Astor Place Vintage: A Novel Read Free Page A

ingenue. I preferred the simplicity of a skirt and waist. Comfort was more important to me than appearance. I didn’t bother with a corset. No point trussing myself up with laces and bones, especially considering my figure, which resembled—or so I’d been told—the proverbial beanpole.
    “You’re very sweet,” I replied, “but I don’t need a shopping spree to feel better about myself.”
    “Thank goodness all my customers don’t feel the way you do. In fact, I’d better finish getting dressed, or I’ll be late.”
    Father hurried off to his bedroom. I poured myself another cup of coffee. Growing up around the Woolworth’s that Father managed had undoubtedly taken some of the thrill out of shopping for me. Over the years, on weekends or after school, I often volunteered to fill in if the store was busy or a girl was out sick. I liked the sense of purpose it gave me and, I suppose, a feeling of superiority over the customers, who seemed so vulnerable as they scoured the aisles for bargains and cheap treasures.
    I much preferred the practicality of working in the store to academics. After I graduated from high school, Father convinced me to spend a year at Miss Hall’s, a finishing school in Lenox, Massachusetts, where I suffered through ladylike classes in deportment, art history, and the proper way to set a table. By the end of my stay, I’d learned one lesson particularly well: I had no talent for the domestic arts. I returned home secure in the knowledge that I was far more likely to succeed in managing a business than a household.
    Now I wanted to learn more about the mind of a customer. What made an object so desirable that someone couldn’t feel content without it? Why did a purchase lose its allure so quickly after being bought? Did people repeat this ritual compulsively in spite of the short-lived satisfaction—or because of it?
    Father returned while buttoning his cuffs. I armed myself at the door with his fedora and coat. I couldn’t help feeling proud of him—fit, trim, and handsome at forty-two, with thick wavy brown hair and a healthy complexion. Though I did so want to please him, I would never manage to conform to his idea of what a young lady ought to be. Indeed, he’d be unhappy to know that I was more intent on taking up a career than finding a husband.
    “I worry about you spending so much time alone,” he said, shrugging on his coat. “It’s a shame we don’t have family here anymore. I mean to track down some old friends, to see if they might introduce you to some young people.”
    “So you’ve promised,” I said with affection, handing him his hat. He grew up in Greenwich Village but hadn’t kept up with his old acquaintances since moving away over twenty years ago. “Please don’t fret about me. You know how thrilled I am to be here.”
    “Perhaps it’s not everything you imagined,” he said, peering into the mirror by the door to smooth his mustache.
    “I’ve barely had a chance to find out.”
    “At any rate,” he said, giving me a kiss on the forehead, “if I’m not too late tonight, we’ll go someplace nice for dinner.”
    “That sounds grand.”
    After closing the door, I sat back down and turned to the “Female—Help Wanted” section. Skimming down the listings, I vacillated between optimism and hopelessness. Father was not completely off the mark about my solitude. Despite the thousands of people surrounding me, I was beginning to feel rather isolated.I didn’t see social engagements as the solution. Once I set my career into motion, that problem would take care of itself.
    Unfortunately, the classifieds were proving as daunting as a love life. There were ads for shopgirls among the listings of stenographers, factory workers, and telephone operators, but my sights were set higher than a position behind a counter. I hoped to become a buyer for one of the department stores. From reading Father’s subscription to Dry Goods Weekly, I knew that many store