Sullivan's Woman Read Free

reiterate with a lifted finger. “You might have suggested that a royal-blue would match her eyes or that a rose would set off her skin. The clientele must be pampered while the merchandise moves. Each woman who walks out the door should feel she has acquired something special.”
    â€œI understand that, Mrs. Wilson. I hate to see someone buy something unsuitable; that’s why—”
    â€œYou have a good heart, Cassidy.” Julia would smile maternally, then drop the ax. “You simply have no talent for selling . . . at least, not the degree of talent I require. I shall, of course, pay you for the rest of the week and give you a good reference. You’ve been prompt and dependable. Perhaps you might try clerking in a department store.”
    Cassidy wrinkled her nose at this point in her scenario, then quickly smoothed her features as the door behind her opened. Julia closed it quietly, then lifted her left brow and moved to sit behind her rosewood desk. She studied Cassidy a moment, then gently cleared her throat.
    â€œCassidy, you’re a lovely girl, but . . .”
    Cassidy’s shoulders lifted and fell with her sigh.
    An hour later, unemployed, she wandered Fisherman’s Wharf, enjoying its cheerful shabbiness, its traveling-carnival atmosphere. She loved the cornucopia of scents and sound and color. Here there was always a crowd. Here there was life in ever-changing flavors. San Francisco was Cassidy’s concept of a perfect city, but Fisherman’s Wharf was the end of the rainbow. Make-believe and reality walked hand in hand.
    She passed through the emporiums, poking idly through barrels of trinkets, fingering newly imported silk scarves and soaking up the noise. But the bay drew her. She moved toward it at an easy, meandering pace as the afternoon gave way to evening. The scent of fish dominated the air. Beneath it were the aromas of onions and spice and humanity.
    She listened to the vendors hawk their wares and watched as a crab was selected and boiled in a sidewalk cauldron. The wharf was rimmed with restaurants and crammed with stores. Without apology, its ambience was vaguely dilapidated and faintly tawdry. Cassidy adored it. It was old and friendly and content to be itself.
    Nibbling on a hot pretzel, she moved through stalls of hanging Chinese turnips, fresh abalone and live crabs. Wisps of fog began to curl at her feet, and the sun sank lower. She was grateful for her plum-colored quilted jacket as the breeze swept in from the bay.
    If nothing else, she thought ruefully, I acquired some nice clothes at a tidy discount. Cassidy frowned and took a generous bite of her pretzel. If it hadn’t been for Mrs. Sommerson’s hips, I’d still have a job. After all, I did have her best interests at heart. Annoyed, she pulled the pins from her hair, then tossed them into a trash can as she passed. Her hair tumbled to her shoulders in long, loose curls. She breathed a sigh of relief.
    Rats.
She chewed her pretzel aggressively and headed for the watery front yard of Fisherman’s Wharf. I needed that job. I really needed that stupid job. Depression threatened as she walked the dock between lines of moored boats. She began a mental accounting of her finances. The rent was due the following week, and she needed another ream of typing paper. According to her shaky calculations, both of these necessities could be met if she didn’t put too much emphasis on food for the next few days.
    I won’t be the first writer to have to tighten her belt in San Francisco, she decided. The four basic food groups are probably overrated anyway. With a shrug she finished off the pretzel. That could be my last full meal for some time. Grinning, she stuck her hands in her pockets and strolled to the rail at the edge of the dock.
    Like a gray ghost, the fog rolled in over the bay. It crept closer to land, swallowing up the water along the way. It was thin tonight, full