Tiffany Girl (51 page)

R
eeve watched out the window of the YMCA’s parlor. The minute the carriage he’d sent for arrived, he threw on his coat and hat, then bounded out the entrance. He waited for the driver to assist Mrs. Dinwiddie, then he wrapped his arms around her and picked her clear up off her feet. “Merry Christmas!”

She squealed as if she were a girl, then rapped him on the head with her cane the minute he set her down, knocking his hat askew.

“You fresh young man, what was the meaning of that?” But her eyes sparkled and multiple smile lines stacked up on either side of her mouth.

Righting his hat, he brought one of her gloved hands to his lips. “Bah humbug to you, too.”

Chuckling, she shook her head. “Get my things out of the carriage and help me in out of the cold before I freeze to death.”

The driver handed him a basket, for which Reeve handed him a coin. “Merry Christmas.”

“Thank you, sir. You, too.”

Clasping Mrs. Dinwiddie’s elbow, he assisted her to the door festooned with holly berries, evergreens, and wreaths, the scent of pine sharp and invigorating. “Be careful now. This walkway gets slippery from the ice.”

“I’ve been making my way around New York longer than you’ve been alive.”

He opened the door. “Just the same, have a care.”

Once inside, he hung up her coat, then took both her hands in his. “I just want to look at you a minute. It’s so good to see you.”

Pink touched her cheeks, and his heart warmed as he realized she’d taken extra care with her toilette. Her lips held a slightly unnatural hue of red, as if she’d borrowed a bit of dye from the wallpaper in the entry hall of Klausmeyer’s and rubbed it on her lips. Her gown, a deep forest green, made a rich backdrop for three rows of pearls around her neck. At the top of her coiled white hair, a whimsical hat with Christmas ornaments embedded in green netting looked like something a girl of twenty might wear. But it was the scent of camphor that squeezed his chest with familiarity and great affection.

“You take my breath away, Mrs. Dinwiddie.”

The pink spread over her face in uneven blotches. “My, my, my, haven’t you turned into quite the charmer?”

He tucked her hand into his elbow. “Only with you, Mrs. Dinwiddie. Only with you.”

Opening the parlor door, he swept his hand in an
after you
gesture.

“Oh, my. Would you look at this,” she said.

“The Women’s Auxiliary came a couple of weeks ago to help us decorate.” He looked around, once again marveling at the transformation. An evergreen garland lay across the fireplace mantel, its pinecones still intact. A crackling fire behind the grate filled the room with warmth, a woodsy odor, and soothing sounds. A white muslin cornice had been draped across two windows and tied in place with ribbons and pampas grass, but Reeve’s favorite was the Christmas tree standing sentinel in the corner. He’d helped string the popcorn, cranberry, and nut strands, while others had wrapped them about the tree.

“
There used to be quite a few gingerbread men hanging on it,” he said. “The women baked them for us, but the boys ate them almost as soon as the girls left.”

“Well, it’s lovely all the same.”

He took a deep breath. “It is, isn’t it?”

His grandparents had always had a tree and had allowed him to help with the decorating, but it was nothing like this. Still, on Christmas morning there would be one small wrapped gift for him hanging from one of the branches. It was a magical time. The best day of the year.

They’d both passed away in ’86 and Christmas had become the worst day of the year. It represented everything he didn’t have—family and friends. Or at least it had until this year, for he’d made some friends here at the Y and had once again helped with decorations. Still, all but a handful had returned home for the holidays, leaving the place silent and deserted.

On a whim, he’d sent Mrs. Dinwiddie an invitation three days ago to join him on Christmas. He hadn’t really expected her to travel clear over to Brooklyn on such short notice. It was only when she’d accepted that he realized how much he’d wanted her to come. As a result, he’d taken just as much care with his grooming as she had and wore his very best suit, a new collar, and carefully polished boots.

“Have you gotten taller?” she asked.

He led her to a group of furnishings by the fire. “Not taller, I don’t think, but perhaps a bit broader. They have a gymnasium here that I’ve grown to really enjoy.”

“Well, you must tell me all. I’m dying to hear.”

He settled her onto a gold-and-white settee, then took a seat on the cushion beside her. There was so much the YMCA offered that he wasn’t exactly sure where to start. “I wish I could take you on a tour, but women aren’t allowed anyplace other than the parlor and public hall.”

“Then you must tell me all about it.”

They talked for almost two hours. He of his life at the Y, the friendships he’d started to form, and his work at the paper. She caught him up on who had moved into Klausmeyer’s, the decline in the quality of the meals, Flossie’s departure from and return to Tiffany’s, and the Christmas activities they’d enjoyed in the parlor.

Bending down onto one knee in front of the fireplace, he propped a fresh piece of wood on top of some disintegrating logs, then pushed it to the back with a poker. “Only a few carols and a musical performance by Nettels? I’d have expected Miss Jayne to have much more planned than that.”

“Flossie doesn’t plan activities anymore.” Sighing, she looked down at her hands. “She doesn’t even join us at the table, much less the parlor.”

He rested an elbow on his knee. “Doesn’t join you at the table?”

“She was forbidden, of course, when she was a chambermaid. But even after she quit that and went back to Tiffany’s, she kept her attic room and takes all her meals there.”

“All of them?”

“She’ll go home occasionally, but mostly, she eats in her room.”

“Why? It’s bound to be miserable up there. Hot in the summer, cold in the winter, and incredibly, well, lonely for someone like her.”

“When I confronted her about it, she said she was worried it would make everyone uncomfortable to suddenly have a former servant at the table.” Her lips pulled down. “But if you ask me, it’s because she was very hurt by the way the others treated her during those months of house service. She’d thought them friends. It was quite a shock to her to find out otherwise.”

Leaning the poker against the leg of the fireplace, he returned to his seat and brushed off his knee. “I thought they were her friends, too. What exactly did they do to her when she was the maid?”

She shrugged. “Shunned her, ignored her, pretended she was invisible.” She gave him a pointed look. “Those were the things I saw. I’m sure other things went on that I didn’t see. She was extremely skittish around Mr. Oyster.”

He slowly straightened. “Did he harm her?”

“If he did, she never said so.”

“Did you ask her?”

“Many times.”

“And she denied it?”

Mrs. Dinwiddie shook her head. “She never denied it, simply told me not to worry. That she was careful to only clean his room while he was at work and that she was never in the same room with him except when she was serving dinner.”

His jaw tightened. “If you ever, and I mean
ever
, find out he is harassing her, you send word to me immediately. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

The thought of that wastrel trying to take advantage of Flossie made his entire body quake with anger, but there was nothing he could do about it from here. Not when she’d not lodged a complaint and not when she wasn’t his to hold and protect—no matter how much he wished she were. Blowing out a breath, he propped his elbows on his knees and rested his forehead against his palms. “I love her, you know.”

She placed a knurled hand against his back. “I know.”

“She hates me, though.”

“She loves you.”

He turned his head, his hands now cupping the side of his face as he studied Mrs. Dinwiddie. “Why do you say that?”

“Because I’ve been in love before. I know the signs.”

Well, he was in love, too, and if that made him an expert, he was pretty sure Flossie didn’t love him back. Besides, Mrs. Dinwiddie wasn’t privy to all that had gone on between him
and Flossie. He pictured her swiping his papers across the desk and flinging his metal figurine across the room. Her words still echoed in his mind.

The Trostles were bad enough, but you, Reeve, you’ve made a joke of me and laid it out in print for my parents, my friends, my housemates, my workmates, and hundreds of others to see.

That didn’t sound like a woman in love to him. “How’s she doing at Tiffany’s?”

“She loves being an errand girl.”

“She does?”

Mrs. Dinwiddie nodded. “She was sent to Corona a couple of weeks ago. She’s talked about nothing else since.”

“Really?” He raised up. “What’s in Corona?”

“They make the glass there.”

He crinkled his brows. “She went to a glass factory? Where the men work?”

“She did, indeed. Seems Mr. Tiffany himself took her to the furnace where they pour out the glass and mix the colors. It made quite an impression on her.”

He smiled. “I bet it did. Is she painting?”

“I don’t know. I only went up to her room once.” She swatted the air. “I won’t ever do that again. It was way too many steps for this old body to navigate.”

“And you didn’t see any paints?”

“Not then. She was working for Mrs. Klausmeyer at the time and the woman worked her day and night, not to mention all the sewing she did for her mother. But now that she’s back at Tiffany’s, she has her evenings off. And if she’s not painting up there, I can’t imagine what else she’d be doing.”

I come alive when I paint. It’s the equivalent for me of birds in full song, flowers in bloom, and a dew-kissed morning.

He hoped she was painting. Maybe that was why she’d stayed in
the attic, because then the odor of the paints and turpentine wouldn’t sicken Miss Love or anyone else.

Mrs. Dinwiddie reached over and clasped his hand. “No matter what she’s doing, she never would have been able to do it if you hadn’t paid those debts for her.”

“It was the least I could do.”

“It was very generous.”

“She doesn’t know, does she?”

“She has no idea.”

“Good.” He squeezed her hand, then released it. “I’m learning to ice skate.”

“Are you?”

“I have a friend here by the name of Blackburn. Freddie Blackburn. He’s teaching me.”

“Well, imagine that.” She covered her mouth, stifling a yawn.

“I’ve worn you out.”

“Nonsense, I’m having a marvelous time.”

“Nevertheless, I’d better get a carriage for you.”

“Not just yet. Hand me my basket first. I brought you something.”

He stilled. “You brought me something?”

“Well, of course. We’re spending Christmas together, aren’t we?”

Warmth rushed through him as he retrieved the basket she’d carried with her. Taking it from him, she pulled back a checkered cloth, then handed him a heavy box wrapped in blue tissue and tied with ribbon. Emotion clogged his throat. Two presents in one year. A miniature cat from Flossie and now this.

“Well, go ahead. Open it.”

With great care, he undid the ribbon, then pulled back the paper without tearing it. The box had
Tiffany Glass and Decorating Co.
embossed on the outside. “I hope this is just the box and isn’t indicative of what’s inside.”

She shooed him with her hands. “Just open it.”

He lifted the lid and sucked in his breath. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have thought it was a stained-glass dressing screen for a doll. But he did know better. It was a tea screen.

Mrs. Dinwiddie craned her neck to see inside the box. “According to Flossie, the head of the Women’s Department, Mrs. Driscoll, sketched this up after being inspired by one Flossie designed.”

“The one with the spiders on it?”

“Yes, Mrs. Driscoll said cobwebs would have made a much prettier design, and I would have to agree. Flossie took me all through the showroom and introduced me to everyone while I was there. They adore her, of course. She runs all over the place doing things for them.”

“She helped you select this?”

“She did. She picked it up and pointed out all of its features. She loves that screen, very much.”

“And she knew it was for me?”

“She knew it was for you.”

He ran his fingers over pink flowers and a giant cobweb, surprised to see his hands were shaking. He swallowed. She’d touched what he was touching. Her hands had been on these very pieces. A deep longing shimmied through him.

“They’re apple blossoms,” Mrs. Dinwiddie said.

His throat thickened. “I-I can’t accept this. You spent way too much.”

“Nonsense. This trinket is no hardship for me. I would be very honored if you’d accept it.”

Putting the screen back in the box, he set it on the floor, reached over, and pulled the old woman into his embrace.

“Thank you.” His words were thick, his heart full.

She patted his back. “There, there.”

Pressing his cheek against hers, he rocked her. “You know, if I were a little bit older—”

With a
humph,
she
pulled back and looked into his eyes. “If you were a little older, I’d still be out of luck because you, young man, have your eyes set on someone else.”

“I guess this means I’ll have to start drinking tea again.”

She chuckled. “Indeed it does.”

Shaking his head, he reached inside his coat. “I have something for you, too.”

She splayed a hand against her chest, her pearls rattling. “For me?”

He lifted a corner of his mouth. “We’re spending Christmas together, aren’t we?”

She couldn’t budge the twine, so she ripped off the tissue, then once again tugged on the twine.

His smile grew. “I didn’t know you were such a reckless gift opener.”

“Hush and help me.”

Straightening out one leg, he reached into a pocket for his knife, then slit the twine.

The long, skinny box had
Tiffany Glass and Decorating Co.
embossed on the outside. Her eyes darted to his in question.