Astor Place Vintage: A Novel (19 page)

An idea came to me. Could I get away with it? I hated to be dishonest, but I hated the desperation of my situation even more. I took an extra sheet of paper and envelope, put them in my bag, and left the reading room as another woman sat down to relax in the empty easy chair.

From the store, I hurried back to Mrs. Craven’s, stopping only to make a telephone call from a drugstore on First Avenue. I rang Altman’s and asked for the name of the employment manager.

“Thomas Porter. Would you like me to put you through?”

“Yes, please.”

As she made the connection, I hung up. Then I went up to my room and sat down at the tiny table. In my neatest handwriting, on the Altman’s stationery, I composed a highly flattering letter for my services as a counter girl in the notions department the previous year. Clenching my jaw, I signed Thomas Porter’s name.

—

The man at the information booth in Siegel-Cooper directed me to a lift in the back that would take me to the employment
department on the third floor. A receptionist had me fill out an employment card and then directed me to the anteroom of another office, where I was pleased to see only two other women waiting. Since no position had been advertised, perhaps the competition wouldn’t be so brutal. Such a huge store, employing literally thousands of people—positions had to open up all the time. Barely ten minutes had passed when a bearded, heavyset man with steel-gray eyes called me into his office. As he read over my application and letter of reference, I stared at a photograph of his grim wife and six children on the desk.

“Live with your parents?” he asked.

“My parents have both passed away.”

“Married?”

“No.”

“And how,” he asked, “do you intend to manage on your own? Most of our girls live with their parents—or find other means of support.”

Were those cold eyes leering at me? “I assure you, I’ll need no other means of support.” Not that I had any idea how I should manage. Find someplace even worse than where I lived now? “My aunt is letting me stay with her, so I shan’t have to worry about paying rent.” It wasn’t exactly a lie; if this didn’t go well, I’d probably be back in Cold Spring soon enough.

He scowled while giving my reference a look-over. Perhaps he was friends with Thomas Porter. Everyone in the business probably knew one another. He could tell the signature had been forged, knew the stationery was from the reading room, would accuse me of fraud and call store security.

“Sorry,” he said, handing back the letter. “You wouldn’t be suitable.”

“Are you sure? I can’t tell you how much I need this job, sir.”

“Your need is irrelevant. My concern is the store’s needs, and the only position open right now is for a girl experienced in toiletries.”

“As a matter of fact,” I said, practically leaping from my chair, “I know all about selling toiletries from before I was at Altman’s. My father managed a Woolworth’s, and I helped all the time after school and on weekends. One of my favorite sections was toiletries. I studied the labels more than my schoolbooks.”

“That’s well and good,” he said, “but I—”

“Soap, for instance. Different brands of soap are made from a variety of ingredients: oil, glycerin, tallow, tar . . . It’s not that one type is better than another. It depends on your skin. Is it oily, dry, both? Even that can change depending on the weather, so you have to switch over as needed. There are so many effective products available these days that no woman needs to suffer with skin problems as long as she—”

“Stop!” He put the palm of his hand up between us. “I’ve heard enough. The position pays seven dollars per week. Are you available tomorrow?”

Seven dollars? I tried not to show my dismay and didn’t dare ask for more. “I’m available right now if you need me.”

“Tomorrow will do. You’ll need to supply your own black skirt and a white shirtwaist. Just as you have on now would be acceptable, as long as it’s nothing showy. Your job is to sell, not to be noticed. Take care not to use the customer entrance on Sixth Avenue, please. Employees use the side doors on Eighteenth Street. Don’t forget to punch in. Eight o’clock sharp. You’ll be fined a nickel for every ten minutes you’re late. Tell the guard it’s your first day, and he’ll assign you a number and a locker. You’ll report to the classroom for your training in the morning, and in the afternoon you’ll work the floor.”

“Thank you so much,” I said. “You won’t regret it.” I rose from my chair, prepared to shake his hand, but he was already dipping a pen in his silver inkwell. As I made my way out to the street, I wasn’t sure whether to smile with triumph or break down in tears.

ON THE WAY
to De Robertis, I passed through Astor Place—or Disastor Place, as I’d come to call it. Rampant building had uglified the historic intersection where Eighth Street, Lafayette, and Fourth Avenue came together. A towering glass high-rise condominium dwarfed Cooper Union. Starbucks dueled with Dunkin’ Donuts. Yet another NYU dorm had sprung up. Couldn’t they see that the past should be preserved? My blood pressure spiked when I passed an empty lot I hadn’t noticed before. That meant another tenement had been razed to the ground. Some high-rise or chain store was moving in. Why the hell wasn’t this area landmarked? The East Village was being destroyed.

Olive would say I was being too sentimental. Maybe she’d be right. New York was constantly changing and growing, and if there was no modern architecture, what buildings would represent this generation in a hundred years? Still, we had to make sure at least some of the past was preserved, too.

When I reached First Avenue, I took it in with fresh eyes. I’d never realized that an El train had run along this stretch. I couldn’t help but look for the Italian café where Olive met Ralph, as if an old bakery could’ve escaped my attention all these years. The Pugliese didn’t magically appear on the block, but I did notice a new Pilates studio and resolved to look up their schedule online.

An orgasmic display of assorted wedding cakes filled the windows of De Robertis. Happy man-and-wife figurines stood atop three- and four-tiered masterpieces. I opened the door, and it hit me: the heavenly scent of anise. I inhaled deeply through my nose to get the full effect.

A sign on the wall proudly proclaimed that De Robertis had been there since 1904. Another sign announced they now had Wi-Fi. The young guy working behind the counter wore an Abercrombie T-shirt and a puka-shell necklace. He stared up at another recent modification to the decor: a flat-screen TV.

After feasting my eyes on the glass showcases crammed with rows of desserts, I walked back to see if Molly had arrived. She wasn’t there, so I inspected some photographs on the wall commemorating De Robertis’s past. I’d seen them before—the display had been there so long, it qualified to be photographed for posterity as well. The family matriarch and patriarch were prominently positioned at the top in separate portraits: a beautiful dark-haired woman and a handsome, clean-shaven man. Underneath were shots of the store interior. I checked the old against the new, as I was inclined to do. Same tile floor with a star design in the center; same tile walls with a border of blue and gold mosaic; same pressed-tin ceiling; same cut-glass doors in the back. The bottom photograph featured a group of five mustached waiters in long white aprons, standing in front of the store’s plate-glass window. The awning said
CAFFE PUGLIESE
.

Pugliese?

I spun around and blurted out my surprise to the guy behind the counter. “Pugliese?”

After a moment he wrenched his face from a tennis match. “ ’Scuse me?”

“Did this used to be the Caffe Pugliese?”

“Yeah, my great-grandfather Paolo named it after his hometown in Italy. When Grandpa took over, he changed the name to De Robertis.”

“Wow. Thanks.”

“No problem,” he said, his gaze already aimed back at the screen.

So this was the same place. Had I known that somewhere in my head? Not that it was such a big deal. After all, I’d suggested De Robertis because it reminded me of Olive’s café. I pictured her sitting in the crowded, smoke-filled dining room, happy to be with her father, gorging on pastries, flirting with Ralph—or trying to.

I hoped the pastries hadn’t gone downhill since my last visit, which could’ve been maybe ten years ago. The decor was pretty much the same as I remembered, but shabbier. Only one other patron, a young woman typing on a laptop, sat in the dining room. I turned back to the photographs and stared into the eyes of a waiter. Was he the one who called Olive a
bella donna
?

“Sorry I’m late!”

I turned around to the welcome sight of Molly. She wore an olive-green jersey dress with small fan-shaped mother-of-pearl buttons that she’d sewn on around the collar. Her golden-brown hair was pulled up into a bun. “You aren’t late. I just walked fast.”

“That top is great,” she said as we hugged. “Where’d you get it?”

“Those new wholesalers I’m using.” We took a table, and I nodded at her bracelet. “One of your creations?”

“Yeah, I’m currently obsessed with clear Lucite buttons from the fifties.”

She held it out for me to take a closer look. Each of the square chunky buttons was translucent, with a decoration inside. “How did they get the designs embedded inside the Lucite?”

“There are different techniques. Some have carvings in the back that are painted and laminated. Some have metal inlays, some have pearl. This one has a real tiny flower inside. I was reading how they made buttons out of Lucite after World War II, from the leftover stands they used to mount guns on. It’s bulletproof.”

“Wow, that could come in handy. It’s gorgeous. And I love your neckline, with the little fans.”

“Thanks.”

Molly had always been obsessed with vintage buttons. She started out selling them online and once floated the idea of partnering up on a shop, but I wasn’t into it at the time. When her grandmother died and left her some money, Molly did it on her own and hired a handsome guy to handle the business end; it worked out so well, he became her manager and eventually her husband.

“So tell me.” Molly sat up straight with anticipation. “How did it go with Dr. Markoff?”

“He was great, but I flunked. I hardly slept last night.”

“Darn. Maybe you need to go back a few times for it to work.”

“Maybe,” I said, trying to sound like I believed it.

The great-grandson arrived with menus. “Can I get you ladies something to drink?” he asked. “Latte, espresso, cappuccino . . .”

“I’ll have a latte.”

“Same,” Molly said. “And I’ll have an almond horn.”

“I’ll have a sfogliatelle.”

We handed him our menus. As he walked away, I rubbed my tired eyes and groaned.

“Okay,” Molly said, “so you haven’t slept, and you’re in a crisis?”

“I just got an official notice from my landlord. I’m being evicted.”

“You’re kidding. From your apartment?”

“No, my retail space.”

“I thought they were renewing.”

“So he told me, but yesterday I got this letter, and now I have a month to get out.”

“Wow. I’m so sorry. And you had a good deal there, right?”

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to find anything I can afford.”

“It won’t be easy.”

“But I had this idea. I know you’re going crazy in that tiny space.” Molly’s shop was so narrow that backpacks and pregnant bellies often led to dirty looks and gridlock. “I was wondering if you’d consider sharing a space with me. I bet we could find something big enough that would end up being less than we’re paying now, and it would probably be good for both our sales to join forces.”

“You know, that would be really tempting, and I wish I could help you out.”

“But?”

“I can’t make any changes to the business right now. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I said, surprised by how disappointed I felt. “I knew it wasn’t likely, but I had to ask.”

“Of course,” she said. “If I hear of anything, I’ll let you know.”

Great-grandson De Robertis arrived with our coffees, pastries, and two glasses of water. “I’m leaving the check,” he said, “but feel free to stay as long as you like.”

Considering the empty tables, his largesse didn’t really impress, but I appreciated the sentiment. “Thanks.”

We drank our coffee and sampled our pastries. The reason for the empty tables became clear. De Robertis had compromised on quality. The crust was too hard, and the filling tasted heavy with flour, light on ricotta, with only trace amounts of candied orange. When Molly sliced off a piece of almond horn, her knife hit the plate with an explosion of crumbs and almond slices.

“Either your knife is dull, or that pastry is stale.”

She took a bite. “It’s the pastry.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I’m glad we came here, if only for old times’ sake. I actually have some news of my own. Scott and I finally made the big decision, which is part of why I can’t make any changes.”

I knew what she was referring to. After years of growing their business, which did well, they’d turned their attention to growing a baby, which hadn’t gone well at all. They’d given up on in vitro fertilization and were considering adoption or having another woman’s egg implanted. “So what’s the call?”