An Unlikely Suitor (3 page)

“And with the sewing of gowns for the upcoming season in Newport in full swing . . . we are heartily busy.”

“Three additional sets of hands, savvy with needle and thread, would be an advantage.”

“But the apartment . . .” He resumed his stroll. “It’s small.”

“How much is the rent?”

“Sixteen.”

Lucy tried to control her excitement. They paid seventeen dollars a month now, and this building was far better than their tenement. But they also had two fewer people to help with the rent. “I’ll give you fourteen.”

He considered this a moment. “You’ll make up the difference keeping the shop clean?”

“Of course.”

He extended a hand. “It appears we have a deal, Miss Scarpelli.”

She coughed once, then again, expelling the tension that had accumulated in the minutes that had transpired between bumping into Mr. Standish and gaining both lodging and jobs for her family. She shook his hand. “We have a deal.”

“I surmise you don’t have the rent money on you?”

“You surmise correctly.” She thought of the coins in the money jar at home. Was there enough for the rent? “I’ll pay you all I can, and the rest you can deduct from our paychecks until we are square. Would that be satisfactory?”

“I believe something can be arranged. When would you like to move in?”

Her thoughts sped through the logistics of moving. They could borrow a cart from someone . . . she might even hunt down Angelo, since he and his father used a cart for their business. And since Uncle Aldo was still around, he could help with the heavy lifting, not that they had that much to—

“A day, Miss Scarpelli. What day would you like to move in?”

“The day after tomorrow? And we could start work the day after that.”

He laughed. “I admire your spunk and work ethic.” He took out his key ring and removed a key, pressing it into her hands. “Here you go. I’ll stop by later to collect the first portion of the rent.”

“Thank you.” Lucy palmed the key and pressed it to her heart. Just like that, their problems were solved. She thought of Mamma in church this morning, praying . . .

They exited the store and Mr. Standish said his good-byes. Lucy was left with the key—and the door to their apartment. Only then did she realize she’d not even looked at the space.

What if it’s awful? What if it’s so small the three of us can’t even live there?

There was only one way to find out.

She unlocked the door and was greeted with a set of dark, narrow stairs. She took a match from a container on the wall and lit the wall lamp. The light—though dim—helped ease her wariness. She went up the stairs to a landing. And one door. This was it.

The same key that opened the bottom door opened this one. Lucy opened it slowly, expecting the worst. She saw . . .

Light. A bounty of glorious sunlight.

To her left, the entire front of the main room was lined with windows. In a small alcove near the windows was a stove, a sink, and shelves in a kitchen area. Off the main room were two doors. The one straight across from the entry was open, showing a bedroom at least the size of the one on Mulberry Street. And the other smaller door led to something Lucy had never dared hope for: a bathroom! There was a toilet, a small sink, and . . .

A bathtub.

Lucy stepped into it, clothes and all, and sat down. Such luxury was beyond her ken. Only then did she notice the tub needed a good scrubbing. And the sink had an ominous orangey coating in its bowl, and the toilet . . .

Lucy climbed out of the tub and brushed off her clothes. With her eyes freshly attuned to details instead of space, she saw that the apartment needed a lot of cleaning. It was obvious Mr. Standish’s previous tenants had left quickly, with little regard for what they’d left behind—or the condition of the apartment itself. There was a smattering of discarded furniture that may or may not be usable. A man’s shoe was in the corner, trash was scattered throughout the room, and the kitchen shelves were marked with a myriad of ancient spills.

Upon closer inspection, Lucy smelled something sickly sweet and found the kitchen sink filled with the remnants of more than one peeled apple and fruit flies dancing above their feast.

She turned toward the main room and put her hands upon her hips, measuring the challenge. She’d have to give it a good dose of elbow grease—before her mother and sister saw it.

Speaking of . . . they were probably sitting at home, worried for her life and limb amongst the fearful streets of New York.

Such a surprise she’d have for them.

“Where have you been?”

Lucy closed the door behind her. She was greeted by all four members of her family, waiting for an answer.

She’d be happy to give them one.

Lucy had pondered this moment all the way home. She didn’t want to burst in the door, shouting the news. She wanted to mark the moment with a little drama.

And so, she removed the key from her pocket and dangled it in front of them.

“What’s that?” Uncle Aldo asked.

“A key.”

“We can see that,” Aunt said. “But what—?”

Sofia ran to her, nabbing the key away. “It’s the key to our new apartment!”

Lucy nodded, seeking her mother’s smile.

Mamma did more than smile; she wrapped Lucy in her arms, leaning this way and that, cradling her head against her own face.
“Ah, cara ragazza! Grazie, grazie!”

Lucy had expected her mother to be happy, but her exuberance was surprising, and revealed a worry beyond what she’d previously expressed.

Once Mamma let her go, they all began talking at once.

“Where is it?”

“How many rooms?”

“How much?”

She reveled in the knowledge that she had one more surprise for them. But first she gave the details.

“A bathroom?” Mamma said.

“With a real bathtub,” Lucy said, “and an indoor necessary and running water in the kitchen.”

Aunt tugged on her husband’s arm. “Perhaps we should stay.”

Lucy nearly panicked. Although they could all fit in the new apartment, her hopes for the future involved just the three of them living there.

“No,” Uncle said. “We promised Vittorio. I’m getting the train tickets tomorrow.”

Aunt nodded and the crisis was averted.

“When can we move in?” Mamma asked.

Lucy had thought it through. “Tuesday. Tomorrow I’ll go make it ready for you and—”

“What you mean, ‘make it ready for us’?”

Lucy didn’t want to let them know how dirty it was, only how clean it would be once she was through with it. “I just want to make sure it’s perfect.”

“The fact we have a place to go . . . that makes it
perfetto
.” Mamma looked heavenward.
“Grazie a Dio.”

It was time for the other surprise. Lucy extended her hands to her mother and sister. She needed physical contact for her next announcement. “I have something else to tell you that will make things even more perfect.”

Sofia tried to guess. “You found a thousand dollars in a trunk in the apartment.”

Lucy ignored her. “I found jobs—for all three of us.”

“We have jobs.”

Lucy shook her head. “Not like these jobs. Not in a fancy dress shop catering to society ladies.”

Mamma blinked, her mouth open. “Where? How?”

“Madame Moreau’s Fashion Emporium just so happens to be the shop directly beneath our apartment. The owner’s been wanting to expand their offerings to hats, and Sofia and I will be seamstresses. Real seamstresses in a nice workroom with our own work space and good lighting and—” She thought of something else that would impress them. “Out front there’s an elegant room where the ladies come to see dresses and look at fabric choices. The chairs are covered in velvet and—”

“What’s velvet?” Sofia asked.

“Velluto,”
Mamma said. “Like Mrs. Romano’s shawl, the one she wears to show off.”

Sofia nodded.

“But this velvet isn’t black; it’s pale green. Very sophisticated.” Lucy could say more, but she knew they already had an image of the place.

“I get to make hats?”

“With all the trims, feathers, and flowers you want.”

“Probably flowers we made right here in this room,” Aunt Francesca said.

“Perhaps,” Lucy said.

Aunt bit her lower lip and Lucy could almost see her thoughts churning. “Would they have a job for me?” She glanced at her husband. “I want to see our son, but Oklahoma is so far away, and—”

“Enough, wife. We’re going.”

Aunt sat back down, still uncertain.

“Come now.” Mamma motioned all of them close. “Let us fall to our knees and thank God for answering our prayers.”

The five of them knelt, bowed their heads, and prayed silently. Lucy prayed too, thanking God, but . . .

But also thanking herself.

She’d done very well. Like Mr. Standish had said, today was her lucky day.

F
or the first time in her memory, Sofia awakened on a Monday and didn’t go to work. Lucy had told her there was no reason for both of them to go to the sweatshop to quit and collect their pay.

So Sofia was blessed with something incredibly rare: free time.

But didn’t she deserve it? Though she’d only been working at the sweatshop for four years, before that she’d worked at home, making paper flowers with her mother and aunt, since she was five.

What little free time she had, she spent reading dime novels, which she either bought in their entirety as soft-covered books or collected from magazines over many issues. Mamma called them an extravagance, but Papa had told Mamma to let her be, that if Sofia could escape in a good story, so be it. Though Papa had been gone for years now, Mamma hadn’t defied his wishes and prohibited the treat. Sofia earned ten cents a sleeve, sometimes seventy cents a day. Surely she deserved to buy a book every week. Up until today, Sunday afternoon was her only time to indulge herself, to escape to the Wild West, or into one of Laura Jean Libbey’s romances.

She loved how Mrs. Libbey’s stories usually revolved around a poor young girl who fell in love with a man far above her station. And they always—always—married in the end, and knowing that never ruined the stories one whit.

This morning, Sofia saw an opening for some reading time. So before Mamma ordered her to help pack for the move, she grabbed her latest title,
Little Rosebud’s Lovers,
and ran down the five flights of stairs to the stoop outside their tenement. There, she sat upon the top step, just to the right of the door, leaned her back against the building, and found the place she’d left off. . . . A handsome stranger, Percy Fielding, was discussing the county fair, where he planned to see Maud, the woman of his affection. Yet the local man he spoke with talked of a stepsister, Rosebud. . . .

“Who gave her the name of Rosebud?” said Percy.

“Oh, she’s been called that ever since she was born, and she has the sweetest face, with red cheeks and pretty dimples, that you ever saw; but she is no young lady. Little Rosebud is only a romping, merry-hearted child of sixteen, with a face like an apple-blossom, framed in long, fair, curling flaxen hair, soft and clinging as a baby’s, and great blue roguish eyes, and the sweetest little scarlet mouth you ever saw.”

Sofia looked up when an argument between Mrs. Roselli and a customer over a loaf of bread got heated. Noise. Mulberry Street was always noisy, whether it be from the pushcart owners calling out their wares, horses’ hooves on the cobblestones, or homeless children trying to sell a stray piece of wood, some matches, or a discarded newspaper.

She pushed the distractions away and returned to the book’s description of Rosebud. Blond, blue-eyed, and merry. Nothing like Sofia herself, yet she also knew that before the story ended Rosebud would face great peril before finding love and redemption. There was satisfaction in seeing the rich humbled and the poor raised up. Not that Sofia believed such things actually happened. Although the neighborhood was filled with families that had come to America to make a better life, the streets were not paved with gold. They were but worn and dirty cobblestones made slick with the droppings of man and animal alike.

Within a page Sofia nodded with satisfaction as poor Rosebud began her descent into hell. . . .
And pretty Little Rosebud Arden would know the bitterest woe that ever came to a bright, sunny girl’s life, as she drained to the dregs the bitter draught which would be held to her lips by the hand she loved. . . .

Sofia could hardly wait.

Just a peek
 . . .

Lucy was tempted to peer into the window of Madame Moreau’s, but refrained. Today—dressed in her worst work clothes for the task of cleaning their new apartment—was not the day to make her presence known. Only two days more and she could enter with confidence.

She set down the basket of cleaning supplies in order to negotiate the key in the door to their apartment, angling it downward as she’d had to do when first meeting Mr. Standish. Her easy success made her smile. She was an expert already. It was meant to be.

The door at the top of the stairs also succumbed to her key and she entered—and immediately saw a vase of white and yellow flowers on a table.

There was a small note stuck within its blooms.
Miss Scarpelli, I feel bad for the horrible condition of this flat. Hopefully, these flowers will bid you fair welcome. Mr. Standish.

Lucy allowed herself a moment to enjoy the fragrance. She appreciated Mr. Standish’s gesture, but would have preferred the more practical one of having the place cleaned.

“Chi fa da sé, fa per tre,”
she said with a sigh. If she wanted something done, she would have to do it herself.

And so she did.

As usual.

Lucy pushed hair away from her face with the back of a hand. She got up from her knees, arching her back to counter the ache.

Was she finished?

She scanned the main room. The windows were washed, the floors swept and scrubbed, the facilities in the kitchen and bath as spotless as she could make them.

Her hands begged for attention. They were red-raw from the hot water and soap, yet she didn’t really mind. At least there
was
hot water in their apartment. Back home they’d had to go into the hallway to gather water from a shared spigot, and then heat it on the stove. Baths had been taken in the main room, in a hip bath, and the more intimate needs were attended to in communal outhouses.

Now to arrange the furniture. What was left behind was rickety—Lucy had thrown away one precarious chair—but the rest was usable.

She remembered that the mattress to the bed was sticking out the back window to air. She hauled it back in and placed it on the frame, choosing the best side up. The room held a small table she placed beside the bed, and a three-drawer dresser—one drawer for each of them. And there was even an armoire for hanging clothes. Lucy shivered at the memory of cleaning out the mouse nest she’d found inside.

The living room contained a small table for eating at and two chairs. In addition, there was an upholstered chair. Even through the seat cushion, Lucy could feel the springs, but if you sat just right, it was the softest chair she’d ever sat in. Mamma would like it.

Mamma and Sofia would like all of it.

“I did well,” she said aloud, breaking the silence.

The silence. What was silence?

Lucy sat in the chair and rested her arms upon
its
arms. It was odd to consider the lack of silence in her life. In a tenement full of families there was always noise. Even in the middle of the night they could hear people moving about. The walls were thin, and privacy didn’t exist. Not to mention Uncle Aldo’s snoring.

She closed her eyes and held her breath to allow the silence to fully wrap around her—and didn’t like it.

Lucy breathed heavier to break through the nothingness, and after a few moments of that effort, opened her eyes and stood. Silence and solitude were foreign conditions that would take getting used to.

A familiar sound broke into the moment, drawing her to the window. Horses pulled a lovely carriage to a stop in front of the dress shop. The driver got down from his perch and opened the carriage door. A fine lady emerged wearing a navy suit adorned with red piping. She said something to the driver and went inside.

This was the sort of woman Lucy would be sewing for. She faced the room, raised her chin, and placed her hands primly, one upon the other. “How may I help you this morning, ma’am? I just happen to have the most exquisite ensemble, designed especially for you.” She cocked her head, hearing the woman’s response. Then Lucy said, “My name? Lucy Scarpelli.” A pause. “You’ve not heard of me? Let me assure you, you will.”

With a laugh, Lucy dropped her hands and did a pirouette in the middle of the room.

Why not dream?

Her life was just beginning.

Sofia’s free time didn’t last long before her mother and aunt found her and demanded she come help with the packing. A lifetime of accumulation and not enough crates made the chore difficult. And added to the chaos were Uncle Aldo and Aunt Francesca packing for their trip west.

Lucy came home late in the day. Sofia tossed her a roll of twine. “It’s about time. Tie up that stack of bedding.”

Lucy stood inside the door, scanning the room. She looked as though she could cry.

“What’s wrong?” Sofia asked.

“When I left this morning I didn’t realize it would be the last time I’d see the place as it’s always been.”

Mamma took the twine from her. “Consider it a blessing, Lucia. Sometimes it’s best not to have time to wallow in the ‘last’ of things.”

“But it’s not home anymore.”

Sofia hadn’t taken time to think of it that way, yet what Lucy said was right. In the length of a single day, the apartment had been stripped of the items that made it home. Now it was simply two rooms with peeling wallpaper, a single cracked window that overlooked a narrow alley, and a stove that barely provided heat and made cooking a challenge. Would the kitchen in their new place be better? Would they see sunshine? Would the bedroom have natural light and air?

“Do you want this pan?” Mamma asked Aunt Francesca.

Uncle Aldo shook his head. “She does not. There isn’t room and I’m certain our son has plenty of pans.”

Sofia was less certain. She couldn’t imagine Cousin Vittorio caring about pans or pots or anything domestic. She hoped he lived in a respectable place in Oklahoma, but she also knew he had a penchant for exaggeration. She did not trust his letters, bragging about his new life. What would her aunt and uncle find when they met their son?

Suddenly Mamma pressed a shirt to her face. Was she crying?

Sofia put an arm around her shoulders. Without a word Mamma offered her the shirt. Sofia inhaled the scent of her father.

“We came here together. We made this home together.”

Sofia felt her throat tighten but refused to give in to tears.

Lucy smelled the shirt too, then handed it back to Mamma. “It would sadden Papa to be here and see our building demolished, to see the old neighborhood change so drastically.”