Mystique Read Free Page B

beautiful," she agreed,
"but I can't afford to pay you what it's worth."
    "Listen, Misty, don't worry. The
clients you've sent to me have a lot of friends. My business is really picking
up.
    I've hired two women to sew, and"—he
paused, clasping his hands together—"there's a good chance I might get
into that building I was telling you about, the one uptown. I could live in the
apartment off the main room."
    "Oh, Morey, that's great!"
Misty gave her friend an enthusiastic hug.
    "Now, don't get too excited. I
haven't talked with the bank yet, and Manhattan Stuyvesant is tough on this
sort of thing, especially since my only collateral is my talent."
    "But that's very big
collateral," Misty assured him.
    Morey's expression became momentarily
woebegone. "I hope the bank thinks so." Then he brightened.
"Come on, get undressed. I want to see this stuff on you."
    When Misty arrived at the Terrace Hotel
for work that evening she was already bone tired. Morey had pinned, pulled, and
draped material on her until she couldn't stand another moment. But by the
middle of next week their efforts would pay off when she became the proud owner
of two lovely silk gowns. The cost wouldn't even put too much of a hole in her
savings. She shouldn't let Morey sell the dresses to her too cheaply, she
thought as she took a black satin gown and matching pumps from her carrier. But
she also realized she would never be able to afford them if he didn't give her
a good deal. He was such a good friend.
    That evening she played for a smaller
Christmas party than the night before. "Thank God, this is the last of
them," Willis commented wearily during her break.
    "Amen to that. Only three days to
Christmas, and I haven't put up my tree or finished my shopping."
    Willis laughed and shook his head.
"My wife takes care of that."
    "Lucky you."
    Misty left the hotel at two-thirty the
next morning. Her head was throbbing painfully because she'd skipped dinner.
Fatigue clung to her like wet cement, making every movement an ordeal.
    At home, she barely took time to hang up
her clothes and put away her dress carrier before she tumbled into bed and
down, down into the well of sleep.
    Hours later, the insistent peal of the
telephone jarred her awake. She blinked at the clock on her bedside table and
was stunned to see that it was four in the afternoon. Her day off was almost
gone. At least she had the evening to herself. '"Lo?" she said
groggily.
    "Misty, it's Morey. The bank turned
me down!" Her friend's anguish came through to her with painful clarity.
    "Oh, no! They couldn't have. How
could they be so stupid?" Misty sat up in bed and pushed back her thick
hair. "Did they give you a reason?"
    "It seems I need more collateral
than my talent." Morey tried to laugh, but Misty heard the heartache in
his voice.
    "Listen, Morey, don't give up yet.
I'll put up my apartment as collateral. It's the least I can do after all your
kindness to me. Let me help you out. Please."
    "Misty, I can't. Your apartment is
all you have."
    "Please let me. I'll become your
silent partner. Weinstein Couturiers must survive. Please. I want to do
it."
    "Misty..." Morey's voice
cracked. "Except for Zena, you're the best friend I've ever had." As
soon as his business was well established, Morey planned to marry Zena, who
worked as an assistant wardrobe mistress in a downtown theater.
    "It's too late to go to the bank
today," Misty went on, "but we'll be there waiting when the doors
open tomorrow."
    When they walked into the awesome foyer
of the Manhattan Stuyvesant Bank early the next morning, Misty stared
admiringly at the three-story vaulted ceiling decorated with mosaic tiles in
intricate patterns. Offices on the second and third floors opened onto a
horseshoe-shaped balcony that afforded a clear view of activity on the main
floor, with its long row of tellers' windows and intimate groupings of
officers' desks and chairs. The open space and hum of subdued voices created a
hushed, formal