Tiffany Girl (47 page)

Flossie caught her breath. “But surely, with the success of the chapel, it’s just a matter of time before the orders start flooding in.”

Turning toward her, Mrs. Driscoll leaned a hip against the windowsill. “Perhaps, but for now, I’ve been told to reduce our numbers.”

“No.” Flossie breathed, her heart working as if it were pumping molasses instead of blood.

“I’m going to have to let you go, Miss Jayne. I’m so very sorry.”

She took a step forward. “Please, Mrs. Driscoll, I’ll work harder, stay longer, take less money, anything. Please.”

Mrs. Driscoll gave her a sad smile. “No one doubts your willingness to work hard. You come in early and stay late, you never complain, and everyone adores you.”

She swallowed. “Then please let me stay, please.”

“I’m sorry.”

She covered her mouth. “Who else? Who else is leaving?”

“Just you, for now.”

She sucked in a breath. Out of all twelve girls, she was the most expendable? “I’m the worst? Out of everyone?”

“Don’t misunderstand me, dear. You may not be the best of the best, but you are certainly competent. And being competent is a very good thing.”

“If I’m competent, then why can’t I stay?”

“Because someone has to go.”

“But why did you send me to the fair, then, if I was your weakest worker?”

“At the time, you’d been cutting glass longer than anyone else and for demonstration purposes, the speed in which you cut isn’t as critical as it is in our everyday work.” She gave a soft smile. “Besides, Mr. Tiffany felt you’d be quite good at speaking to a crowd, and from what I understand, he was right. He went on and on about how much everyone enjoyed you.” She pulled at her ear. “Unfortunately, speaking to crowds isn’t something we’re likely to do again. Cutting quickly and efficiently is much more important.”

“I know I’m not as fast at cutting as Lulu and Elizabeth, but couldn’t you let me trace the designs, or help Aggie with the foil, or—?”

“I’m sorry, truly sorry. I’ll be happy to give you a recommendation, though.”

Flossie’s heart slammed against her chest. Her head felt light.

She handed Flossie a pouch of coins. “This is the pay we owe
you. I wish you the very best. We’ll all miss you, I can assure you of that.” Mrs. Driscoll returned to her chair and began to work in a ledger.

Her entire body shaking, Flossie gathered her lunch pail and walked out of Tiffany Glass and Decorating Company for good.

CHAPTER

67

I
’ve lost my job.” Flossie stood in the kitchen of the boardinghouse, its whitewashed plaster coated with a thin layer of grime. Green paint peeled from the tongue-and-groove dado covering the lower half of the wall. The scent of stewed tomatoes touched the air.

Mrs. Klausmeyer stood beside the stove, a stained, dull-white apron covering her black gown from neck to knee. She swiped her forehead with the corner of her apron. “You’re leaving, then?”

“I don’t want to. I know you do everything by yourself and could certainly use some help, so I was hoping that perhaps you’d allow me to clean the chambers in exchange for room, board, and one dollar a week.”

Steam whirled above a large pot on the stove like a tornado trying to form. Mrs. Klausmeyer picked up a long-handled spoon, her shoulders wilting. “You’ll be the fourth boarder I’ve lost. At this rate, I won’t be able to keep the house, much less pay you.”

“I’ll just work for room and board, then, until we fill Mr. Wilder’s room.”

A lump of dough sat on a flour board, waiting to be punched into submission. She could help with that, too. She’d missed cooking.
Would actually enjoy doing it again—assuming Mrs. Klausmeyer would have her.

The woman shook her head. “Even if we fill his, I can’t afford a dollar a week. Not after the Trostles left me in such a bind. And what if Miss Love leaves, now that her rent will double?”

“But Annie Belle’s won’t double. Not if room is included as part of my pay.”

“You can’t stay in Miss Love’s room. I’ll not have servants living in the house. You’ll need to move to an attic room.”

Flossie blinked. She hadn’t really thought of herself as a servant, just as someone helping out until she could find another job. “I need to earn something. I have debts to pay because of the Trostles.”

Mrs. Klausmeyer blew a tendril of hair off her forehead. “You’ll have to clean plus help in the scullery, then. And I can only pay you fifty cents.”

“Seventy-five,” Flossie countered.

“Sixty, plus meals and a room in the attic. That’s the best I can do.”

Flossie picked at her fingernail. “Can it be a dollar a week once Mr. Wilder’s room is filled?”

“It can be a dollar a week once all the rooms are filled—Wilder’s, the Trostles’, and Miss Love’s if she leaves.”

Flossie glanced at the windows up by the ceiling, then wiped her hands on her skirt. “All right. It’s a deal.”

Nodding, Mrs. Klausmeyer gave the pot a stir. “Your meals will be taken in here, not in the dining room.”

Flossie lowered her chin to her chest. “Of course.”

Mrs. Klausmeyer looked around the kitchen. “Well, I guess you can start by scrubbing the vegetables, then I have a pile of pans and utensils that need scouring.”

Flossie surveyed the carrots, potatoes, and onions lying on a table. She didn’t see any dishes, but she assumed they were in the scullery. “I’ll need to change first, and move my things.”

“
You can change, but you won’t have time to move your things until after supper is over, the dishes are washed, dried, and put away, and the kitchen is clean.”

Swallowing, Flossie pointed behind her with her thumb. “I’ll go change, then, and be right back.”

“You have fifteen minutes.”

Keeping her expression neutral, Flossie left the kitchen. It would take her fifteen minutes just to undo all the buttons on her gown. Lifting her skirts, she scurried to her room.

26TH WARD YMCA BROOKLYN 
³⁶

“Reeve took a room at the new YMCA in Brooklyn’s East New York, just a couple of blocks up from his home.”

CHAPTER

68

R
eeve took a room at the new YMCA in Brooklyn’s East New York, just a couple of blocks up from his home. He’d wanted to be where he could keep an eye on the cottage. Only after he’d gone over to see if Mrs. Gusman needed any help had it occurred to him that Mr. Gusman might mistake his motives. So he’d turned back around without ever knocking on her door.

He tried to remember the name of the saloon Mr. Gusman frequented. She’d mentioned it on Reeve’s first visit, but he couldn’t recall it. Something German, but then, a lot of the saloons around here had German names. Still, if he found the right one, maybe he and Mr. Gusman could work out a deal.

He placed his inkwell and pen onto the desk in his room, then positioned Flossie’s metal figurine beside it. It had survived its flight across the room without any damage. Slipping his hands into his pockets, he studied its detail. It was the first and only gift he’d ever received on a day that wasn’t Christmas. And the first one he’d received since his grandparents’ deaths in ’86.

Cat meowed and did figure eights between his legs. Reaching down, he picked her up. It had taken some fancy talking to
convince the Y that Cat should be allowed admittance, too, but for an additional fee they’d finally acquiesced. He glanced at the bed on the other side of the room and wondered what his roommate was like.

Normally, Reeve paid for a room by himself, but the Y didn’t offer solitary lodging. He’d chosen the Y because it furnished young men such as himself with a club life that mimicked the larger, expensive clubs only men of affluence could join. It had a reading hall, a public hall, and a game room. It offered its members fireside talks, a chess and checker club, Bible studies, receptions, and even concerts.

What had captured Reeve’s imagination the most, however, was the gymnasium with flying rings, climbing ropes, parallel bars, and a side horse. It had a second-story track running along its perimeter that was mostly used as a spectators’ gallery.

He lowered himself to his cot. Somewhere between Grand Central Station and Washington, D.C., he’d admitted Flossie was right. It was time—past time—to make some friends. Nothing as intimate as what he’d had with her. Never again would he risk that, but he couldn’t go back to total isolation. It simply no longer offered the peace and relief that it used to. So, when he’d left Klausmeyer’s, he’d come to the Y.

For now he’d attend a few lectures, join a Bible study, lift some weights, and maybe even sign up to play baseball. At least, that’s what he needed to do. That’s what he should do. That’s what he’d come here to do.

His neck and shoulders began to tense. It wasn’t what he wanted to do. The thought of all those activities scared him to death, especially the team sports. Yet they were also the most alluring. During his entire twenty-seven years, he’d never participated in a ball game. Oh, he’d watched plenty from afar. He knew all the rules, and he’d played ball with nothing more
than a wall, but pretending a wall was a person was completely different from doing the real thing.