City of Promise by Beverly Swerling Read Free Book Online Page A

the bank of elevators in the third-floorvestibule. “Here we are, Mr. Turner. Thank you for coming to see me. It was most gracious.”
    “You hated it,” he said. “Will Mrs. Getchell give you the rough of her tongue because of me? She manages the store, doesn’t she? I’m told she’s a harridan.”
    “Mrs. Getchell believes as we all do, Mr. Turner, that the customer is always correct. So if you wished to see me, Macy’s is happy to oblige.”
    Those were the same words he quoted back to her three days after his first visit, on the Thursday afternoon when he again appeared at the door of her sewing room. “The customer’s always correct you said. So I’ve come to bring you these,” holding out a bunch of dark purple violets surrounded by hand-cut paper lace and tied with a pink ribbon, “and you must say, ‘Yes, of course, Joshua. I will be happy to go coaching with you Sunday afternoon.’ I’ve just purchased three new pairs of trousers, so I’m the customer and I insist.”
    “Thank you for the posy. It’s charming. But I can’t . . .” It was not his improbable arrival that tied her tongue. It was the sight of Auntie Eileen’s best friend, Rosie O’Toole, looming over his shoulder. Mollie had no doubt that in a matter of hours Mrs. O’Toole and Eileen Brannigan would be sitting together over a cup of tea, and that Auntie Eileen would be aware that Mollie at last had a suitor. Then, when it didn’t work out as Mollie was quite sure it would not—why should the likes of Mr. J. Turner be seriously interested in a woman well past marrying age?—her aunt would be disappointed, and say Mollie had become too independent. “Thank you again,” she said. “The violets are lovely. But I’m afraid this Sunday is out of the question.” Behind him Rosie O’Toole’s face turned dark with disapproval.
    “Why? Are you spoken for?” Joshua demanded.
    “No, but—”
    “I’ll be happy to ask permission of your father or guardian. I’m perfectly respectable, you know.”
    Behind him Rosie O’Toole was nodding her head in vigorous agreement.
    “I barely know you, Mr. Turner.”
    “Not so,” he said, sounding very grave, “you’ve had your hand up my trouser leg for three years.”
    Most females would have blushed. Or been outraged at his familiarity. Mollie giggled. She couldn’t help herself. And when he hoisted that trouser, displayed his peg, and said, “Nothing improper of course, since that leg’s made of wood,” she was undone.
    “You take it so well,” she said, his courage suddenly making her insides feel as soft as warm butter. “It must be very difficult. Do you never want to complain?”
    “Not much point in it. Now tell me where you live and I’ll collect you at two on Sunday afternoon.”
    Mollie hesitated. Nothing would come of it. Auntie Eileen would be disappointed yet again. Rosie O’Toole took a step closer and loudly cleared her throat. Joshua Turner, Mollie noted, did not appear startled. Instead he gave the definite impression he was aware of being watched and was unfazed. It struck Mollie all at once that this was not a usual sort of man. “Miss Hamilton’s,” she said, “Eight East Twenty-Third Street.”
    “Miss Hamilton’s,” Joshua repeated. “I’m honored, Miss Mollie Popandropolos. And I very much look forward to seeing you on Sunday.”

    Good thing, Mollie thought, she wasn’t a regular churchgoer. The absence of devotions allowed her to spend three hours Sunday morning deciding what to wear. It was a bit warmer, fortunately. And the sun was shining. She settled on her blue-and-white-striped dress, because she particularly liked the way the flounced skirt bustled behind her—she wore a padded underbustle to emphasize the effect—and made her waist look really tiny, and she could wear over it a blue short cape trimmed with ruched red velvet. The dress had a matching parasol besides, and when she twirled in front of the mirror Mollie decided the