think!"
"I'll have you know that Jean Jacques and I laughed all the time!" Juliette refused to be intimidated by a person who slurped her coffee. Pulling to her full five feet two inches, she glared up at Clara. "If I weren't a lady, I would point out that my husband left
you
quicker than he left me! Apparently sinking to a common level wasn't as fulfilling for him as you'd like to believe!"
"If being common means not putting on silly airs or extending my pinkie when I sip from a cup, then I'm common and proud of it!"
Furious, both Clara and Juliette turned in a spin of summer skirts and strode toward the lobby door. At the foot of the grand staircase, they faced each other again.
"Breakfast at seven," Clara snapped.
"You never said what we'll do if we find where he bought his supplies."
"I don't know, all right? You can go home to California. I wish you would. Maybe I'll buy a boardinghouse with the money I got from selling the inn." Lifting her plain dark skirt, Clara started up the staircase. "I can't wait to see the back of you and your stiff-necked ways!"
"And I you," Juliette said, raising her chin. Even to her own ears she sounded prissy. And she was so weary of this conversation. Every night they exchanged a variation of the same words and sentiments. My husband; your husband. No,
my
husband.
Juliette didn't tell Clara what was constantly on her mind. She didn't say,
I hate you because he touched you and lay with you and held you in his arms. I hate you because you laughed with him and because he said beautiful things to you. I hate you because jealousy is tearing me apart and because I need to know that he loved me better and more than he loved you.
Frowning and blinking hard, she lowered her head and stared at the brooch pinned to her lapel. If she wore this brooch and her blue garter every day, Jean Jacques would come back to her.
Waiting, she gave Clara time to reach her room and go inside so they wouldn't have to encounter each other in the corridor.
Had he ever loved her? Even a little bit?
Blinking rapidly at the liquid burn in her eyes, she lifted her skirts with shaking hands and ascended the staircase. She had never dreamed that a person could hurt so much.
Most of the outfitting stores were strung along First Avenue South, not far from the piers. Mountains of goods spilled onto the sidewalk and into the street, presided over by eager-eyed men checking lists against receipts.
Clara didn't spot any women near the corner of First and Yesler except herself and Juliette. Even so, they didn't attract much attention. Dreams of riches stuffed the heads of the men crowding the walkways and stores, not thoughts of women. Many seemed unaware of the noisy chaos around them; they concentrated solely on packing a year's supply of food into as small a space as possible.
Clara and Juliette began at the top of the street and moved slowly toward the Northern Pacific ticket office, stopping at each of the outfitting stores to interrupt feverishly busy salesmen with questions about a handsome Frenchman. No one recalled the name Jean Jacques Villette.
Discouraged, they silently entered the next store and then stopped abruptly. Juliette gripped her arm. "Good heavens! There's a woman working in this store."
Clara fully supported a woman's right to work if she must, but she, too, was shocked to discover a female working in a store catering exclusively to a male clientele. That the woman was young and attractive made her presence seem even more inappropriate. On the other hand, Clara reminded herself, some people believed it was scandalous for a woman to hand a man a key to a hotel room.
Drawn like magnets, Clara and Juliette passed two harried salesmen and moved directly toward the woman at the back of the store. She watched them approach with cool eyes.
"Can I help you?" she asked, stepping back from her worktable and wiping loose cornmeal off her hands.
Sacking cornmeal was respectable enough, Clara
"I'll have you know that Jean Jacques and I laughed all the time!" Juliette refused to be intimidated by a person who slurped her coffee. Pulling to her full five feet two inches, she glared up at Clara. "If I weren't a lady, I would point out that my husband left
you
quicker than he left me! Apparently sinking to a common level wasn't as fulfilling for him as you'd like to believe!"
"If being common means not putting on silly airs or extending my pinkie when I sip from a cup, then I'm common and proud of it!"
Furious, both Clara and Juliette turned in a spin of summer skirts and strode toward the lobby door. At the foot of the grand staircase, they faced each other again.
"Breakfast at seven," Clara snapped.
"You never said what we'll do if we find where he bought his supplies."
"I don't know, all right? You can go home to California. I wish you would. Maybe I'll buy a boardinghouse with the money I got from selling the inn." Lifting her plain dark skirt, Clara started up the staircase. "I can't wait to see the back of you and your stiff-necked ways!"
"And I you," Juliette said, raising her chin. Even to her own ears she sounded prissy. And she was so weary of this conversation. Every night they exchanged a variation of the same words and sentiments. My husband; your husband. No,
my
husband.
Juliette didn't tell Clara what was constantly on her mind. She didn't say,
I hate you because he touched you and lay with you and held you in his arms. I hate you because you laughed with him and because he said beautiful things to you. I hate you because jealousy is tearing me apart and because I need to know that he loved me better and more than he loved you.
Frowning and blinking hard, she lowered her head and stared at the brooch pinned to her lapel. If she wore this brooch and her blue garter every day, Jean Jacques would come back to her.
Waiting, she gave Clara time to reach her room and go inside so they wouldn't have to encounter each other in the corridor.
Had he ever loved her? Even a little bit?
Blinking rapidly at the liquid burn in her eyes, she lifted her skirts with shaking hands and ascended the staircase. She had never dreamed that a person could hurt so much.
Most of the outfitting stores were strung along First Avenue South, not far from the piers. Mountains of goods spilled onto the sidewalk and into the street, presided over by eager-eyed men checking lists against receipts.
Clara didn't spot any women near the corner of First and Yesler except herself and Juliette. Even so, they didn't attract much attention. Dreams of riches stuffed the heads of the men crowding the walkways and stores, not thoughts of women. Many seemed unaware of the noisy chaos around them; they concentrated solely on packing a year's supply of food into as small a space as possible.
Clara and Juliette began at the top of the street and moved slowly toward the Northern Pacific ticket office, stopping at each of the outfitting stores to interrupt feverishly busy salesmen with questions about a handsome Frenchman. No one recalled the name Jean Jacques Villette.
Discouraged, they silently entered the next store and then stopped abruptly. Juliette gripped her arm. "Good heavens! There's a woman working in this store."
Clara fully supported a woman's right to work if she must, but she, too, was shocked to discover a female working in a store catering exclusively to a male clientele. That the woman was young and attractive made her presence seem even more inappropriate. On the other hand, Clara reminded herself, some people believed it was scandalous for a woman to hand a man a key to a hotel room.
Drawn like magnets, Clara and Juliette passed two harried salesmen and moved directly toward the woman at the back of the store. She watched them approach with cool eyes.
"Can I help you?" she asked, stepping back from her worktable and wiping loose cornmeal off her hands.
Sacking cornmeal was respectable enough, Clara
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