You could move.
Sincerely,
Miss Sweetie
—
“This is Mrs. Bell. Well, don’t just stand there. Speak, girl.” Mrs. English puts her fists on her hips. Even her bosom seems to glare at me, frozen in front of her. Has the woman come to have me arrested? If it were discovered thattwo Chinese people were squatting in her basement, we could be imprisoned or worse. In this part of the world, mobs form as easily and violently as cloudbusters.
“Ma’am, how do you do?” I force my face into something pleasant or, at least, less grim. Act natural. If she’s looking for the Chinese girl who’s been tunneling under her, she’s got the wrong one, never mind I’m the only one for miles and miles. My twitchy fingers pluck a fan from a basket. “Nice weather we’re having.”
Mrs. English snatches the fan and glares at me.
“Er, yes,” says Mrs. Bell, despite the gloom outside. Now that I am forced to face the woman, I have to admit, she appears more bemused than angry, her dark eyebrows steepling, her mouth halfway ajar. She unpins her hat from her head—a simple spooner in mourning-dove gray—and sets it on the counter. “I have been admiring the knot embellishment on my friend’s hat, and she said it was made by the Chinese girl who works here.”
The solicitor’s wife? I stop fidgeting. Perhaps our residence is still a secret.
Mrs. Bell gestures at her hat. “I was hoping you could do the same for me.”
Mrs. English clears her throat. “Actually, she is busy.” Her eyes flit to a familiar folder beside the cash register. “We’re taking inventory today.”
My jaw grinds. That tedious chore is typically done on Friday, but she’s trying to get her money’s worth out of my last day. Lizzie never gets the numbers to come out right.
“But,” she adds, “I would be happy to assist you myself.”
Mrs. Bell’s head pulls back a notch as she addresses Mrs. English. “Youcan do the Chinese knots, too?”
“Er, no.” The proprietress’s mouth draws in like a purse string being cinched. She had thought my knots looked bizarre, but didn’t complain when the solicitor’s wife paid her handsomely for the work.
“I would be happy to do it,” I cautiously pipe up. If Mrs. Bell has come to arrest me, where is the constable? The shock of my dismissal may have dulled my perception, but the woman’s behavior doesn’t strike me as someone who has smoked out a rat. In addition, the prospect of sticking Lizzie with the inventory makes me positively giddy.
“But the embellishment will take more than a day,” Mrs. English says with a meaningful jab of her eyebrow.
Mrs. Bell presses her palms together. “Oh, take your time. I don’t need it for a couple of weeks.”
“I can do it in a day.” I steer a brave smile toward the proprietress, hoping to unearth a pebble of pity in her stony heart.
Mrs. English fans herself. Waves of gardenia crash over us. “If you pay in cash, I would reconsider.”
“Ah. I might have something even better than cash.” Mrs. Bell fingers the edge of her hat. Her arthritic joints stretch the fabric of her well-worn gloves, and the pads of her fingers are starting to show through. Money is tight in that family. I hold my breath, caught between wondering what she could offer and worrying that there is more to this visit than meets the eye. “You see, my husband runs theFocus. In exchange for thework, we could give you a month of advertisement, the equivalent of three dollars. I am told the piece cost a dollar fifty. You’d be getting twice the value.”
“Front page,” Mrs. English briskly counters. “Plus assurances that you will not run competing advertisements.” When Mrs. Bell doesn’t answer, the proprietress pours on some charm. “Each piece that leaves our hands is a unique work of art. But don’t go to New York, or the Metropolitan Museum might pinch it from you.” She bats her fan at Mrs. Bell. No one butters a biscuit like Mrs. English.
Mrs. Bell’s genteel smile doesn’t falter, but her finger spools a loose thread on her sleeve. “A one-week exclusive is all I can offer.”
The two women continue to haggle, though Mrs. Bell’s eyes keep wandering to me. I untwist my arms and try not to look like I’m hiding something. Unlike the proprietress, whose speech modulates like a stage actress’s, the publisher’s wife’s voice is as steady as an oak table. It comforts me, even as I worry about the coincidence of her visit. I’m reminded of all those songs she sang to calm Nathan, songs that also soothed me, two years younger than him. Her tales of growing up on her parents’ sheep farm enthralled me in ways I never expected sheep could do. And here she stands before me, unaware—at least I hope—of how much she means to me.
Two young women enter the shop dressed in the latest pastels with touches of lace at the collars. Miss Melissa Lee Saltworth and Miss Linette Culpepper, whom I call Salt and Pepper, though never aloud, are the daughters of “merchant aristocrats.” Unlike the older cities of Savannah and Charleston,in Atlanta you don’t need a family name to boost your social standing. You can climb the ladder by sheer business muscle. Of course, muscles, business or otherwise, never made a difference to how high Chinese could climb.
“Good morning, Miss Saltworth, Miss Culpepper. How are you today?” Mrs. English calls over her shoulder into the back room, “Lizzie?”
Lizzie appears. “Why, good morning, Mrs. Bell. How is Nathan? I haven’t seen him delivering the papers at Father’s store lately.”
“He is well, Lizzie. The reporting keeps him very busy these days. I shall tell him you send your regards.”
Lizzie lingers at the counter, a dreamy smile upon her fair face. Mrs. English clears her throat loudly and cocks her head meaningfully toward Salt and Pepper. Lizzie takes languid steps toward the ladies as if the floor were full of horse patties. The building could be burning down and she would still take her time. Salt points to the top shelf, where we display the finest offerings, and with a wooden pole, Lizzie retrieves a straw hat in mauve with a cloud of tulle.
I bite my tongue in frustration. Mauve would definitely clash with Salt’s peachy skin.
