Astor Place Vintage: A Novel Read Free

closure, “Nice meeting you.”
    There was no sign of the grandson, so I tried opening the front door, but it was locked. I turned the deadbolt, but the door still didn’t open. The grandson reappeared. “I’ll get that.”
    “That’s okay. I’ve got it.” I turned the bottom lock, but the door refused to open.
    He turned the deadbolt back to its original position. The door opened. “There you go.”
    “Thanks,” I said, wishing he’d let me do it, though I knew he was just being polite.
    “Take it easy,” he said.
    I nodded. “You, too.”
    As I walked down the hallway, past the impressionist posters to the elevator, he shut the door behind me.

OLIVE
    “ANYTHING INTERESTING IN the news?” I asked, spreading a thin layer of butter on my roll.
    “Not much,” my father said from behind the paper. “The tone at the stock exchange seems more cheerful. Lots of talk about recovery.”
    I dabbed a bit of marmalade on top of the butter. “We’ve heard that before.” Just two weeks earlier, Father and I had moved to Manhattan from Cold Spring, a town about two hours north of the city by train. My favorite part of living in our brand-new apartment-hotel was breakfast delivered every morning on a dumbwaiter. Boiled egg, bread basket, pot of coffee, butter, marmalade, copy of the Sun , and a bud vase with sprigs of fresh flowers; no effort required beyond carrying the tray to your table.
    “At any rate,” Father said, closing the paper, “the market closed firm.”
    “Let’s hope it’s a trend.”
    “Don’t you worry, Olive, those bears will be shaken out soon.”
    Like so many others, he’d lost a chunk of money in the market that past March. I didn’t know exactly how much. Father rarely divulged details about his investments, but I had utter confidence in his expertise. He’d always been perfectly responsible when it came to our finances. As a Woolworth’s manager, he earned about ten thousand dollars a year, more than enough for us to live comfortably, and we had no reason to worry about future prospects. With everyone worried about the economy, it was an excellent time to be in the business of selling cheap goods. The Woolworth empire was doing better than ever.
    “Do you have any special plans for today?” my father asked. “Or just taking inventory again?”
    That’s how he referred to my frequent visits to the department stores. I could spend hours analyzing stock and comparing prices. “As a matter of fact,” I said in my most efficient-sounding voice, “I do have more merchandise to inspect.”
    “You really ought to treat yourself to a new gown for the dinner next month.”
    “That’s very generous, Father dear, but I already have some perfectly lovely dresses.”
    Frank Woolworth was planning to throw a party in his Fifth Avenue mansion with Father as a guest of honor. It would give him an excellent opportunity to socialize with the New York executives. But Father seemed more eager for me to mingle with any eligible bachelors who might be in attendance. Though I had nothing against the idea of meeting someone who would sweep me off my feet, past experience suggested that I’d remain planted on the ground. I’d never been in love and wondered if any man would inspire such feelings.
    Truth be told, I’d never been the inspiration for any boys from Cold Spring to fall in love, either. Perhaps I was too tall—or doomed by an urge to prove myself the more intelligent one instead of flirting pleasantly, as I was supposed to.
    “I don’t mean to badger, Olive, but you’re such a pretty girl, and it would seem you don’t want anyone to notice.”
    “You only think I’m pretty because I’m your daughter,” I said with a pout.
    “That’s ridiculous. You’re far too modest. And a new wardrobe is the best way to build up confidence. Take some enjoyment in your new status as a young lady in New York.”
    He couldn’t let go of the idea of my becoming a fashionably decked-out