Tiffany Girl (13 page)

W
hat is your earliest childhood memory?”

Seeing my mother in a coffin
. But he couldn’t say that.

Tonight it was Miss Love asking his question from across the table. A question Miss Jayne had planted there. Clearly, she was not going to give him the kind of questions she gave everyone else, such as: when did you last climb a tree? If you were given a boat, what would you name it? If you could be a piece of furniture, what would you be?

No, his questions were never simple. They appeared innocent enough on the surface, but in reality probed rather deeply. And she knew it. Was doing it on purpose. Would he receive easier questions if he joined them in the parlor each night? Or if he ceased to write articles about the New Women? He wished he could take dinner in his room, but Mrs. Klausmeyer would only allow that if he were sick, and there was no telling what Miss Jayne would do if she thought him ill.

He cut a bite of sprat, then jabbed it with his fork. “My earliest memory is of sitting in church with my father.”

Everyone turned to Miss Jayne. Clearly, his answer was insufficient. The green gown she wore, with its lace and bows and big puffy sleeves, befitted a duchess rather than a working girl. He’d
noticed she no longer wore fancy dresses to Tiffany’s studio, though. Saved them instead for dinner and parlor games.

She took a sip of cider. “What was it about that particular day in church that made it so memorable?”

I’d been told earlier in the week that my mother lived in heaven.

He took a deep breath. “I’d asked my father where heaven was.”

Everyone looked at one another with smiles and amusement.

Miss Jayne tilted her head, her black hair swept up in artful disarray. “And what did he say?”

“He didn’t say anything. We were in church. He simply pointed upward.”

Her focus narrowed, concentrating the full force of her brown eyes onto him. His stomach clenched. She was very perceptive, a little too perceptive.

“You didn’t believe him, did you?” she asked.

“I believed him.”

“But . . . ?”

He sighed. “But for a long time afterward, I thought heaven and the church attic were synonymous.”

Good-natured chuckles rippled about the table.

Miss Jayne didn’t so much as smile. “How did you discover they weren’t synonymous?”

“I climbed up into the church attic and my mother wasn’t there.”

The clinks of silverware ceased. Mugs stalled midair. All fidgeting froze.

“I’m so sorry,” she said softly, and she meant it. He could see her genuine sorrow.

Emotion rose to the back of his throat. Emotion he’d long since buried, right beside his mother. At least, he thought he had. Not trusting himself to speak, he simply nodded and returned his attention to his plate. It was a long time, however, before he could swallow the rest of his dinner.

KEROSENE HEATER 
¹¹

“Kneeling in front of Mrs. Dinwiddie’s kerosene heater, Reeve tilted the upper portion back on its hinge and lifted out the tank.”

CHAPTER

15

K
neeling in front of Mrs. Dinwiddie’s kerosene heater, Reeve tilted the upper portion back on its hinge and lifted out the tank. “This shouldn’t take too long, then I’ll have it fired up again and we’ll get you warm in no time.”

“I’m fine,” she said. “Take your time.”

He couldn’t quite suppress a smile. She sat in her overstuffed chair with a blanket about her shoulders, a lap robe over her legs, a winter scarf about her neck, and a pair of gloves protecting her hands. He couldn’t believe she’d chopped the fingertips off of a perfectly good pair of gloves just so she could keep her hands warm yet have her fingers free to sew.

Removing a pocketknife from his trousers, he scraped off some char along the edge of the flame spreader. His fingers were stiff with the cold, making even the simplest task take longer. “So what are you making now?” he asked.

“I’m hemming a tablecloth. Be careful not to get any of that on my rug, dear.”

“Mrs. Klausmeyer gave me an old sheet to double up and put over your rug. I’ll be careful, though.” He glanced about her room. Her accent tables already had cloths, and the other pieces
of furniture were covered with doilies. “Where are you going to put your new tablecloth?”

“It’s for the dining room.”

“The dining room?” The gallery on top of the tank refused to budge. Raising up onto his knees, he grasped it and forced it in a counterclockwise direction until it finally came loose.

“Yes,” Mrs. Dinwiddie replied. “Miss Jayne asked if I’d mind making one up. She thinks it will make our meals much more homey and pleasant. I quite agree with her.”

He frowned. He couldn’t imagine their landlady parting with coin for something as frivolous as fabric for a tablecloth. “Where did the material come from?”

“Oh, it’s some old stuff I had stored under my bed. We found some other fabric I had that would make lovely drapes for the parlor.”

“We?”

“Miss Jayne and I.”

“So you’re making drapes as well?”

“No, Mrs. Holliday agreed to do those up for us.”

“With your fabric?”

“Mmm-hm.” She wove her needle along the edge of the white cloth.

He wiped his hands on a rag. “What if you want to use that fabric for something else?”

“I won’t.”

“Not yet, perhaps, but you might later.”

Glancing over the rim of her glasses, she gave him an affectionate smile, her hands still working. “No need to get fierce, young Wilder. I’m thrilled to put the stuff to good use.”

He still didn’t like it. Miss Jayne was taking over the entire place. Name cards at supper. Questions under their plates. Parlor games in the evenings. And now she’d commandeered the use of Mrs. Dinwiddie’s personal belongings. What if that fabric had
been in her family for years? What if she’d had secret plans for it that she hadn’t yet had an opportunity to initiate? She’d never say so to Miss Jayne or anyone else.

“Do you have any petroleum jelly?” With great effort, he kept his voice civil. It wasn’t Mrs. Dinwiddie he was irritated with, but that blasted New Woman who’d evidently decided that if she couldn’t take over the world, she’d take over Klausmeyer’s Boardinghouse instead. He tightened his jaw. Over his dead body.

“There on the dresser.” She pointed with her head to a large marble-top dresser crowded with frames, candles, jars, and hat stands. “On the far left.”

He stood before the dresser, overwhelmed and uncomfortable about reading the labels of such personal things, much less rifling through them.

“Oh my, it’s freezing in here.” Miss Jayne walked in with a wooden easel and set it up by the door. Her hair was in its usual artfully-arranged-to-appear-unarranged pouf. She’d changed out of her Sunday clothes and now wore a plain brown skirt and striped shirtwaist.

“Come in, my dear. Come in.” Mrs. Dinwiddie paused in her work. “Mr. Wilder is changing out the wick in my heater. It won’t be long now.”

“Hello, Mr. Wilder.” Miss Jayne gave him a bright smile as if she had every right to be here when everyone knew Sunday afternoons were the times he did for Mrs. Dinwiddie what their landlady’s husband neglected to do himself.

Reeve didn’t feel at ease with very many people. He much preferred to be alone. Yet Mrs. Dinwiddie was not like everyone else. She was a kindly old lady who’d lost her husband and son within a year of each other and had no one left in the world. He knew only too well what that was like.

But more than that, she always put others before herself. He’d never in his life seen such a selfless person. It wasn’t fake, either. He’d
watched her for a long time before he’d finally responded to her overtures of friendship.

The same characteristic that was her greatest strength, however, was also her greatest weakness. She’d give anyone anything without a thought to her own wants, needs, or comfort. Which brought him back to the tablecloth and draperies. There was no way to know what that fabric had been earmarked for, but one thing was certain, Mrs. Dinwiddie wouldn’t have used up precious space in this tiny little room to store it away if it meant nothing to her.

“Show him where the petroleum jelly is, Miss Jayne.” Mrs. Dinwiddie pointed a finger toward the left side of the dresser. “It’s there by the licorice powder.”

He quickly scanned the jars, bottles, and containers littering the left side of the chest. He could find it. He didn’t need any help from the likes of her.

Miss Jayne stepped up beside him, paused for no more than a second, reached over him, then whisked up a little tub clearly marked with the Vaseline label. “Here you are.”

He snatched it from her. “What’s the easel for?”

Her face lit. “I’ve decided to paint a portrait of every member of our family here at 438, starting with Mrs. Dinwiddie.”

“A portrait? Right now? Today?”

She laughed. “Heavens, no. It will take much more than one sitting. Today I’m doing the sketch. Then every Sunday, about this time, I’ll come back and do the next step.”

“Every Sunday?”

“Yes.”

“At this exact time?”

“More or less.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Because it’s the only afternoon I have off, and because if I come at the same time each week, the lighting will not have changed too drastically.”

He spun around and pierced Mrs. Dinwiddie with his gaze. This was their time.
His
time. Not his and Miss Jayne’s times.

But Mrs. Dinwiddie wasn’t looking at him, she was looking to the side and tapping her lips with a fingerless glove. “Oh, my. Will I have to wear the same outfit every single Sunday?”

“It would be helpful if you would,” Miss Jayne replied.

“You absolutely do not,” Reeve all but growled. “You wear whatever you want. Miss Jayne will make do.”

“Well, yes,” Miss Jayne said. “I can certainly make do, I’m just saying—”

“She knows what you’re saying,” he snapped.

Mrs. Dinwiddie looked at him, lifted her brows, and followed his progress as he stalked back to the heater, plopped onto the floor, and crisscrossed his legs. He knew he was being churlish. And so did she. Still, was nothing sacred anymore?

Yanking off the lid of the Vaseline, he dug into it with his rag and wiped it onto the threads of the gallery so it wouldn’t stick next time he needed to unscrew it.

Miss Jayne made a few more trips, carrying in a stretched canvas and propping it onto the easel, bringing a sketchpad and leaning it atop the canvas, then scattering a few supplies onto Mrs. Dinwiddie’s bedside table. Reeve intentionally didn’t offer to assist her. Instead, he brushed off the cobwebs, dust, and dirt from the gallery.

Finally, Miss Jayne pulled a smock over her clothing and began buttoning it closed.

Mrs. Dinwiddie set her sewing aside. “I guess I should remove all these blankets so you can see.”

Reeve slammed the gallery onto the floor, causing it to rattle. “You will
not
.” The pulse in his jaw hammering, he impaled Miss Jayne with his stare. “Would you have her catch a chill just so you can get a sketch?”