City of Promise by Beverly Swerling Read Free Book Online

the knee. Four pairs these last two years. And she’d finished a fifth yesterday. It had taken longer than usual for her to get to the job because so many ladies were getting their finery together for the Easter Parade in a few weeks. “I’m sorry you had to wait for the gray gabardines, Mr. Turner. I finished them yesterday. They’re sure to be delivered today.”
    It was a secure promise. Wagons blazoned with the name R. H. Macy’s and driven by men wearing the same blue-gray uniform as the salesclerks traversed the city every day but Sunday. “New Yorkers want everything in a flaming hurry,” Mr. Macy said. “And Macy’s never disappoints.”
    Joshua waved aside the matter of his new trousers. “I didn’t come for that. Only to say thank you, as I said. You took some finding.” He nodded toward the sprawling selling floor behind him.
    Mollie had a sudden vision of what he’d walked through to arrive at her little room: shelves and racks and counters full of ladies’ clothing. Just outside her door were a selection of ladies’ lace-trimmed pantaloons, and immediately beyond that row after row of crinolines and petticoats. Her cheeks colored simply by virtue of the mental image. She set her embroidery aside and went straight to him, boldly taking his left arm since he held a walking stick as well as his hat under his right. “Do let me show you the quickest way out, Mr. Turner. It is a bit of a maze, just as you said.”
    “I believe, Miss Popandropolos,” Josh said, his grin widening, “you’re giving me what is known as the bum’s rush.”
    “Never, Mr. Turner. Macy’s values your custom far too much for that. I only wish to be helpful.” They were past the crinolines by then, and while Mollie was aware of the stares of a few of the women, most were too busy with their shopping to notice.
    Josh paid no attention whatever to the women around them. His attention was absorbed by the one who had attached herself to him in such a determined manner, and managed seemingly without effort to match her gait to his. The top of her dark head came somewhere below his earlobe, and she had a pleasant voice and an accent that seemed naturally cultured, not one of those exaggerated attempts to overlay an immigrant brogue or a shopgirl’s slur. He particularly liked that she turned her face up to his when she spoke, with no trace of practiced artifice in the gesture.
    A delightful face he realized, amazed at himself he hadn’t more quickly noticed the large dark blue eyes, or the dimples on either side of her mouth when she smiled. She wasn’t the sort of beauty who knocked you over first thing, but a beauty nonetheless. “Listen,” he said, “it really is Miss Popandropolos, not Mrs.? That’s not some Macy type of tomfoolery for his lady clerks?”
    “I am mistress of special sewing, Mr. Turner. Not a salesclerk. And yes, it really is Miss Popandropolos.” Now he knew she was a spinster. Well, so be it. The way things had turned out didn’t suit Auntie Eileen—Mollie living these last four years in a ladies’ boardinghouse and working for her living with still no husband in sight—but now that she’d accepted the fact that she was never to have children of her own, Mollie had found much to like in being independent. Of course it might not be as nice if she had to manage entirely on the seventeen dollars a week Macy’s paid her (the male tailors earned twenty-four), but Auntie Eileen still paid her thirty dollars a month to keep her books, a job Mollie did on Tuesday evenings. All together, things had turned out better than Mollie expected. Including the task of getting Mr. Joshua Turner through the ladies’ intimates department without causing an uproar. Perhaps it was because of the stick and his walk having a slight jerk to it that they were spared open stares. These days everyone assumed such a condition to indicate a soldier injured in the war and turned respectfully away.
    In minutes they were at