begging to be walked upon. He could almost hear the waves, taste the salt, and feel the grit of the sand on his skin.
Standing there, beside the painting and the white linens on the bed, he felt as if he’d stepped into a summer day, full of light and sunshine and happiness. Sort of like her.
He took a quick step back and bumped into her father. “Excuse me.”
As much as Reeve wanted to return to his room, he didn’t feel right leaving. The man said he was Miss Jayne’s father, and he could see a little bit of resemblance around the mouth. Still, until he knew for certain, he’d stay put.
Mr. Jayne walked about the room, looking at the walls as if he were in a museum. Hands behind his back, he bent over and examined a sketch of a woman selling flowers to a well-dressed gentleman. A dress form holding a fashionable gown. A crowd of people boarding a steamer. A group of children playing hopscotch on the street. “Such a talent my girl has. Must have gotten it from her mother. I can’t draw to save my life.”
Reeve glanced at the sketches and paintings he referred to. Some weren’t bad, but he wasn’t sure he’d call Miss Jayne a talent. She was competent, as the seashore painting proved, but she was hardly the next Rembrandt.
Mr. Jayne stopped in front of a washstand. Instead of a wooden affair on spindly legs, the women had a full cabinet with an assortment of glass vials, china bowls, and porcelain vessels surrounding a fancy washbowl and ewer with floral designs and gold-leaf edges.
Mr. Jayne lifted a few of the lids and peeked at the various creams and liquids. “I’m a barber, you know.”
No, he didn’t know, but he didn’t say so.
“Taught her a thing or two about creams and such, and she caught on awfully fast. She’s a smart girl, my Flossie. She’d have made a great barber if she’d been a man.” He held a jar of liquid to his nose. “Smells just like her, don’t you think?” He held it out to Reeve.
Out of politeness, Reeve took a sniff. It smelled of roses. “I couldn’t really say, sir. I only see her at dinnertime, and the table we sit at is awfully large.”
Mr. Jayne screwed the lid back on and returned it to the washstand. “Well, of course you couldn’t say, but I could, and I can assure you, it smells just like her.” He took one last look about the room, then withdrew a card from his pocket. “Well, don’t tell her I was here. I want her to come home. If she knew I’d been here, she might take it as a sign of approval.”
Reeve accepted the card. So it was her father after all. “Mum’s the word, sir.”
Mr. Jayne clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s a good man. If we want to keep this women’s movement from gaining momentum, we’d best stick together. Good day, Wilder.”
“Good day.”
The man left as quickly and as quietly as he’d come. A shame his daughter wasn’t more like him.
CARTOON 7
“She hadn’t been chosen to paint faces on the leaded glass windows, nor to paint watercolors onto the large hanging canvas, which she now knew they called a cartoon.”
CHAPTER
10
W ith aching feet, Flossie squeezed onto the crowded streetcar that would take her home. Home to Klausmeyer’s Boardinghouse. Exhausted as she was, she couldn’t suppress the thrill of completing her first day of work. She hadn’t been chosen to paint faces on the leaded glass windows, nor to paint watercolors onto the large hanging canvas, which she now knew they called a cartoon. Instead, she’d been sent to the storeroom to restock colored glass.
Nan Upton, the Tiffany Girl she’d met out in the hall, had stood beside a cartoon going through trunks full of colored glass. She’d pick up a small sheet, hold it to the window, mutter something under her breath, then do the same thing with a different one. When she’d sorted through all the trunks and not found the color she was looking for, she’d started on barrels of colored glass. By the time she’d laid aside a
Standing there, beside the painting and the white linens on the bed, he felt as if he’d stepped into a summer day, full of light and sunshine and happiness. Sort of like her.
He took a quick step back and bumped into her father. “Excuse me.”
As much as Reeve wanted to return to his room, he didn’t feel right leaving. The man said he was Miss Jayne’s father, and he could see a little bit of resemblance around the mouth. Still, until he knew for certain, he’d stay put.
Mr. Jayne walked about the room, looking at the walls as if he were in a museum. Hands behind his back, he bent over and examined a sketch of a woman selling flowers to a well-dressed gentleman. A dress form holding a fashionable gown. A crowd of people boarding a steamer. A group of children playing hopscotch on the street. “Such a talent my girl has. Must have gotten it from her mother. I can’t draw to save my life.”
Reeve glanced at the sketches and paintings he referred to. Some weren’t bad, but he wasn’t sure he’d call Miss Jayne a talent. She was competent, as the seashore painting proved, but she was hardly the next Rembrandt.
Mr. Jayne stopped in front of a washstand. Instead of a wooden affair on spindly legs, the women had a full cabinet with an assortment of glass vials, china bowls, and porcelain vessels surrounding a fancy washbowl and ewer with floral designs and gold-leaf edges.
Mr. Jayne lifted a few of the lids and peeked at the various creams and liquids. “I’m a barber, you know.”
No, he didn’t know, but he didn’t say so.
“Taught her a thing or two about creams and such, and she caught on awfully fast. She’s a smart girl, my Flossie. She’d have made a great barber if she’d been a man.” He held a jar of liquid to his nose. “Smells just like her, don’t you think?” He held it out to Reeve.
Out of politeness, Reeve took a sniff. It smelled of roses. “I couldn’t really say, sir. I only see her at dinnertime, and the table we sit at is awfully large.”
Mr. Jayne screwed the lid back on and returned it to the washstand. “Well, of course you couldn’t say, but I could, and I can assure you, it smells just like her.” He took one last look about the room, then withdrew a card from his pocket. “Well, don’t tell her I was here. I want her to come home. If she knew I’d been here, she might take it as a sign of approval.”
Reeve accepted the card. So it was her father after all. “Mum’s the word, sir.”
Mr. Jayne clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s a good man. If we want to keep this women’s movement from gaining momentum, we’d best stick together. Good day, Wilder.”
“Good day.”
The man left as quickly and as quietly as he’d come. A shame his daughter wasn’t more like him.
CARTOON 7
“She hadn’t been chosen to paint faces on the leaded glass windows, nor to paint watercolors onto the large hanging canvas, which she now knew they called a cartoon.”
CHAPTER
10
W ith aching feet, Flossie squeezed onto the crowded streetcar that would take her home. Home to Klausmeyer’s Boardinghouse. Exhausted as she was, she couldn’t suppress the thrill of completing her first day of work. She hadn’t been chosen to paint faces on the leaded glass windows, nor to paint watercolors onto the large hanging canvas, which she now knew they called a cartoon. Instead, she’d been sent to the storeroom to restock colored glass.
Nan Upton, the Tiffany Girl she’d met out in the hall, had stood beside a cartoon going through trunks full of colored glass. She’d pick up a small sheet, hold it to the window, mutter something under her breath, then do the same thing with a different one. When she’d sorted through all the trunks and not found the color she was looking for, she’d started on barrels of colored glass. By the time she’d laid aside a
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