The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress (3 page)

“Stay here.”

Maria looked at the front door, wondering if she could grab her purse and leave before he came out. Mr. Crater charged from the bedroom, holding on to his towel with one hand. Barrel chest. Pasty skin. And behind him, the woman, pushed up against the headboard with the bedspread yanked up to her chin. The look on her face was desperate and ashamed. Pleading. Maria shifted her gaze to the floor. She backed up as Mr. Crater strode toward her.

“I’m so sorry. I thought you were in Maine. That’s what you said Friday, that you’d be gone.” The words tumbled out, and she was afraid to meet his furious gaze.

“Get out!” He pointed at the front door.

Gladly
. She stumbled backward, eyes still on the floor.

“Don’t come back until Thursday when I’m gone, you understand?”

“Yes.”

“One word of this to my wife and you’re fired.”

“Of course.”

Mr. Crater leaned in, his voice hoarse with anger. “You know what I did for your husband. I will take it all away if you don’t keep your stupid mouth shut.”

Maria couldn’t look at him for fear the hatred would be evident on her face, but she gave a quick nod and blinked hard.

“It’s not her fault. She was just doing her job.” His mistress now stood in the doorway, hair mussed, eyes large, and ample curves hidden by the bedclothes. Maria startled at the protective note in her voice.

Mr. Crater shifted his gaze between the two. “Stay out of this.”

Maria grabbed her purse from the side table.

“You won’t say anything? Please?” she said in a stage whisper, and took a step toward Maria.
Don’t start trouble with him
, the look said.
Please go
.

Mr. Crater had hired Maria three years earlier as a gift to his wife. She cleaned their home and cooked their meals and ran their errands. Mr. Crater signed her paychecks and gave her a small Christmas bonus every year. He had once pinched her bottom when his wife wasn’t home. Maria
felt no loyalty to him and didn’t care to guard his secrets. But there was a depth of sadness in the girl’s hazel eyes that she could not turn from. An unspoken agreement passed between them.

“I have nothing to tell,” she said, and left the apartment, locking the door behind her.

FIFTH AVENUE, SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 15, 1930

“Thank you, Mr. Crater!”

“For?”

“Putting a good word in for Jude with Commissioner Mulrooney. He’s got an interview with the detective bureau next week.”

He glanced up from his paper, impassive.

Maria twisted the cleaning rag in her hands and shot an uncertain look at Mrs. Crater. “If he gets the promotion, he’ll finally get off the vice squad. We want to start a family, and that’s a hard job for a father to have.”

“I do wonder,” Mr. Crater said, rising from the table with a sneer, “how the daughter of Spanish immigrants managed to snag one of New York’s finest. It’s an odd match, don’t you think?” He folded the newspaper in half, tossed it on the table, and retreated to the bedroom to dress for work.

Maria busied herself with his dirty breakfast dishes so Stella wouldn’t see the shame spread across her cheeks.

“Ignore him,” Mrs. Crater said. “He’s all piss and vinegar because his own promotion looks a bit tentative right now.”

“He’s right.” Maria swallowed. “I married above myself.”

Mrs. Crater placed a cool hand on the back of Maria’s neck. She patted. “Your husband is obviously a wise man. Look at you, lovely thing!”

“I’m a maid.”

“You,”
she said, “are smart enough to know that a woman is only as good as her husband. The better off he is, the better off you are. Many women don’t understand that.”

Maria turned and peered at her. “You convinced Mr. Crater, didn’t you?”

“He’s never been good at telling me no.” Her eyes crinkled at the corners. “I’ll listen to the back channel and see how things go for Jude. How’s that?”

“Back channel?”

“The political wives, dear. Chances are, I’ll know something before Joe.”

Maria smiled, bright and grateful. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

“We’re in this together. Where would women be if we didn’t look out for one another?” She returned to the living room, where her novel waited, cracked open at the spine.

“Mrs. Crater?”

“Yes?”

“Jude would be furious if he ever found out I did this. He wants to succeed on his own merit. Not on favors. Certainly not those begged by his wife.”

Mrs. Crater spread her skirt across the couch with a flourish. “Well, that’s silly. Everything in this city is based on favors. In one way or another.”

MARIA
opened the door to Smithson Tailors and reached up to steady the bell. To her left, she could see the city’s newest structure, a monolith dubbed the Empire State Building, dwarf the skyline. The papers said it would be a mind-boggling 102 stories when finished. Construction began less than six months ago, and already the building was fifty-five stories high. Over three thousand workers were employed full-time. Maria could not imagine anyone wanting to be that high above the ground.

Donald Smithson glanced up in his office. Tapped his watch. “Your appointment will be here in five minutes,” he said.

Maria nodded and wove her way through the bolts of fabric in the showroom, gray wool and brown tweed, pinstriped cotton and, most popular during the brick-oven summer months, linen.

She took her sewing bag to a small alcove set into the front window. When she’d inherited the job from her father, she had no intention of becoming the store display. It happened by accident. With square footage in high demand on Fifth Avenue, Smithson could not expand as he’d wished, at least not without securing a second mortgage. So he set his new tailor in the window behind a small desk until space could be made
for her in the back with the others. But he soon found an increase in foot traffic as people stopped to watch her nimble fingers work a needle with rapier accuracy. Once settled into her space, she became a living advertisement for the quality offered by Smithson Tailors.

Maria’s real genius, however—and the reason she’d secured a position in the all-male establishment—was her dual talents as both cutter and stitcher, a rare combination on Savile Row, much less in New York City. Though she could never explain it, Maria could
feel
the fabric. Not only the texture and the thread count beneath the pads of her fingers, but the proclivity of the material itself, whether it wanted to bunch or snag, whether it would hang well on a particular frame. A natural intuition allowed her to make adjustments in a pattern for a client with a pronounced stoop, a paunch, a barrel chest, a limp, or some other physical quirk that wasn’t taken into account by standard measurements. The warp and weft of fabric softened beneath her touch, like strings for a cellist. Her chalk lines were light and fluid, almost a language of her own, a dot here for buttonholes, a line there for slanted pockets, a streak to allow for extra material that would form the inlay. Nuanced as her cutting skills were, it was in her stitching that Smithson made his real profit. She produced no less than five thousand stitches per suit—she counted—every one equal in size. A straighter hem or tighter seam could not be found in Manhattan. Smithson knew this, of course, and monopolized her abilities for himself. Yet he would not give her the dignity of a full-time position—and therefore the salary that would accompany it—or a referral that would send her to a competitor.

Donald Smithson stuck his head out from his office. “This client is priority, Maria. I expect you to behave accordingly.”

Maria forced herself to respond with a smile. “Of course.”
Priority
, she knew, meant wealthy beyond the normal standards of their clientele. It meant a man willing to buy five or more suits at one time. It meant a level of flattery by Smithson that would nauseate any human with a shred of dignity.

“I suggested he use one of our more
experienced
tailors, but he insisted on you. Requested you by name, as a matter of fact.”

Smithson pulled a tin of Altoids from his pocket. He placed one mint on the tip of his tongue and drew it in with a grimace, straightened his tie, then said, “Get the fitting room ready. And unlock the humidor. Top shelf.”

Maria grabbed her sewing bag and inspected the contents: measuring tape, pins, cushion, chalk, pinking shears, scissors, and needles in three different sizes. Then she made her way across the showroom and through a side door. What expense her employer spared in her work area he made up for in here. Heavy green carpet covered the floor and the dark paneled walls were adorned every eight feet with a mannequin dressed in the latest menswear. Between each mannequin was a mirror almost seven feet tall, self-admiration available from all angles. In the middle of the room, a round mahogany platform was positioned directly beneath the chandelier. Two leather chairs rested off to the side, an end table between them. Tiffany lamps in masculine shades of blue, yellow, and green and a gold ashtray completed the opulent decor. Along the back wall sat the built-in humidor. Maria unlocked the doors and swung them open, revealing a generous display of cigars behind a glass case. Her fingers trembled slightly, nerves still on edge from finding
that
woman in Mr. Crater’s bed. She closed her hands into fists and took a deep breath before she slid the glass open and pulled out the top shelf. The Cubans—Romeo y Julieta being Smithson’s preferred brand. He paid extra for the personalized silver band embossed with the company logo, but he never smoked them himself. She made sure they were straight and that the cigar clipper was clean and polished.

Panatelas
, she called them, the saboteurs of fabric. “Can’t get the smell out of wool,” Maria had complained to Jude more times than she could count. “Ruins a suit every time.”

She unloaded her sewing bag and set the contents on the edge of the platform. Even in this she was orderly. Pins placed in a perfect swirl around the red cushion. Tape folded in eighths. Scissors laid out neatly. As she finished, the door swished open behind her. She took a quick breath and turned to see the wide eyes and cleft chin of her client.

“Maria, this is Owney Madden. Owney, Maria Simon.”

He swaggered the five steps between them, grabbed her hand, and rattled out his greeting in an almost incomprehensible Liverpool accent. “Your reputation precedes you.”

Coming from one of the city’s most notorious gangsters, the comment could easily be applied to him as well. “Mr. Madden.” A quick nod and Maria lowered her eyes.

“Have we met before?” His studied her face. “You look familiar.”

“No. I don’t see how that’s possible.”

“It must be the name, then. I hear you’re the best tailor in the city.” He paused. “Seamstress? What exactly are you?”

Maria caught the waver in her voice and forced it back. “
Costurera
. There is no English equivalent.
Tailor
will do just fine.”

“Are you as good as they say?”

She answered the question as honestly as she could without sounding arrogant. “Yes.”

Owney looked at Smithson. “I like her.”

A bored smile. “Her talents are unrivaled.”

Heat crept up Maria’s face as Owney’s eyes traveled down her body and paused at her breasts. “I’m sure they are.”

Smithson leaned forward eagerly, clipboard in hand. “How can we serve you today, Mr. Madden?”

The Liverpool accent, derogatorily referred to as Scouse by most, sounded to Maria’s untrained ears like the bastard child of Ireland and England, and though she’d often heard it mocked, Owney was the first person she’d ever met who had one. She tipped her head to the side, intrigued and slightly unnerved. Given his reputation, the accent only made him appear that much more sinister.

“I need a new fall and winter wardrobe. The latest styles. Top-notch, hear?”

“Of course.” Smithson practically trembled with joy. “Why don’t we look at our newest trends? Maria, go get the fabric. Bring the hand-finished wool. Chocolate and charcoal. The merino wool.” He paused to think. “In navy and black. The gray tweed. And the vicuña.”

Maria parted her lips to speak but then pressed them together again. She nodded and walked toward the door.

“What were you going to say?” Owney asked.

“Nothing.”

“Yes, you were. Go ahead.”

Maria avoided Smithson’s gaze and debated for a moment before she said, “The vicuña doesn’t hang well. Especially in winter. And I doubt it would suit a man such as yourself.” She cleared her throat. “It’s a bit effeminate.”

Owney looked from Smithson to Maria and grinned. “What would you recommend?”

“A classic English wool would drape better across your shoulders.”
The suit he had on looked worse for the wear, wrinkled and stretched. Typical of cotton. Certainly not up to her standards of craftsmanship.

Smithson stepped forward with a little cough. “She does know her fabrics.” A sharp glance in her direction. “Fetch them. Would you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But leave the vicuña.”

Maria nodded and left the fitting room. Vicuñas, like llamas, had long woolen strands that were wonderful for weaving but terrible for holding shape. Smithson knew this but did not care. The fabric was rare, so he could charge three times as much as for standard sheep’s wool. She’d worked with it on a number of occasions and resented its defiance. It fought against her as she sewed, bunching beneath the thread. It took a great deal of tension on the stitch and patience on her part to make vicuña cooperate.

Glad for the chance to escape, Maria went to the showroom, running her fingers over the bolts as she searched. She collected all the samples that Smithson requested, in various colors, and also grabbed three shades of satin for the lining to save herself a trip later. He would ask for it. She was certain of that.

She slid back into the fitting room, holding the door open with one foot, while they discussed the latest fashion in men’s suits. Owney held a newly lit cigar between thumb and forefinger, puffing out small bursts of smoke.