Their suite on the ninth floor of the Waldorf had two bedrooms, one on either side of the parlor. A fire warmed the book-filled parlor where Clair sat near her father’s desk.
“Goodbye, Clair. See you tonight.” He patted her head and left for the office.
She tried to find his newspaper, but he must have taken it with him. He had no idea that each day, as soon as he left for Wall Street, she took his newspaper from the receptacle and read it front to back. She perused fashion magazines, but she found current events and business concepts intriguing, too, and tried to learn as much as possible about market trends.
She opened the sash and perched on the window seat. A morning breeze drifted into the suite. Below, autos drove by and people pounded the pavement on their way to hustle-bustle lives. A nursemaid pushing a pram walked slowly.
Unless suitors came to call after her upcoming ball, the summer would tick on endlessly, like the hands of her metronome—back and forth, with no purpose or end in sight. She looked forward to school starting in the fall but had no idea what she would do with her life once she graduated. She longed to do more than go to church bazaars, teas, and balls. At her age, Aunt June had been teaching and working to get women the right to vote. Clair knew she would not have been brave enough to be a suffragette. But what could she do? She knew what she dreamed of was impossible.
Clair drifted to the piano. Her fingers touched the keys. Melancholy slow, like the beat of her heart. She longed to pick up the pace. The remnants of Victorian constraints felt corset-tight.
When Clair once mentioned to her father that she wanted to work after college, he scoffed, “What would you do?”
“I could teach piano to children, help with the church choir, maybe even direct a choir someday.”
“No need. I’ll take care of you until you get married, then it will be your husband’s responsibility.” As if she were a doll to pass on. “Only hussies work! I knew this would happen when ladies got the vote. What’s next? A woman stockbroker?”
“But Aunt June works.”
He frowned. “She’s different.”
“What do you mean?”
He looked down. “Oh, nothing. She’s always been industrious.”
Hearing Winnie’s dream of being a performer had stirred up Clair’s own childhood desire, the one she hadn’t dared tell anyone about. More than anything in the world, she yearned to be a dancer. Dancing was similar to playing the piano, but with her whole body. Her mama had once held her while she danced around the suite, singing. Clair remembered her voice as captivating.
Clair would never forget her tenth birthday when Aunt June took her to see the Russian Ballet Company, agile in their pointe shoes and frilly costumes. Clair’s heart had reeled when the tutu-wearing dancers turned around and around, spinning and spinning. She craved being up there on the stage. One tall dancer, the Sugar Plum Fairy, had been quite stunning, and as graceful as a leaf floating from a tree.
Later that night, alone in her room, Tchaikovsky still resonated in Clair’s chest. In front of the mirror, she tilted her head up and lifted one arm, then the other. Pointing her toes, she raised each leg as high as it would go, picturing the tall dancer who had raised one leg very high above her head. Clair’s body tingled. She could grow up to be a dancer.
That same year, her father had taken her to the circus. Clair had also fantasized about performing under the big top: the beat of the drums, the high-stepping ponies, their shiny manes braided with pink ribbons. When the girl rode in standing on the back of a big horse, she looked as tall as a skyscraper. Her silver-sequined costume shone in the lights, and the feather on her head bounced to the music.
As the rider let go of the reins and raised both hands above her head, Clair’s heart galloped, frightened the girl would fall. Clair looked to her father for reassurance, but his eyes were wide, too. After a few more circuits, the horse slowed to kneel and the girl gracefully stepped to the ground, curtsying to the crowd. Clair wondered how it would feel to perform in front of a crowd and make their hearts beat fast.
That girl Winnie wanted to be a performer, too, and she shouted it to the world. Clair knew she never would be able to tell anyone about her dream. First of all, her father would be mortified. Besides, Clair didn’t have Winnie’s pizzazz.
Clair wished she had someone to talk to, a friend who would understand. Perhaps Winnie would lend a kind ear. Her bubbly, uninhibited personality made her seem as if she didn’t have a care in the world.
Hurriedly dressing, Clair resolved to go back to Macy’s and find Winnie. She rode the Otis down and slipped out of the hotel. She tossed a penny to the little newsboy on the sidewalk. He jumped up and pecked her on the cheek.
“Oh, my!” She rubbed her face with a suede-gloved hand. “That wasn’t necessary. I only wanted a paper.
“Sorry, miss. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.” He twitched his nose like a rabbit’s.
“A kiss should be saved for someone special,” she scolded, trying not to smile. It was impossible to resist his freckled face, despite it being smudged with dirt. He looked to be about eight years old.
“I’m Clair. Now shake like a gentleman.” She held out her hand.
He reached out and jiggled it. “Nook.”
“Nook? How did you get a name like that?”
“The police call me that cuz I hide from them in nooks and holes.” He glanced up the busy street.
She frowned. “Why do you hide?”
“Tried to put me back in that nasty orphanage with stinky food and whippins. I’s never going back there.” He nodded his head once.
“What about school?”
“What do I need that for? I ken read.”
“Really?” She doubted it.
He flipped a newspaper to the front page and read it aloud. “Man falls off building to his death.” Nook looked up with a smug, missing-tooth grin until his eyes gaped at something behind her.
“Here comes a copper!” He dropped his papers, rushed down the street, dodged a truck, and climbed up a fire escape on the side of a building. At the top he did a handstand, holding on to the metal rails.
Clair hoped he would get away.
She strolled down the street and studied the silver shoes again in the small shop window with a sigh. The rhinestones sparkled in the morning light.
Macy’s bustled with afternoon shoppers as Clair bought a bag of nonpareils. Walking the perimeter of the ground floor looking for Winnie, she scanned the shoe, handbag, and dry good sections. Disappointed, Clair nibbled a candy and rode the wooden elevator up to the second floor. In the dress department, she spotted Winnie’s blonde curls.
Winnie caught sight of Clair and her face brightened. “Hiya, toots!”
Clair handed her the bag of sweets. “In thanks for helping me find those gloves.”
Winnie opened the bag with a squeal, “You’re the bee’s knees, the cat’s pajamas, the glitter to my gold!”
Her expression shifted to a frown, and she hid the bag behind her back. “Good afternoon, Mr. Smithers.”
“Is everything okay here?” The manager moved toward them, staring through his owlish glasses.
“Just grand.” Clair smiled at him. “This salesgirl is most helpful.”
“I’m just going to show her the corsets.”
Clair blushed. She couldn’t believe Winnie would mention personal undergarments in front of a man.
“All right, Winifred. Get to it.” He nodded at Clair and walked on.
Winnie reopened the bag. “That was a close one.” She popped a candy in her mouth and munched on it as she led Clair behind a screen to the lingerie section. She picked up a small corset and started giggling. “This one would fit a baby.”
“Do babies wear corsets?” Clair asked, putting on her best straight face.
Winnie pursed her heart-shaped lips. “I was only teasing.”
Clair paused. “Me, too!”
Winnie’s blue eyes opened wide. She giggled infectiously, and Clair joined in. It had been a long time since she’d made someone laugh.
Winnie held up another corset, in Clair’s favorite rose pink, with lace trimmings.
“This would fit you perfectly.” Winnie held it up to Clair for size.
“I couldn’t.” She shook her head. It was much too fancy.
“It would be beautiful on you. Try it. No one will see you behind the screen.”
“No, but thank you.” Clair couldn’t imagine undressing in such a public place.
“Then take it home. You’ll be glad you did.”
Clair fingered the smooth silk. It would be much more comfortable than the scratchy white one she usually wore. “I’ll take it.”
Winnie nodded and started to wrap it up. “Hey, what are you doing tonight—want to come hear some music with me?”
Spending an evening with Winnie sounded terrific. “Carnegie Hall? I love the philharmonic.” Clair had read that Toscanini would be conducting Boléro.
“Something like that.”
“Who will escort us?”
“No one.” Winnie shrugged. “We’ll go by ourselves.”
Clair frowned. Her father would never allow her to go out at night without a chaperone. “But isn’t that dangerous?”
“Aw. Nothing’ll happen. Please come.” Winnie grabbed Clair’s hand. “We’d have such fun.”
Clair’s father had an Odd Fellows lodge meeting tonight and wouldn’t be home until late. “What time would we be back?”
“Early.” Winnie smiled, handing her the box.
“Okay.” Clair nodded slowly.
“Goody!” Winnie clapped her hands. “Where shall we meet?”
“How about the clock at the Waldorf?” Clair spied Mr. Smithers approaching and stepped away with her package.
“I’ve had a hankering to see the inside.” Winnie smiled. “Seven thirty.”
As Clair rode the wooden escalator down, she was tempted to return and tell Winnie she couldn’t go after all. If Clair’s father found out, he’d be livid.