On Wings Of The Morning by Marie Bostwick Read Free Book Online Page B

before, and she’d gone on and on about it. Eating out was a rare treat for me, but we were celebrating our birthdays—we were born in the same month. We went dutch, and with my employee discount, lunch in the café cost only a little more than my usual brown bag in the break room.
    â€œI can’t think why you’re wearing that same white blouse and the same black pumps you wore to graduation when you’ve got the latest styles at your feet, and all at a discount! You could have a nice apartment, but instead you live in a one-room garret and cook on a hot plate!”
    â€œTrue, but it’s my one-room garret, and that makes all the difference.” It would have been cheaper to keep living in Delia’s apartment, but that was where I’d drawn the line on frugality. My rented room was only three blocks from her place, and since we worked in the same store, albeit in different departments (thank heaven!) I saw her every day. Having my own place gave me a break from her endless conversations about what I should wear, who I should date, or how pretty I could look if only I’d fix myself up a little. It also meant I could avoid awkward meetings with the latest “uncle” who might be sitting at the kitchen table drinking his morning coffee in the same shirt he’d worn the night before. That alone was worth double the rent I paid for my garret.
    â€œHonestly, Georgia! You never spend a dime on yourself. If I was in your shoes I’d dress like a fashion plate,” Fran said through a mouthful of chicken salad. “And I’d have the cutest little place with everything new—a whole matching set of dinnerware, with the serving pieces and everything, and some of those sheets with the scalloped embroidery on the edges, and matching pillows with my monogram. Wouldn’t that be elegant? Do you get a discount on monogramming, too?” she asked hopefully.
    â€œNo. Just on the things the store buys from vendors. They have to pay people in the store for monogramming and tailoring, so that’s full price.”
    Fran bit her lip thoughtfully. “Well, that’s all right. I can live without the monogram,” she said before going on. “And a pile of big, fluffy cotton towels—in pink, to match the tile in our new bathroom. Did I tell you about the tile in the house?” I nodded and kept eating. She had, several times, but I knew she was going to tell me again anyway. I didn’t mind. Fran was just three weeks away from living her dream life. Soon she’d be married to Richard Morelli, the manager of the movie house where Fran was an usherette, and living in her own home—a new two-bedroom bungalow with a pink-tiled bathroom and an honest-to-heaven picket fence. She was happy, and I was happy for her.
    â€œIt is just so darling! Even the toilet is pink! It matches the tile and looks so fresh against the white walls. I’m going to sew a shower curtain out of white eyelet lace and find a pink liner to go underneath so the color will peep out through the eyelet holes.” She took another bite of her salad and sighed. “Just darling!” she repeated. “But really, Georgia, I don’t understand why you don’t put that discount to good use and get yourself a new wardrobe.”
    â€œBecause Marshall Fields doesn’t sell anything I want, that’s why.”
    Fran rolled her eyes. “I know. I know. You’re saving every penny for flying lessons. Georgia! If I didn’t know better I’d think you were nuts! When are you going to grow up and realize that this is just a crazy dream? I mean, honestly! How many female pilots do you know?”
    â€œAmelia Earhart, Jackie Cochran, Bessie Coleman ...” I ticked them off on my fingers.
    â€œI mean real people!” she interrupted.
    â€œThey are real people. I saw Amelia Earhart give a lecture at Northwestern one day. She talked, and breathed, and