Astor Place Vintage: A Novel

PRAISE FOR
ASTOR PLACE VINTAGE

“This utterly engrossing novel gives us a portrait of one of the most fascinating cities in the world where long after the book has ended you will walk the streets in your mind.”

—Stephanie Cowell, author of
Claude & Camille

“A novel bound to be next summer’s guilty pleasure! I love Amanda and Olive and how we come to understand what links them despite the passage of time. I love what Lehmann has done with the 1907 city—how real it is.”

—Beverly Swerling, author of
City of Promise

“A splendid banquet of fashion, style, and both old and contemporary New York City, couched in a riveting story. A feast not to be missed!”

—Lynn Cullen, author of
The Creation of Eve

“Anyone who loves vintage clothing, feels the pull of nostalgia, and has a taste for retro will be utterly transported by this wise and wonderful novel. A mesmerizing story about two women separated by a century but united by a quest for independence, a talent for business, and the challenges of being a woman that arise in every era.”

—Pamela Redmond, author of
The Possibility of You

In memory of my father

MY APPOINTMENT WAS
in an apartment building called Stewart House—a white brick high-rise on Tenth Street, near Broadway, built in the sixties. I’d walked past it many times but had never been inside. The corner balconies, circular driveway, and chandeliered lobby made my tenement, just a few blocks away, seem downright prehistoric, though my rent was modern enough.

Fifteen floors up, at the end of a long hallway decorated with framed impressionist posters from museum exhibitions, a barefoot man wearing jeans and a T-shirt stood at the door. I guessed he was in his early forties, clinging to his twenties. Or maybe I was projecting. It happened to be my birthday, and I wasn’t too thrilled about turning thirty-nine.

“I’m here to see Jane Kelly,” I said. “She called about some clothes.”

“Come on in.”

He gave me a look-over as I stepped inside. I couldn’t tell if he liked what he saw. Whatever. I found him attractive enough
but not my type. Black hair, tan, a beard. I didn’t go for men with facial hair—too scratchy.

He led me into a tidy living room furnished with Danish teak furniture, an amoeba-shaped coffee table, and a curved-back chair that might have been an original Eames. Furniture dealers would be salivating, but I wasn’t there for the tables and chairs. In the corner, a tiny woman with sparse wispy gray hair sat hunched over a desk, staring into a computer screen.

“Grandma? Someone here about clothes.”

Funny to hear a grown man calling someone Grandma. On the other hand, with a grandparent as old as this lady, he could be a member of AARP. Did he live with her? Maybe he was a good guy taking care of his aging relative—or maybe he was just a freeloader.

“The secondhand shop?” she asked, still staring at the screen.

I preferred “vintage clothing store” but let it go. “Amanda Rosenbloom from Astor Place Vintage. You asked me to come by?”

“He was going to call the Salvation Army,” she said while scrolling down the front page of NYTimes.com. “Can you believe it?”

Grandson gave me a thumbs-up and left the room. The old woman didn’t turn around. I peered out the set of triple windows. They faced north, so no direct sunlight warmed the room, but the high floor offered a spectacular view of Union Square, the Flatiron, the Empire State Building . . .

“Nice view,” I said. She still didn’t turn around. I stepped forward and cleared my throat. She clicked onto the obituary page. Maybe her hearing was bad. I stepped closer and spoke louder. “Would you like to show me what you have?”

“I don’t see how a business like that can make it.” She clicked on a headline about the death of “Mr. Wizard” from a TV science show back in the fifties. “How many old clothes can a person sell in a day?”

I let silence answer that one. She finally turned and peered at
me through her glasses. Then she rose, her freckled, bony hand gripping the top of the chair for support. So frail. Too skinny. Not long for this world. I couldn’t help but think of skeletons.

“I’m getting rid of it all,” she said, reaching for a metal cane leaning against the desk. “Cancer. Nothing they can do. So it goes.”

“I’m sorry.” Unfortunately, in my line of work, part of the territory is relieving clients of their possessions when the end is near.

“Not a tragedy. Not at my age. Ninety-eight,” she announced with pride. “Though I was hoping,” she added bitterly, “to make it to a hundred.”

Mrs. Kelly’s point of view certainly helped put my own age problem into perspective.

“I’ll show you what I have,” she said. “Some are designer dresses. A Rudi Gernreich. You know how rare those are? The Salvation Army!”

“I’ll need to sort through and see what has resale value.” I set my hobo bag on the coffee table. “Then we can agree on a price.” Taking baby steps to match her pace, I followed Mrs. Kelly out of the room. “I noticed this building is named Stewart House. Is that for the old department store?”

“The A. T. Stewart department store stood right here. Of course, by the time I was born, they were out of business and Wanamaker’s had moved in.”

“But Wanamaker’s was across the street.” I was sure of this. The subway station on Astor Place had an exit that used to go directly into the store. Now it led into a Kmart.

“They added that building later,” she said. “This was the original.”

“Really.” I was miffed at myself for getting that wrong. “I didn’t realize there were two buildings.” I was a compulsive Googler, and my favorite search subject was Manhattan history, especially accounts of what used to be where.

“They called it the Iron Palace. Burned down in the fifties. A beautiful landmark gone, just like that.”

I pictured the flames shooting into the sky right where we stood. “And now hardly anyone knows Wanamaker’s existed, much less A. T. Stewart.”

“Why should they?” She slid the two folding doors of her closet apart. A wide expanse of clothing hung neatly on wood hangers. “Set aside anything that might fetch a good price. Then we’ll talk.” She hobbled back to the living room.

An odd aspect of my work: “vintage clothing” is a euphemism for “clothing worn by people who are probably dead.” Unlike other antiques, clothing had actually draped on a human being—clung to the skin, absorbed the sweat, and warmed the body. I tended to forget those ghostly associations while looking at potential merchandise; the excitement of the hunt took over as I searched through piece after piece, hoping to discover something precious and extraordinary.

Jane Kelly had been a snazzy dresser in her time. It was hard to imagine her shrunken frame filling out the assortment of fashions on the rack. I set aside some casual forties and fifties day dresses that would sell. A great collection of sixties cocktail dresses suggested that Jane’s income had grown in tandem with an expanding social life.

The Rudi Gernreich was fantastic: a mod floor-length A-line knit dress in mint condition. The upper bodice had a low scoop neck with a tiny checkerboard pattern of black squares on a purple background. From the empire waist to the knee, the same pattern was blown up to larger size. From the knee to the hem was a reverse pattern of purple squares on a black background. Very mod, very op art. Could easily go for five or six hundred dollars.

A sexy hourglass dress looked like it might fit me, and the royal blue would go great with my pale skin and black hair. I decided to give it to myself as a present—assuming Mrs. Kelly and I agreed
on a deal. It would be perfect for my birthday dinner. White peep-toe heels, crimson lipstick, and matching nail polish would complete the look.