Tiffany Girl (46 page)

He walked to the mirror and held the handle so that the photos reflected back at him. He peeked through slots and spun the disc. Round and round the two of them danced. The tinny tune of
Blue Danube
kept time in his mind, and that was his undoing.

It brought him back to not just the afternoon Holliday took the pictures, but the afternoon Reeve had waltzed with her in his room. The afternoon he’d
connected
with her. The afternoon she’d terrified the life out of him because she’d touched something so deep, so buried, that he’d been completely stripped bare.

No one else had ever touched that part of him before. Not the girl he’d danced with when he was sixteen. Not the girls he’d stolen kisses from in his youth. Not even his mother, for he had no memories of her alive.

And now, he’d injured her. Injured the very woman whom, he suddenly realized, he cared for more than he knew. He’d used her, she was right about that. He’d tried to deny it at first, but no excuse would make up for what he’d done. And she’d rejected him. Rightly so.

He couldn’t say he was surprised. Life had taught him that some people were lovable and some weren’t. He happened to be in the latter group. He wasn’t complaining, wasn’t moping, just stating the facts.

The only person he’d ever made any lasting connection with was an old woman who didn’t have anyone else willing to take tea with her. If she had, he’d have taken second fiddle to them, he was sure, for all connections he’d ever made were brief. Fleeting. Passing. So he never allowed himself to open up. He kept to himself. He didn’t dance. It was easier to be alone than to make and lose a connection.

Raising the lid of his trunk, he refused to think about how much he’d miss Flossie and how much he’d miss Mrs. Dinwiddie. Instead, he shut down his mind and began to pack.

CHAPTER

65

F
lossie returned from her week at home no more refreshed than she had been when she’d left. Her parents’ new place was hot, stuffy, and small. It was on the very fringes of a respectable neighborhood, just two blocks over from abject poverty.

In addition to that, living at home wasn’t the same now that she’d been out on her own. The way her parents hovered and gave her constant praise used to bring her comfort and a sense of inner peace. Now it brought Reeve’s words to mind over and over.

The Trostles proclaimed Miss Jayne a “remarkable talent.” And because her parents have told her the same thing her entire life, she has no reason to doubt them
 . . .
She’s has been the center of her world her entire life
 . . .
She can’t seem to formulate realistic expectations
 . . .
She, the sun which all planets orbit around.

She’d never really noticed it before, never had a reason to question it, but now she began to question everything. Was she really as puffed up as Reeve suggested? Was she only happy when she was the center of attention? Did she have any skill at painting whatsoever, or had it merely been trumped-up accolades on her parents’ part?

They hadn’t lied to her. They hadn’t patronized her on purpose.
She had no doubt they truly meant it, but their perspective was biased, very biased.

She paused at Reeve’s doorway. If she’d thought his room barren before, it now held no life at all. The bed had been stripped of linens, his desk cleared of all contents, and the window was shuttered, barring any entrance for Cat.

Had he taken his pet with him? Where had he gone? Who would he connect with?

She shook herself. It was no concern of hers. He’d used her, just like the Trostles had—premeditated and for monetary gain. At least with the Trostles, she would eventually be able to earn back the money they’d stolen. She’d never get back the self-respect Reeve had taken.

That night at dinner everyone filled her in on all she’d missed while she was away. Reeve had left the day before she returned. He’d paid his rent in full and taken Cat with him. He hadn’t offered anyone a forwarding address. All were still reeling to discover the famous I. D. Claire had been none other than their very own housemate.

Two nights after that, everyone wanted to know why she’d not placed any questions under their plates. Why she’d not organized any games in the parlor.

She had no answer. What could she say? That the entire purpose of the questions was to draw Reeve out? That the entire purpose of the parlor games was to make them a family unit? She’d failed miserably on both counts, so she simply told them she was tired. She needed to take a break from organizing the activities.

Mr. Holliday frowned. “You’ve been working too hard, Miss Jayne. It’s not good for the fair sex to tax themselves to such an extent. You must be a good steward of your vitality. No man wants a worn out hag.”

Annie Belle stiffened. “She’s not a worn out hag.”

“Not yet.”

Mr. Oyster gave her a smile he’d given her many times before. She hadn’t noticed until now how suggestive it was. “Perhaps what you need, Miss Jayne, is a bit of fresh air. A little manly attention.”

You must be very careful not to encourage Oyster. His motives for the charm he exudes are not completely honorable.

Despite her disillusionment with Reeve, she heeded his words.

After dinner, Mr. Oyster pulled her aside, his hair in its usual disarray, his smile lopsided and charming. “Might I interest you in a walk? We’ve a full moon tonight.”

The fantasies of her youth came rushing back. The man of her dreams took her on moonlit walks, but Mr. Oyster wasn’t the man of her dreams.

“Thank you, but I think I’ll retire. Perhaps another time.”

He cupped her elbow, drawing her close. “Nonsense. We could walk to the park and find a quiet, out of the way bench. You can tell me of your troubles.” His eyes dropped to half-mast. His thumb caressed her elbow. “Then I will chase them away.”

A shiver of alarm ran through her. She stepped away, breaking their contact. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I wouldn’t be very good company, but thank you.”

Irritation flashed in his eyes, then was erased in a blink.

She’d known, of course, that he wasn’t her family, but she had thought he was her friend. Now she wasn’t so sure. The realization so saddened her, she retired early but didn’t fall asleep until it was almost time to get up for work.

CHAPTER

66

F
lossie approached the open doorway of Mrs. Driscoll’s office, her heart in her throat. Her confidence in her artistic abilities had been shaken to the core, but Mrs. Driscoll had asked Flossie to come see her and to bring her sketchpad. The request surprised her, coming as it had just as she and the other girls were heading outside to the benches for lunch. She tucked away her lunch pail, fetched her pad, and opened it to the sketches she’d made of the tea screen.

“Knock, knock,” she said.

Mrs. Driscoll looked up. “Come in, Miss Jayne.”

Swallowing, she handed Mrs. Driscoll her sketch. Setting down her pencil, Mrs. Driscoll sat back against her chair and studied it.

“It’s a tea screen,” Flossie said, unable to endure the silence.

“What are these?” Mrs. Driscoll pointed to the borders.

“Spiders.”

“Ahhhh.” Placing one arm across her torso, she cupped her elbow and tapped a finger against her mouth. “Where are their legs, exactly?”

Flossie moistened her lips. “Right there.” She pointed to them.

Mrs. Driscoll turned her head to the side so that her ear almost touched her shoulder. “These? Right here?”

Flossie chewed the inside of her cheek. “No. These.” She pointed again. “Right here.”

“They’re rather hard to make out, aren’t they?”

“Apparently so.”

Mrs. Driscoll let out a long sigh. “It’s not your fault. Spiders are something only a designer with a great deal of skill and experience would attempt. Even then, I’m not sure she—or he—would be able to pull it off. You’d have been much better advised to do something with cobwebs. I love the thought of light cascading through a cobweb.”

Flossie looked at her sketch, picturing a cobweb stretched out between the flowers. “Oh, my, yes. That would have been lovely.”

“I do like your idea of a stained-glass tea screen, though. What kind of flowers are these? Apple blossoms?”

“Amaryllis.”

“Of course. They’re lovely.” She picked up her pencil, then sketched a design beside Flossie’s. It had cobwebs with apple blossoms peeking around its edges. It was a hundred times better than any of the designs Flossie had made, yet Mrs. Driscoll had sketched hers in less than a minute.

“Something like this,” the woman said. “See?”

“I do. It’s . . . I don’t know what to say. It’s simply so much better. Mr. Tiffany is right. You truly do have great creative ability.”

And I don’t
, she thought, looking at her creation.

“What you have isn’t bad, Miss Jayne. It’s just not up to Tiffany standards.”

She shifted her weight. “What about Mr. Mitchell?”

“What about him?”

“Well, he’s always looking for things that are simplistic. Do you think he’d like it?”

Mrs. Driscoll gave her a sympathetic smile. “There is a difference between simple and average. Your design is, . . . well, it’s . . .”

“Average,” Flossie finished for her.

“There’s nothing wrong with average.”

“Unless you work for Louis Comfort Tiffany.” Swallowing, Flossie held her tears at bay. Reeve was right. All her life she’d been told she was above average, well above average. A natural-born artist. That she was spectacular at everything she did. Looking back, she wondered how she could have been so gullible. Perhaps if she’d had siblings, she’d have learned from them that she wasn’t quite the genius she thought she was—or that her parents thought she was. But she hadn’t had any siblings.

Pushing back her chair, Mrs. Driscoll rose and crossed to the window. Sunlight cut a swath behind her, dust particles dancing in its path. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that.”

“About what?”

“About working for Mr. Tiffany.” Mrs. Driscoll picked at a piece of paint peeling from the windowsill. “As you know, the men are back. Now that we’ve finished this last order of windows for Beecher Memorial Church, it appears we won’t have enough work to keep all of us busy.”