turning those men outside onto their ears—once they’d returned to work, anyway.
A WOMAN SELLING FLOWERS 6
“Hands behind his back, he bent over and examined a sketch of a woman selling flowers to a well-dressed gentleman.”
CHAPTER
9
A diminutive man paused at Reeve’s door, his hair flatly brushed, his face clean-shaven. “Excuse me, would you happen to know where Miss Jayne’s room is?”
“I’m afraid she’s not in.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that.”
Reeve hesitated. As a rule, gentleman callers waited in the parlor, even well-dressed ones twice her age.
The man pointed toward the foyer with his thumb. “I knocked and waited just inside the door, but no one ever came.”
Reeve sighed. “No, I don’t suppose they did. Was there something I could help you with?”
“I just wanted to see her room, is all, then I’ll be on my way. If you could tell me where it is, I’d be obliged.”
Placing his pen in its holder, Reeve chose his words carefully. “Did you have business with the lady?”
“I’m her father.”
“Are you?” Reeve stood and held out a hand. “Reeve Wilder.”
“Bert Jayne.” They shook. “I just wanted to make sure my girl was settled in all right.”
“She seems to be. Today was her first day of work.”
Looking down, Mr. Jayne ran a thumb over the rim of his hat. “Inever thought to hear words of that sort about any woman, but most especially not about my daughter.”
“I’m sorry.” And he was. He couldn’t imagine being the father of a working girl, even if she did work for a prestigious employer like Tiffany. Perhaps it was best not to mention the strikers who’d harassed his daughter.
“I’m sorry, too.” Jayne sighed. “Still, I wanted to see for myself that she was okay. If I’d waited until she was home, then it would look like I was condoning what she was doing—and I’m not. Not by a long shot. All the same, I’d like to see her room.”
Pushing in his chair, Reeve stepped into the hallway. “Her room’s right here next to mine.”
Jayne frowned. “So close? Isn’t there a woman’s floor?”
“Much to my sorrow, there is not. I’d give anything to have the women on their own floor, but Mrs. Klausmeyer lets out rooms on a first come, first served basis with no regard to gender.”
“Well, that’s certainly distressing news.” Jayne rubbed his forehead. “I do feel for you, though. Flossie’s definitely a jabber box, but I confess to missing the chatter. Home has become so quiet all of a sudden.”
Reeve could just imagine. Opening the door to her room, he stepped inside, then held it open for her father. A hodgepodge of rugs lay in a maze-like pattern on the floor, some circular, some rectangular. Every wall had furniture up against it with pictures, sketches, paintings, and china plates hanging above. One bed was shoved against the back wall like his, but unlike his it had a white quilt with intersecting rings made up of colorful fabrics. At its head, a matching pillow cover.
He’d never been in Miss Love’s room before. He wondered how much of this was hers and how much of it was Miss Jayne’s. He looked behind the door at the other bed. Her bed. It was up against the wall he shared with them—her voice always easier to hear than Miss Love’s. No simple quilt for Miss Jayne, though. Herbed was covered with a fluffy white spread and a white lace pillow bordered with white lace ruffles. Above its brass headboard, a large painting of a woman at the seashore captured his full attention.
He moved closer, looking for the signature. And there it was. F. Jayne.
“It’s the best one she’s ever done,” her father said, standing just behind Reeve’s shoulder. “Far and away my favorite.”
Reeve tilted his head. It was actually quite good. The woman leaned against a railing, her red hair flowing in the breeze and changing color depending on where the sun hit it. The water was blue and sparkling, the sand white and
A WOMAN SELLING FLOWERS 6
“Hands behind his back, he bent over and examined a sketch of a woman selling flowers to a well-dressed gentleman.”
CHAPTER
9
A diminutive man paused at Reeve’s door, his hair flatly brushed, his face clean-shaven. “Excuse me, would you happen to know where Miss Jayne’s room is?”
“I’m afraid she’s not in.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that.”
Reeve hesitated. As a rule, gentleman callers waited in the parlor, even well-dressed ones twice her age.
The man pointed toward the foyer with his thumb. “I knocked and waited just inside the door, but no one ever came.”
Reeve sighed. “No, I don’t suppose they did. Was there something I could help you with?”
“I just wanted to see her room, is all, then I’ll be on my way. If you could tell me where it is, I’d be obliged.”
Placing his pen in its holder, Reeve chose his words carefully. “Did you have business with the lady?”
“I’m her father.”
“Are you?” Reeve stood and held out a hand. “Reeve Wilder.”
“Bert Jayne.” They shook. “I just wanted to make sure my girl was settled in all right.”
“She seems to be. Today was her first day of work.”
Looking down, Mr. Jayne ran a thumb over the rim of his hat. “Inever thought to hear words of that sort about any woman, but most especially not about my daughter.”
“I’m sorry.” And he was. He couldn’t imagine being the father of a working girl, even if she did work for a prestigious employer like Tiffany. Perhaps it was best not to mention the strikers who’d harassed his daughter.
“I’m sorry, too.” Jayne sighed. “Still, I wanted to see for myself that she was okay. If I’d waited until she was home, then it would look like I was condoning what she was doing—and I’m not. Not by a long shot. All the same, I’d like to see her room.”
Pushing in his chair, Reeve stepped into the hallway. “Her room’s right here next to mine.”
Jayne frowned. “So close? Isn’t there a woman’s floor?”
“Much to my sorrow, there is not. I’d give anything to have the women on their own floor, but Mrs. Klausmeyer lets out rooms on a first come, first served basis with no regard to gender.”
“Well, that’s certainly distressing news.” Jayne rubbed his forehead. “I do feel for you, though. Flossie’s definitely a jabber box, but I confess to missing the chatter. Home has become so quiet all of a sudden.”
Reeve could just imagine. Opening the door to her room, he stepped inside, then held it open for her father. A hodgepodge of rugs lay in a maze-like pattern on the floor, some circular, some rectangular. Every wall had furniture up against it with pictures, sketches, paintings, and china plates hanging above. One bed was shoved against the back wall like his, but unlike his it had a white quilt with intersecting rings made up of colorful fabrics. At its head, a matching pillow cover.
He’d never been in Miss Love’s room before. He wondered how much of this was hers and how much of it was Miss Jayne’s. He looked behind the door at the other bed. Her bed. It was up against the wall he shared with them—her voice always easier to hear than Miss Love’s. No simple quilt for Miss Jayne, though. Herbed was covered with a fluffy white spread and a white lace pillow bordered with white lace ruffles. Above its brass headboard, a large painting of a woman at the seashore captured his full attention.
He moved closer, looking for the signature. And there it was. F. Jayne.
“It’s the best one she’s ever done,” her father said, standing just behind Reeve’s shoulder. “Far and away my favorite.”
Reeve tilted his head. It was actually quite good. The woman leaned against a railing, her red hair flowing in the breeze and changing color depending on where the sun hit it. The water was blue and sparkling, the sand white and
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