Tiffany Girl (39 page)

Sighing, he raised his arm.

“No!” She slapped it down.

He lifted his brows.

“I said I’d do it, but right now, I’m going to walk.” She began to stride. Big, long strides that kicked out her accordion skirt, its folds opening and closing around her feet like the instrument it was named for.

This time Reeve stayed beside her, not behind her the way he did in the mornings on the way to the streetcar.

“Why do you do that, anyway?” she snapped.

He gave her a sideways glance. “Do what?”

“Follow me to the streetcar every morning? Continue to ride with me to work?”

“Because I don’t like the idea of anyone touching you.”

She stopped. “I didn’t expect you to give me an honest answer.”

“Neither did I.”

Another honest answer. Blowing out a breath, she turned her head to the side. Garbage lay strewn throughout the road, reeking. The building beside her was boarded up. Another had a glass pane broken out of its second-floor window. Why hadn’t she noticed the neighborhood was so shabby, so vacant? Would a man have noticed if he’d been the one to deliver the money? Had Monsieur Bourgeois swindled men, too, or only women? Or maybe he hadn’t swindled anyone.

“Maybe this is all a mistake,” she said. “Maybe some terrible
tragedy has happened to Monsieur Bourgeois and he’s left word with Mrs. Trostle.”

Reeve said nothing.

She crossed her arms. “What?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“No, but you were thinking something. What was it?”

“I was wondering about your painting.”

Her painting. Sweet Mackinaw. She’d been so upset about Mother’s fortune, she’d forgotten about her painting. The seashore painting was Papa’s favorite, and though she was angry with him about the tremendous loss he’d suffered at the tracks, she was even more angry with herself. Hadn’t she done exactly the same thing he had? Gambled with money her mother had earned? Now, not only was Mother’s money gone, so was the painting.

She blinked back the tears rushing to her eyes. “Do you think I’ll get it back?”

He shook his head. “You misunderstood. I didn’t mean
your
painting. I meant the
act
of painting.”

“What about it?”

“Why do you do it?”

She touched two fingers to her forehead. “What?”

“Why do you do it?”

“Paint?”

“Yes.”

Dropping her hand, she blew out another breath and once again began to walk. Only this time, at a more dignified pace. She pushed everything else aside and thought about his question. About the sheer pleasure that enfolded her when she painted. And not just the actual putting of paint on canvas, but the planning of the piece. Picking her subject. Considering all the angles and times of day so she’d get just the right light. And then, of course, the pleasure of seeing it on her wall and recapturing a tiny bit of that euphoria every time she looked at it.

She swallowed the lump forming in her throat. “I come alive when I paint. It’s the equivalent for me of birds in full song, flowers in bloom, or a dew-kissed morning. It’s . . . well . . . it’s almost like magic, I guess.”

“That surprises me.”

“It does? Why?”

“Because, if you feel so strongly about it, I’d have expected to see you do it more often.”

He was right, of course. She’d been working such long hours, she’d hardly picked up a brush in months. And just after she’d begun to take it up again, Mrs. Driscoll had called for ideas. Flossie had spent many a night sketching ideas, discarding them, then sketching some more.

She’d missed her painting, though, very much. “Oil painting—which is my favorite—has to be done in layers and takes up a great deal of time, something I haven’t had much of lately. Besides, the oils give Mrs. Holliday and Annie Belle headaches, which has put a halt to the portraits I was doing.”

“Ah.” Flipping back his jacket, he slipped his hands into his pockets. “You could take your things to the park and paint there.”

“I could, but it’s a great many items to haul around and I’m not very good at landscapes. Portraits are my first love.”

“What about having your art in a gallery?” He handed a coin to a rag woman picking bones from a garbage box.

The woman smiled at him, her skin browned and wrinkled from the sun.

He tipped his hat. “If you could see into the future,” he continued, taking Flossie’s elbow to help her circumvent a puddle, “and if that future did not include your paintings ever being sold or displayed, would you still paint?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then why did you pay such a grand sum of money to be in Bourgeois’ gallery?”

“
How do you know how much I paid?”

“Despite what your father thinks, everyone at Klausmeyer’s knows Bourgeois asked for a hundred dollars and that you were a bit short. At least, that’s what Mrs. Trostle told us.”

She rubbed her forehead. “Right.”

“So? Why did you do that if you don’t really care one way or another if your work is ‘discovered’?”

Removing a fan from her reticule, she opened it and tried to cool herself in the heat. “It’s a long story.”

“It’s a long walk home, too.”

She took a deep breath. “Perhaps we should get a cab, after all.”

It took him a few minutes to find one. Once they’d settled inside on opposite seats, she hoped he would forget his train of thought, but he was a journalist. His inquisitiveness would not be stemmed.

“Why was getting into that gallery so important?”

“I don’t know. I suppose because being shown there would have been a real feather in the cap for the women’s movement.”

He shook his head. “I’m not buying that. Not when at this very moment women are being well-represented in the Fine Arts Building at the fair where the whole world can see their paintings, not to mention the ones in the Woman’s Building.”

She looked out the window.

He released the button of his jacket. “No, you didn’t pay a hundred dollars because you wanted this for the women’s movement. So what was it?”

She watched the buildings blur as the cab rolled by them. “Vanity, I suppose.”

“I don’t believe that, either.”

She gave him a sharp glance.

He held up his hand, stemming her objection. “I’m sure that plays a part, but a hundred dollars is a lot of vanity. Not even you are that vain.”

She lifted a brow. “Thank you, I think.”

A corner of his mouth rose. Her irritation softened a little. The cab swayed back and forth. His long legs bracketed hers, bumping her occasionally when they rounded a bend.

“I’m all they’ve got,” she said, finally.

“Who?”

“My parents. All my life, they’ve made sacrifices so they could give me everything within their power to give. I used to beg them to take me to museums or to buy me art supplies or to enroll me in exclusive art schools over the summer breaks.” She shook her head. “So, Papa would make house visits early in the mornings for a select few, and then again on evenings when his customers had something special planned. Mother sewed herself sick, literally. I didn’t even realize it until I’d moved out and had time to look back and reflect.” She pursed her lips in disgust. “But even then, when I needed money, I went running right back to them.”

Their carriage slowed at a corner. A lamp lighter on the street lifted a long pole and ignited a stem on a lamppost, the flame just discernible in the onset of evening shadows.

Reeve tilted his head. “They actually gave you everything you asked for?”

She looked down, fiddling with her fan. “More or less, at least until Papa started going to the races. But even after that they managed to do what they could to accommodate me. And with every milestone, every accomplishment, they praised me and boasted about it to their friends. It was as if their success depended upon mine.”

“And you believe it still does?”

She bit her lip. “Their eggs are all in one basket, and when you’ve only one basket, it stands to reason that it had better be a good one.”

“I think you underestimate your parents. It’s clear they think
the world of you. I’m not sure you could do any wrong in their eyes.”

“That may be true, but for all these years I’ve been so selfish, never thinking for a minute about what my requests were costing them. And when Papa did start withholding the funds, I became indignant.” She rolled her eyes. “I actually threatened to go on strike—in our own home. How could I possibly, after all that, dare to disappoint them?”

“Didn’t your leaving home disappoint them?”

“Yes, another selfish act on my part.” She took a shaky breath. “Selling that painting in a gallery for four hundred dollars would have justified everything, though. All those sacrifices of Papa’s. All those endless seams and hems and trims Mother stitched until the wee hours. Me moving out. And now, now . . .” She pressed a fist to her mouth.

“You could always move back in with them.”

“Not anymore. They’re . . . they’re moving to someplace smaller.”

“What about your work at Tiffany’s? You’re in one of the most prestigious and exclusive jobs a woman has ever held. That ought to make them proud.”

“They were proud of me for going to the fair, but . . .” She swallowed, her throat thickening. “I don’t design anything at Tiffany’s. I cut the glass. Papa hates that and Mother thinks my job is mannish. They aren’t very happy with it, but they approve of my painting, very much so. When Bourgeois’ gallery came along, well, it was simply too good to be true.” She swiped at a tear, for it appeared the opportunity, in reality,
was
too good to be true. “You want to know a secret?”

He said nothing, but his attention never wavered from her.

With a huff of disgust, she stuffed her fan back into her reticule. “Being a New Woman isn’t exactly how I’d pictured it. Don’t misunderstand, I love the independence and I love
working at Tiffany’s, absolutely love it, but things just aren’t what I expected.”

“Aside from the fact you don’t have as much time to paint as you’d like, what else weren’t you expecting?”

“I wasn’t expecting to be homesick. I wasn’t expecting to be worried about my
parents
.” She rubbed her thumb against the handle of her reticule. “I wasn’t expecting my job to ever be in jeopardy. I assumed that when the men came back, they would let someone else go, not me. Now, I’m not so sure. The other two woman glasscutters are, well . . .” She lifted her face, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I can’t go back home. Not just because I don’t want to hear my father say, ‘I told you so,’ but because he keeps all the money my mother earns and either gambles it away or spends it on me. Don’t you see? I have to keep my job. If I go home, she’ll never be free and neither will I.”

She’d also never be able to pay her mother back if she went home, nor could they afford another mouth to feed, but she was too raw to think about that.

“You could marry,” he said.

She shook her head, dashing her tears, only to have more come. “I’d just be exchanging one man who appropriates all my wages for another. I’ll not do that.”

“But what about your painting?”

“I’m going to have to give it up.” She barely managed to push the words past her throat. Yet she had to face the facts. Painting was no longer an option. Not anymore. Not when she had sketches to do for Mrs. Driscoll and sewing to do for Mother.

He rubbed his hands on his trousers. “Don’t cry, Flossie.”

If anything, his words made more tears flow.

Gripping the edge of his seat, he scooted forward, his knees bending even more. “You once told me it’s not about the destination, but about the journey. I think you’re right about that, and if you give up your painting, you’ll ache. Maybe not today, maybe
not tomorrow—but eventually.” He grabbed her fingertips, squeezing them. “So it doesn’t matter if you’re living at home or with a husband. It doesn’t matter who your wages go to. What matters is the richness painting would bring to your life.”

Her shoulders slumped. Her body sagged. It did matter, because she had seventy-seven dollars and thirty cents to pay back.

CHAPTER

56

F
lossie cried herself to sleep and it nearly did him in. Never had he felt so helpless. He couldn’t comfort her, it wasn’t his right. He couldn’t track down Bourgeois, the police would have to do that. And he couldn’t pay off her debts, he didn’t have the money. Even if he did, she wasn’t his responsibility, and he needed every penny he’d saved for his down payment.