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If Mark’s mother ever admitted to a vice, it would be a love for hats—seeing them, trying them on, examining every little adornment.
Mark had little time or money to spare, but if a new hat helped her to feel better about their move to Riverport, he would devote a few minutes of his day and a portion of the coins in his pocket to escort her on a shopping excursion. Though why she desired a new hat, he couldn’t say. Not when she crafted them herself like another woman might crochet lace or embroider a pillow covering. What had she done with them all?
As he followed her through the elaborate front door of S. F. Newland’s, he pulled out his father’s silver pocket watch etched with a simple leaf design on the back. Thirty minutes should give her time to find something nice.
He slipped the watch back in his pocket and surveyed the first floor of the department store. Just as Riverport was nothing to rival Chicago, this store was nothing to rival Marshall Fields in size or style. Still, at four stories, it was the tallest and most impressive building in town, a building designed with both luxury and functionality in mind. Even during a workday, the place buzzed with customers. People must come from miles around to shop its merchandise.
He approached the marble-topped counter in the center of the first floor and asked the male concierge manning it, “Where will we find ladies’ hats?”
“All women’s fashions are on the third floor, sir. Ask for Mrs. Kingsley.”
The young man’s enthusiastic grin was infectious, and Mark responded in kind. “Thank you.”
He led his mother to the elevator next to a wide staircase, prepared to escort her up the steps. She balked. “I am not so feeble that I cannot climb stairs, Marek, and you have no business in a ladies department. Who knows what you will see.”
After almost twenty-nine years of watching her unmentionables flying from the clothesline, he doubted he’d see anything to shock him.
“You’re not feeble, Mama—” far from it—“but it hasn’t been long since your bout with influenza.”
“I am well. Now go.”
“Fine. I’ll look around down here. Remember to ask for Mrs. Kingsley.”
She gripped the wrought iron handrail and nodded. “I will not be long.”
Mark wandered through the departments on the first floor—from the perfumes to the kitchen supplies. He stopped at a display of linens, pulled out a white damask tablecloth, and held it out to examine the fruit design and scrollwork border. Perhaps his mother would like it for the dining room table.
Probably, but she would only tell him he couldn’t afford it, and she’d be right. Not even three months before the bank expected a large payment on his loan.
When Mark decided on a location for his office, he looked for a growing town with little competition. Not that he lacked the self-assurance to succeed. Quite the contrary. However, Chicago already ran rife with some of the century’s most amazing architects: Lewis Sullivan, Daniel Burnham, and Dankmar Adler, to name a few. He wanted somewhere ready for his business but not overwhelmed with talent.
A fellow draftsman at D. H. Burnham and Company suggested Riverport near his hometown in Indiana. More than a farming community, Riverport had experienced strong growth in the past two decades, both in population and wealth. New buildings. New homes. New department store. It was a splendid place for a new beginning.
Mark refolded the linen and put it back on the shelf. All he needed was one important project between now and the end of July.
After wandering some more, he stopped near the concierge counter for the second time. The young man asked, “Did your mother find what she was looking for, sir?”
“She’s still up there.”
“Well, if she met Mrs. Kingsley as I suggested, she might be a while. My sister is quite the saleswoman.”
And the brother was adept at promoting his sister. “I hope she’s not too much of a saleswoman. We’ll need to eat the rest of the month.” It was a half-hearted joke, but perhaps he should make sure the clerk didn’t take advantage of his mother. He pulled out the watch and checked the time again. “I think I’ll hurry them along.”
He stopped at the staircase of white marble treads and walnut risers and looked up at two floors with nothing but a slim, waist-high wrought iron barrier to prevent a customer from tumbling and falling to the first floor. Foolishness.
Mark wrapped his fingers around the handrail of the staircase and climbed to the second-floor landing. He looked up and craned his neck, trying to locate his mother above him. Naturally, she was nowhere in his line of sight.
Halfway to the third floor, a child of seven or eight bumped into him as he raced down the stairs without a second thought to his safety.
“Be careful that you don’t fall.” Mark imagined the boy tripping and lunging headfirst in a tumble to rest in a broken heap on the landing. The rascal reached the second floor, never having looked back. Mark shook his head.
The first thing he saw on the third floor was a display of women’s hats. He searched the area for his mother with no success.
A straw boater snagged his attention. Thick, black feather plumes stuck straight up, held by folds of some type of orange-gold material that matched one of her suits. He thumped a feather and watched it wave back and forth.
“That’s a beautiful choice, sir, though you may prefer a style that better matches your suit.”
He looked up to find a mesmerizing blonde with expressive blue eyes grinning at him. Her light gray suit with a white shirtwaist matched the uniforms of other women who worked in the store.
Without permitting himself a second thought over his absurd response, Mark picked up the hat and placed it on his head. “Are you sure? I think it adds a certain flair to my wardrobe, don’t you?”
She crossed her arms and studied it from various angles, a twitch of her well-formed lips the only sign of humor on her fair, angelic face. “I will admit, it does accentuate the amber in your eyes.” Pink tinted her cheeks. Then she masked her delightful sense of humor with the starched formality of an ordinary sales clerk. “I’m with a customer, sir. May I find someone else to help you?”
He opened his mouth to ask about his mother when Mama appeared, sporting a hat she hadn’t worn into the store. “Marek?” She glanced between him and the clerk, a scowl marring her face. “I would suggest you walk down one flight and try on a felt derby. Brown is more your color.”
Heat scorched his face and, no doubt, stained it the same shade as the clerk’s. He yanked off the hat and handed it to the blonde. “I apologize for my ridiculous behavior, Miss...?”
The clerk’s smile was a remnant of what he’d seen a moment earlier. “Mrs. Kingsley.”
So this was the expert saleswoman. Her coloring did reflect her brother’s.
Mark’s buoyant mood had lasted less than two minutes. Mrs. He’d flirted with a married woman. Now, he really did feel ridiculous...and disappointed. “I beg your pardon, ma’am.”
“No harm done.” She turned to his mother, the smile back in place. She held out the hat. “Your son has good taste in choosing this lovely piece for you, Mrs. She... Shegor...”
“It is pronounced Zhi-gor-chek.” Mama removed the hat on her head and shoved it at Mrs. Kingsley. She swiped her own hat from a nearby shelf and started for the staircase. “I am no longer interested in buying anything, madam.”
Mark’s jaw fell slack. What had gotten into his mother?
The wide-eyed clerk turned to Mark. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend her, Mr. Grzegorczyk.”
She pronounced it perfectly this time, but he didn’t have the heart to ask her to call him Mr. Gregory. “It wasn’t your fault, Mrs. Kingsley. Thank you for your assistance.”
He followed his mother as she stomped down each stair. Once they reached the first floor, he asked, “Why didn’t you buy a hat? It was what you came here to do.” Why waste time looking only to change her mind and not purchase anything?
“I will not buy from that woman.”
“Why not? She seemed friendly.”
“Too friendly for someone who is married. If you understand my meaning.” His mother marched to the door. “And she could not pronounce our name.”
“You insist on holding that against the woman?” For the sake of his career, he had legally changed his name to save clients from the same discomfort he had seen on Mrs. Kingsley’s face. “You were rude to her, Mama.”
“She flirted with you.”
“We were laughing over the hat. Besides, you misunderstood.” He opened the door and they stepped onto the sidewalk. “I flirted with her.”
His mother stopped and stared at him. “Marek.”
“That was before I learned she was married.” He might not live the most devout Christian life, but he knew right from wrong. He knew of the practical and spiritual hazards brought on by an attraction to a married woman.
“Married and not Polish.”
“Please don’t start that. Whether you like it or not, Mama, you’re in America. You’ve lived here for thirty years. Don’t you think it’s time you stopped acting as though Father kidnapped you and brought you here against your will?”
“You’re tata—”
Mark raised both hands to stop her. “My father wanted a better life for his family, which didn’t include his children living under a Prussian thumb.”
His mother stiffened. “At least Paulina can pronounce our name. You need a wife who understands your background.”
“Paulina Kowalski is a wonderful woman, a friend, but I will marry someone I love be she Polish, English, or Tasmanian.” Tired of the familiar argument, he clutched his mother’s elbow and urged her on. “Let’s go home. It’s getting late, and I have a big day tomorrow.”
On the walk to their new house, Mark tried to concentrate on the list of tasks still to complete with the move into the new office. But time after time, his mind returned to the image of a blue-eyed blonde with a flawless face, a ready smile, and a quick wit.
What kind of man had she married? For her sake, he hoped her husband enjoyed laughter.
Mark quickened his pace. Thinking of married women meant trouble, and that kind of trouble was the last thing he sought.
***
“IS SOMETHING TROUBLING you?”
Claire looked up from the book on her lap. “Why do you ask, Ma?”
“You look tired and worried.”
Not worried. Conflicted. Embarrassed. Foolish. Lonely.
Speaking with Mr. Dover on Wednesday and then today’s disastrous encounter at the store with the Grzegorczyks had worn on her.
“It’s nothing. I upset a customer this afternoon. She was Polish or Russian, probably, with a difficult name. As a result, Newland’s lost a sale.”
Though the story was true, what really bothered Claire about the incident was how she had made a fool of herself in front of the woman’s son. It was unbecoming, unprofessional, and...and completely unacceptable on every level. She was fortunate neither mother nor son had complained to her employers about her behavior—not yet, anyway.
Her mother dropped her paintbrush in the old jar. It hit the side of the glass with a soft clink. A talented amateur china painter, she’d almost finished the colorful bouquet of red roses, orange zinnias, and pink hollyhocks decorating the vase on the small table in front of her. Claire assumed she’d received her artistic gift from her mother, since her father couldn’t draw a straight line with a ruler.
“I’m sorry you lost the sale.”
Claire produced her brightest smile. “Don’t worry. There will be others.” Other sales, not flirtations.
Until today, the only man she had ever flirted with was Richard. Nevertheless, she had taken one look at a strong chin and an amber twinkle in the eyes of a stranger and lost all sense of propriety. Even now, she fought a smile. He’d looked bizarre wearing that hat. Somehow, though, the comedic lark took nothing away from his dignity and air of self-confidence.
No man had ever affected her that way upon first glance. If she were truthful, not even her husband.
Mr. Grzegorczyk’s antics had prompted her to act frivolous and impulsive in return. That, too, was unacceptable. For all she knew, he was a married man.
Regardless, she wasn’t ready for romance and would not be ready for marriage again until she was safely past childbearing age.
She slapped the cover closed on the novel. Mark Twain had been Richard’s favorite author, but after giving in to the urge to dig his book, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, out of the trunk in her room, she hadn’t turned a page in the last twenty minutes. “You’re right. I am a bit tired. I think I’ll go upstairs. Good night, Ma.”
Her mother studied her a moment, and she nearly withered and confessed all under the concerned and questioning stare. “Good night, Claire.”
Once in her bedroom, she lifted the rounded lid of her grandmother’s Jenny Lind trunk and laid the book inside. Her attention snagged on another book half-buried under a woolen skirt she’d packed away for the summer. She must have exposed it when removing the novel.
She pulled it from the trunk. Her heart hammered as she ran a finger over the black linen cover. The sketchbook contained drawings of building elevations, interior rooms, even the landscapes on which her imagined homes sat. As modest or as extravagant as she desired, they represented a shadow of the dream she’d once had the will to reach for, the one that filled her with joy.
These days, she kept the book to herself, hidden in the chest as though the drawings amounted to a collection of naughty sketches created by a debauched hand. She hadn’t opened it since—
Claire stuffed the sketchbook back under the skirt and slammed the trunk’s curved lid shut.