had removed a brick or two.

“Mrs. Trostle is going with her sister,” Mrs. Holliday said. “She said they’d see us there.”

Papa snapped his pocket watch closed, his hair as perfect as ever, his eyes clouded. “Is everyone ready to go?”

The entire family made their way to the door. Flossie laughed and visited and put on a merry face. She knew Reeve wouldn’t come, knew he’d stop at the door and close it behind them. She’d prepared herself for that very eventuality.

When he put on his hat and stepped outside with the rest of them, she found the summer air suddenly thick and hard to breathe. She hadn’t realized until that very moment how badly she wanted him to be there. Not only to celebrate this crowning achievement with her and the rest of the family, but so she’d have his solid presence in a world that had just shifted on its axis.