“Divorced women,” Mrs. Longfellow’s companion called out, causing a few gasps.
“And widows,” Winnie said. She expected pitying looks, but none came. Instead, they acted like her announcement was ordinary, and certainly nothing to be ashamed of. To her left, Olive placed a supportive hand on her forearm. Winnie covered her hand and squeezed it.
Clem gave her a kind smile. “And widows.”
Winnie sat back in her seat, unable to control her grin. For the first time in two years, her widowhood was not a hindrance, but a boon.
“Now, I wish to categorize our talents and strengths, and then we’ll strategize how to use them best. Think, ladies. What can you contribute?”
“I have a loud voice and no shame,” one woman called.
“My daughter and I are skilled with the needle. We can sew ribbons to wear around town,” another said.
“I don’t have many skills, but I’ve got money,” a third chimed in. “I can help with travel and supplies costs.”
“Me too,” Rhoda said. “I’m sure my father would be thrilled to donate.” Winnie noted her underlying sarcasm and wondered what her life was like. Rhoda caught her interested look, and said in a low tone, “Carlisle Department Store.”
Winnie’s mouth opened in a soundlessoh. Rhoda was the daughter of the local department store mogul. Suddenly, her chic attire made a lot more sense.
“Excellent suggestions.” Clem scribbled in her notebook.
Gathering her courage, Winnie raised her hand. “I’m a stenographer atThe Puget Sound Post,so I have some good contacts. Also, just this week I was given the go-ahead to write human-interest pieces on the movement.”
Surprised exclamations met her revelation, and everyone looked to her in excitement. For some reason, their joyous reaction triggered a memory of Mack Donnelly’s face, who had had the exact opposite reaction. Despite her still-fresh annoyance at his insincere best wishes, she found herself recounting how soft his dark brown hair had looked, and how she was almost certain he had a dimple, which threatened to appear when he twisted his mouth a certain way. What would it take to get a glimpse of it? Maybe if she—her face flushed at the direction of her thoughts, and she ruthlessly shoved them aside. This was no time to be thinking about aman.
Luckily, Rhoda distracted her by asking, “What about failed art students? Do you take us?” Despite her flippant tone, her shoulders tensed, as if dreading the response.
“Can you write a straight letter?” Clem asked.
“Naturally.”
“Then you’re hired. We’ll need plenty of petitions written out, not to mention signs and banners.”
Rhoda nodded nonchalantly, but Winnie spotted the excited flush that rose to her cheeks.
Then shy Olive raised her hand. In a voice barely above a whisper, she said, “I’m not sure I can be of use. I’m not a writer, nor do I speak well in front of crowds.”
Clem gave her a reassuring smile. “The most important thing you can do is show up. The more bodies we have, the greater our solidarity. Anything else is a bonus.”
Olive chewed her lip. “I play the piano?”
Winnie wasn’t sure how that would be helpful, but Clem snatched at the information. “We have an ill-used piano in the library. It would be grand to start each meeting with a rousing musical number, don’t you think?”
Winnie listened to Clem in awe. She was a natural organizer, effortlessly drawing the women out of their shells and never once dismissing their ideas, no matter how small. By the time the meeting drew to a close, the volume was a veritable din, and Clem was busy scribbling down their ideas for publicity. The women trickled from the house until only she, Olive, and Rhoda remained.
Clem escorted them outside and took each of their hands in a warm embrace. “I am so happy we met. I have a feeling this is the beginning of something special.”
Olive studied her toes. “I’m ever so grateful. I’ve always wanted to be a suffragist, but I didn’t know how.”
Rhoda nudged Olive with her elbow. “Could you play some ragtime next time? It really gets my creativity flowing.”
Olive beamed. “I’ll choose a piece just for you.”
Winnie knelt on the sidewalk and picked up a stone the size of her thumb. She tossed it gently at Rhoda, who caught it with one hand. When Rhoda’s brows furrowed in confusion, she explained, “For your collection.”
Rhoda chuckled and hoisted her valise in salute. “I’ll be ready.”
Winnie began the walk down Minor Avenue toward the streetcar that would take her home. She couldn’t stop smiling, and her heart was more buoyant than it had been in years. In one afternoon, she had found new friends and a shared purpose. Her mind overflowed with editorial ideas, and she couldn’t wait for Monday morning.
