All She Ever Wanted (33 page)
“I’d like to wear it home,” she told the salesgirl. Her father couldn’t make her return it if it was already worn. Even so, she worried about what he would say—especially when he learned that she’d spent most of her pay.
“What did you do?” he shouted as soon as he saw her. He appraised her from head to toe, scowling fiercely. Fiona forced herself to sound bold and carefree.
“I got my hair bobbed. Long hair is so old-fashioned.”
“Your face looks different, too.”
“I bought some makeup. All the fashionable women wear lipstick and rouge. And this dress is the latest style from Paris. Do you like it?”
“That’s not a dress! It’s indecent! It looks like you’re wearing your blooming nightclothes! I can see your ankles!”
“It’s the style, Dad. You told me to dress like a rich woman—well, this is the way they dress. Besides, I have very nice ankles.”
“Well, I’ll not have you spending all your money to look like a tart. Take everything back!”
Fiona felt her temper flare. “How am I supposed to meet any rich American men if I look like a dowdy, old-fashioned immigrant? I thought that’s why we came to America—so I could marry a rich husband and live in a mansion. Instead, all I do is work and sleep and work some more. I’m sick of it! It’s high time we got out of this horrible tenement.”
She had never defied her father before, and the confrontation left her shaken. But much to her surprise, Rory backed down. “Well, you’d better change out of that dress before you fix dinner,” he growled. “You don’t want to ruin it.” He said no more about her new look. Nor did he complain about all the money she’d spent.
He began buying the newspaper every day and spent a great deal of time reading it, tearing out certain articles, circling others in pencil. Fiona looked through his collection and saw that he was saving articles about all sorts of social events: ribbon-cuttings, gallery openings, charity events, and receptions.
“What is all this? What are you up to now, Dad?” she asked as she peered over his shoulder one night.
“I have a plan to get us out of this place.” He looked up at her and smiled—the first smile she’d seen on his face in a long time. “Here, I want you to sit down and read today’s news, Fiona. Find out what’s going on in the world so you can discuss things intelligently, understand?”
“Discuss… with whom?”
He ignored her question. “For instance, did you know that they’re going to be electing a new president this fall? Everyone who is a United States citizen gets to vote for the man they want—either Warren Harding or James Cox. And women can vote, too, for the first time. Can you imagine such a thing?”
“What about the Catholics? Do they get to vote?”
“Aye. Religion doesn’t matter over here. No one cares which church you go to in America. Read this,” he insisted, thumping the newspaper with his hand. “It tells about the most famous thoroughbred in America, Man O’War. And you need to know about the new League of Nations. Rich men talk about these things, and you need to know, too, so you can converse with them.”
“What if they ask questions about me? What should I say?”
“Anything but the truth, that’s for certain.”
The thought of committing yet another sin made Fiona afraid. “I’m not a very good liar, Dad. The nuns said that the devil is the father of lies, and—”
“Enough about the nuns. That’s superstitious nonsense. If someone asks questions about you, tell them you’re visiting from Ireland—that much is true. Tell them your father has business here—they don’t need to know what that business is. And don’t forget to look at their left hand for a wedding ring. Most married men in America wear them.”
Several evenings a week and on Sunday afternoons, Fiona and her father dressed in their best clothes and rode the subway to the nicer sections of New York where all the fancy social gatherings took place. She was very nervous at first as she watched Rory bluff his way into various events. But once inside, Fiona gradually gained confidence. No one questioned their presence or asked to see their invitation.
She studied the upper-class women as she strolled around art galleries or nibbled canape
s at receptions and quickly learned to imitate their manners and bright laughter. But it was the men who fascinated her the most. They seemed so handsome compared to the working men on the Lower East Side, so elegant and well-mannered. She loved the way they treated women with kindness and attentiveness.
“You must put on some weight, Dad,” she told him as they rode the subway home one evening, the car lurching from side to side as it sped down the darkened tunnel. “All the rich men are plump—and their skin isn’t brown and leathery from the sun.”
“Nothing I can do about that, lass. I work outside in all sorts of weather.”
“And your shoes are a disgrace. I’m surprised no one noticed them and tossed you out in the street.” She hated telling him that, knowing how he would go about getting a new pair, but she needed better shoes, as well. Two nights later they broke into a shoe repair shop, and each took a pair of shoes.
Besides bluffing their way into receptions and social events, Fiona and her father started lounging around the lobbies of fancy hotels. Businessmen who belonged to the Rotary Club or Kiwanis often gathered there to attend meetings, and occasionally one of them would smile at Fiona or tip his hat to her. On Sunday afternoons, she and her father strolled around Central Park or along Fifth Avenue. They looked in the windows of expensive stores and spent some of their precious money sipping tea in the fine coffee shops where the upper classes went. One Friday evening, as they passed an overcrowded coffee shop, Rory spotted a gentleman seated all alone reading a newspaper.
“Quick, Fiona. Go inside and ask if you could join him,” he urged.
“Won’t he think I’m brash?”
“Tell him you’ve been shopping all day, you’re tired, there aren’t any empty tables. Go on, girl. This is your golden opportunity.” He practically shoved her through the door. Fiona went forward on shaking knees.
“Excuse me, would you mind if I sat here?” she asked the man. He lowered his newspaper and looked up at her in surprise. “There don’t seem to be any empty tables,” she explained, gesturing to the crowded shop. She flashed him her prettiest smile.
“Not at all.” He scrambled to his feet and helped Fiona with her chair. “I’m nearly finished, in fact.”
“Oh, please don’t hurry on my account. I wouldn’t mind some company. I would have waited for a free table, but I’m dying for a cup of tea.”
“I’ll get a waiter for you, Miss…”
“Quinn. Fiona Quinn. Thank you so much.” She ordered a cup of tea and heard the gentleman say to put it on his tab. He folded his newspaper closed, and after the waiter brought Fiona’s tea and refilled his coffee cup, the man settled back comfortably to chat. He was a nice-looking man in his early thirties, with wavy brown hair and a clean-shaven face.
“I noticed you have an accent. May I ask where you’re from, Miss Quinn?”
“My father and I are visiting from Ireland. He has business here in the city.” She had rehearsed the words so many times, waiting for this opportunity, that they no longer seemed like a lie. She remembered her goal. Her family was counting on her.
“And what do you think of our fair city?”
“It’s wonderful! I’ve been shopping all afternoon—which is why I needed this tea.”
“Are you shopping all alone?” he asked, regarding her with sympathy.
“I’m afraid so. My father is occupied with meetings and such. I’m afraid to venture too far from our hotel.”
“What have you seen since coming to New York? Have you been to the theater or the symphony orchestra?”
“I’m afraid not. We’ve only just arrived. But I’d love to go sometime.” She waited, hoping he would offer to take her. He didn’t. “So what brings you here on a Friday evening?” she asked as the silence lengthened. “Do you work nearby?”
“I work for a law firm down on Wall Street, but I’m meeting my wife for dinner here in midtown in about an hour. I’m just killing time.”
“I see.” Fiona smiled, trying not to let her disappointment show. “That’s an odd phrase, isn’t it—‘killing time’? Exactly how does one ‘kill’time?”
“I guess it is a strange expression. I never thought much about it.” He seemed very solemn and humorless, and she told herself it was just as well that he was married. She wanted a man who was charming as well as handsome and rich—and, she prayed, a man with a sense of humor.
She saw no sense in prolonging the conversation. Fiona finished her tea and thanked him again for allowing her to sit with him, then rejoined her father out on the sidewalk.
“Well?” he asked hopefully.
“He was married.”
“Oh. That’s too bad. For a while there, you looked like you were getting on.”
“No, not really. But he did pay for my tea.”
Neither of them spoke as they rode the subway back to their shabby apartment and colorless life. Fiona had never felt so discouraged. She wished they had enough money to return to Ireland. She could ask for her old job back at Wickham Hall, marry Kevin, have children. She remembered how much Kevin had loved her as she climbed the creaking stairs to their dingy rooms.
“We tried, lass,” Rory said as he shrugged off his suit coat. “We’ll try again another day.”
“Pretending to be rich is a stupid idea, Dad. It’s never going to work.” Her father ignored her pessimism. He sat down at the dilapidated table he’d disinterred from the dump and opened the newspaper to the entertainment pages.
“I’ve got it!” he said, looking up at her with a grin. “Next Friday night we’ll try the theater.”
F
iona knew that she and her father had made a mistake as soon as they reached the theater district. They’d timed their arrival to coincide with intermission, so the ushers would no longer be checking tickets, but they hadn’t taken into account that the people milling around in the lobby and streaming outside into the warm summer air would all be wearing formal evening clothes.
“We’d better leave,” she told her father. “You don’t have a tuxedo.”
“Never mind about that. Just hold your head high and walk into the lobby. No one will care.” She did as she was told, pushing past the people who were drifting outside to light up cigarettes and fat cigars. The lobby was crowded, as well, and she smelled the aroma of coffee.
“Now what?” she asked her father. He was glancing all around, taking everything in.
“Find a man who’s alone. Like that gentleman over there.” He tilted his head to one side, indicating where Fiona should look. A group of people had lined up to buy coffee at a kiosk off to her left, and standing all alone at the end of the line was a tall, elegant-looking man who appeared to be in his forties.
“He’s too old,” Fiona whispered. “Can’t you pick someone younger?”
“Go on with you, girl! Just meet him before you decide. If you make a good impression, maybe he’ll introduce you to a younger friend. Hurry up, now. He’s still alone. “ Fiona mustered all her courage as she made her way over to the man, telling herself that this was just for practice. Several more patrons had joined the line behind him by the time she got there, and she wasn’t sure what to do. It would be awkward to cut in line alongside him. But her father was watching; she felt she had no choice but to follow through.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said, touching his arm to get his attention. “Is this the queue for coffee?”
He turned to face her. “Pardon? The… what?”
“The queue—or I suppose they call it a ‘line’here in America.”
“Oh, yes. Yes, we do call it a line. But don’t go to the end of it,” he said, glancing back at the lengthening line. “Please, allow me to buy you a cup.”
“Thank you. That’s very kind of you, Mr. …”
“Bartlett. Arthur Bartlett.”
“Fiona Quinn,” she said, smiling. “How do you do?”
“Fine, thank you.” He smiled in return—a charming, lopsided smile that went all the way to his eyes. They were wide and expressive and a very deep shade of brown. “You have a lovely name, Fiona Quinn, and a lovely voice. Are you… English?”
“From Dublin, actually. I’m visiting America with my father.”
He studied her with interest while they talked, stroking his neatly trimmed mustache as if petting a small animal. Fiona studied him, as well. Mr. Bartlett had a pleasant, oval-shaped face, and he wore his thin, lightbrown hair combed back from his high forehead. His full, pouting lips and somber eyes gave him a mournful look—until his smile lit up his face. He had a nice voice, too, deep and resonant. But he was too old. Fiona wanted someone young and handsome.
“How many coffees would you like?” he asked. They had reached the front of the line.
“Just one—for me.” She was surprised when he ordered only one for himself. She would have guessed that he was fetching coffee for his wife or theater companions. Surely an elegant, well-to-do gentleman like Mr. Bartlett wouldn’t attend the theater alone. He paid for both coffees, then moved aside to the counter where the cream and sugar were served.
“How do you take yours?” he asked.
“A little of each, thank you.” Fiona hated coffee and wondered how she would manage to choke it down. She watched his hands as he stirred in the cream and sugar; the ring finger on his left hand was bare.