Christmastime 1940: A Love Story Read online

  At an office building across town, Lillian stood in front of the decorated Christmas tree in the lobby; a large silver star was just being adjusted at the top of the tree by a workman on a tall ladder. The tree was hung heavily with red garlands and bunches of tinsel, and from its branches dangled red and gold balls and silver snowflakes.

  Izzy, Lillian’s friend and co-worker, came through the revolving door and smiled when she saw Lillian gaping up at the tree like a child. “Morning, Lilly!”

  Lillian’s face lit up in surprise. “Back today? I didn’t expect you until Monday.” She gave Izzy a quick hug.

  “I wanted to spend some time with Red this weekend,” Izzy said.

  Lillian heard a few onlookers clap and turned to see that the tree’s multicolored bulbs had been lit. “Oh, look, Izzy. Christmastime! Already!”

  “Beautiful! I love this time of year.”

  “Gee, I’m glad you’re back. How was your trip? How’s your sister?”

  “We had a swell time. Shopping and luncheons, time with the kids – they had a Christmas play at school. So adorable. Makes me wish I had some of my own.”

  Lillian suddenly noticed Izzy’s new deep green coat and took a step back to admire it. “Oh, it’s beautiful! Velvet collar and cuffs. Very smart.”

  “We spent a whole day shopping, mostly just looking. But I needed a new coat, and I couldn’t resist the color – Twilight Forest, the saleslady called it.” Izzy recapped the highlights of her trip as they walked to the elevators. “Enough about me. How are things – are you feeling more settled in? How are the boys adjusting?”

  “Oh fine, fine.”

  Izzy gave her a skeptical look. “C’mon, out with it. I know when you’re bluffing.”

  Lillian lowered her voice. “Well, I’m not sure. Gabriel’s been wetting the bed. He never has before.”

  Izzy waved away this concern. “It’s just a phase. Perfectly natural.”

  “I suppose so. And Tommy’s been acting up lately. It’s not like him. You know, he didn’t want to leave the old neighborhood.”

  “Well, you didn’t have much choice, did you?”

  “No. They say the whole street will be shops soon. But I didn’t have the heart to tell him. He’ll be so upset.” They just missed one elevator and waited for another. “But I have a good feeling about the new place. I think the boys will be happy there.”

  “Of course they will. They just need time to adjust. And I think it’s a good change for you. Time to get on with your life.”

  “Oh, not that again. I’ve got my life just the way I want it. I can’t handle any more changes.”

  “What about that handsome man down the hall?”

  Lillian turned in surprise. “Did I say that?”

  Izzy smiled at the sudden blush in Lillian’s cheeks. “No. But somehow I got that impression.”

  Lillian shook her head at Izzy’s ongoing attempts at matchmaking. “He’s not at all friendly. I was just hoping to have nice neighbors. That’s all.” Her decision to move had nothing to do with finding someone to replace Tom. The very thought filled her with repugnance. She was glad that the crowded elevator prevented Izzy from continuing the conversation.

  But as soon as they got off on their floor Izzy started up again. “Well, someone else then.”

  “No, Izzy,” said Lillian as they headed down the hall to the main office of Rockwell Publishing. “Really. I’m content with the way things are. All I care about is giving my boys a good home. I just hope they adjust.”

  “Don’t worry, Lilly. It’ll get better. You’ll see. And Red has a couple of buddies in mind if you change your mind about double dating.”

  Lillian started to object, then realized Izzy couldn’t help herself, that she loved to see people paired off and happy.

  They walked through the open glass doors into the large office that was already bustling with messengers running here and there, workers settling in for the day, phones ringing. Izzy gestured to the office manager across the room, Mr. Weeble, a pinched birdlike man, who peered over his spectacles at them and tapped his watch.

  Izzy gave him a sarcastic smile and pointed to her own watch, then took off her coat and hat and hung them on the coat pegs. “We still have five minutes. God, that lizard makes me sick. Are we on for lunch?” she asked, taking her seat among the typists.

  Lillian held up her sack lunch and nodded, and then hurried into the switchboard room. Every day she was thankful for the job Izzy had helped her to get. Without office experience, it had been hard for her to find a position. After months of being turned down, she finally accepted Izzy’s help and took the telephone operator job at the publishing house as a way of getting her foot in the door. It was a huge improvement from the department store sales clerk position she had for the last five years. At least she could sit at this job; years of standing had taken a toll on her feet and legs. Now, after just four months, the pain and numbness were lessening already. She was saving for a typewriter and hoped to eventually find a better position; but her deepest hope was to somehow join the Art Department. She was putting together a portfolio, working on illustrations that leant themselves to magazines. This job could be the door to her long buried dreams.

  The only blot on her work day came from the owner, Mr. Randolph Rockwell, recently divorced from his high-society wife. Whenever Lillian passed by him, he watched her with a hungry, covetous look that completely unnerved her. She tried to ignore it and trusted that her lowly status would be protection against any interest in her. She resented the talk from some of the other office girls about playing her cards right and not acting so coy. With the exception of Izzy, she kept to herself and just tried to do a good job.

  Lillian greeted the other two operators, and after hanging her coat and hat on the hook behind her chair, she settled into her station. She took a small sketchbook from her bag, and began to answer the lights, drawing and doodling between calls. She made a quick sketch of the office manager as a lizard, and was pleased at the likeness.

  Just then she felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to see him standing right behind her. He did not look amused by the drawing.

  Lillian, flustered, shut her sketchbook and stood up. “Yes, Mr. Weeble?”

  “You are not being paid for your artistic talents, Mrs. Hapsey.”

  “No. Of course not.”

  He motioned to the other operators to pay attention to the incoming calls.

  Lillian felt herself grow warm, and regretted her folly. “Is there anything else, Mr. Weeble?”

  “Indeed, there is.” He coughed and brushed some lint from his sleeve, prolonging her anxiety. “Mr. Rockwell wishes to see you.”

  “Mr. Rockwell? Wishes to see me?”

  “I believe I spoke clearly.” He pursed his mouth, pivoted, and walked away briskly, leaving Lillian to trail behind him. As they crossed the busy floor, he glanced down at his heels occasionally, making Lillian feel like she was a small pet who must follow him. At the president’s office Mr. Weeble nodded to Mr. Rockwell’s secretary, gave a parting look at Lillian over his spectacles, and went to the large oak desk situated on a platform where he could oversee the staff.

  Mr. Rockwell’s secretary, a woman in a tight-fitting sweater and bright red lips, winked at Lillian before announcing her, and then closed the door once Lillian was inside.

  When Lillian saw that Mr. Rockwell was on the phone she started to leave, but he motioned for her to sit down. Lillian sank into the deep wingback chair, but it fit her all wrong. She scooted to the edge and placed her hands in her lap. With sidelong glances she took in the beauty of Mr. Rockwell’s suite – the Persian rug, the gleaming wood paneling, the spectacular view of the city.

  He finished the call and stood up. Lillian automatically stood as well. “Good morning, Mr. Rockwell.” She blushed to find herself alone with the owner of the publishing house.

  Mr. Rockwell dipped his head to the side, but didn’t smile. She knew that most people would
consider him handsome, but she found him unattractive and disliked the way he was always evaluating women’s figures. She unconsciously crossed her arms, putting one hand to her neck.

  He walked around his large mahogany desk and took her hand, holding it longer than necessary. He then leaned against his desk and waited a few seconds before speaking. “Mrs. Haspey. I trust you are well.”

  Lillian smiled faintly and blinked at the floor.

  “Please. Sit.”

  Again she felt like a small pet. She sat on the edge of the chair, her brow lightly furrowed.

  Rockwell frowned at her uneasiness. “No need to look so uncomfortable. I just wanted to ask you: Do you like the theater?”

  Lillian had been focusing on the back of the desk but now she looked up as if she had perhaps misunderstood him. “The theater?”

  He appeared slightly put out that his overture wasn’t met with more enthusiasm. “I have box tickets to a performance next Saturday. I was wondering if you would like to accompany me?”

  “Oh. Thank you, Mr. Rockwell. Thank you, but I can’t. My son hasn’t been feeling well lately. I need to be home with him.”

  Rockwell didn’t believe her for a moment, but accepted her refusal. A hard-to-get woman always whetted his appetite more than the pliable type. He gave a low, almost inaudible chuckle, as if he was onto her game. “Well. Another time, then.”

  Lillian stood up and pressed her lips together in a thwarted smile.

  His eyes lingered over the bust of her dress before resting on her face. “Good day.” He held the door open for her.

  Lillian murmured “Good day,” and quickly left his office, relieved to hear the door close behind her. She put a cool hand to her warm cheek but caught the unexpected scent of his cologne on her hand. She went to the ladies room, turned on the faucet, and rolled the soap bar around and around in her wet hands, until the smell was gone, and then splashed cold water on her face. As she patted her face dry, she saw her pretty blue dress in the mirror and regretted that she had worn it. She would return it to the back of her closet. Tomorrow she would wear her gray suit.

  Drooms saw that Mason arrived to work fifteen minutes late that morning, and that he appeared rather flustered as he hurriedly hung up his coat and hat. He poked his head into Drooms’s office, and they briefly discussed a letter that Mason needed to draft regarding a particular account. Mason then settled into his desk, shuffled through some folders, and soon became absorbed in his work. He had a way of smoothing down his dark moustache whenever he was deeply considering something, and Drooms noticed him doing this repeatedly throughout the morning. He assumed Mason was just disconcerted at being late, and gave it no more thought.

  Drooms later invited him to lunch, as he often did. There was a particular subject he wanted to broach, gauge Mason’s response. Drooms valued Mason’s steady, solid business sense; he was open-minded, far-seeing, and flexible, up to a point – he would bend so far, and then no more, and nothing could change his mind. And Drooms had never known him to be wrong. Drooms was usually sure of his business moves but this one had him doubting himself to some degree.

  As they walked down the busy street to their usual restaurant, an attractive woman in a sleek black coat and fashionable little boots stopped as she recognized Drooms. She placed her hand on his arm.

  “Why hello, Charles!”

  Drooms furrowed his brow in annoyance as he tried to place the face, then softened somewhat. “Oh. Hello.” He took his arm back to lightly tip his hat. “Mason, you remember Miss Bentley?”

  The ever-cordial Mason smiled warmly. “Of course. So nice to see you again. How have you been?” He remembered Miss Bentley as a pleasant woman Drooms had dated a few years ago. Mason had hoped it might develop into a serious relationship, perhaps even marriage. But he had seen this pattern in Drooms for years, and was not surprised when he suddenly broke it off. Mason was rather amazed that she seemed so pleased to see Drooms.

  Drooms hoped Mason wasn’t going to start with his pleasantries as he tended to do. It was too cold to be chatting in the middle of a jostling, crowded sidewalk. Drooms cast a worried glance at the sky, as if it might suddenly open up with rain or snow, and that they needed to get a move on.

  “I’ve been very well, thank you, Mr. Mason.” Miss Bentley had a stylish, confident air about her, yet there was also an asking, perhaps a neediness, that came through her manner. She faced Drooms, and once again lightly placed her gloved hand on his sleeve. “Goodness, it’s been ages. How are you?”

  That touch of familiarity was all it took for Drooms to firmly shut any door that she might think was still open. He believed that when things were finished, they were finished. No need to get things started up again. He looked at his watch, preventing any chance of conversation. “I’m fine, thank you. I’m sorry, but we have a business engagement we can’t be late for.”

  Her lips parted in surprise at his brusqueness, then pursed in remembrance. She pulled her coat closer around her. “The same as ever, I see. Goodbye, Mr. Drooms!” To Mason she spoke more gently. “Goodbye.” She then left, shaking her head.

  Drooms and Mason walked a few steps in silence, then Mason spoke out. “I rather liked Miss Bentley. Thought she would be good for you.”

  “You know my motto, Mason.”

  Mason had often heard this from Drooms. “No attachments.”

  “That’s right,” said Drooms. “They just get in the way.”

  They entered the restaurant with its dark paneling, polished wood floors, and deep green leather upholstery, and made their way through the tables of businessmen. White-clad waiters moved briskly among the tables. The clinking of glasses and of utensils against china mixed with the hum of conversation; a fine haze of cigar and cigarette smoke hung in the air.

  Mason studied the menu as Drooms continued his train of thought with a detached smile, as if he was about to say something pleasant.

  “No attachments. Which brings me to the purpose of this meeting. I’m going to acquire Henderson’s.”

  Mason’s head popped up. “You mean merge? Henderson agrees to this?”

  Drooms leaned forward, staring intently. “I’m talking takeover, Mason.”

  Mason slowly sat back, shaking his head and stroking his moustache. “After all these years. I consider Howard a friend. We can’t just–”

  “This is business. Not a picnic.” With a quick flick, Drooms shook out his napkin and placed it on his lap. He was annoyed that Mason met the discussion with immediate disapproval. Always on his high horse about everything. Drooms opened the menu, and then closed it, remembering his strongest argument. “Are you forgetting what happened when you started with me? Are you forgetting the lawsuit?”

  Mason’s mouth dropped open. “But that was his father – and he’s been dead for ten years!”

  Drooms perused the menu, unperturbed by Mason’s reaction. “Business is business.”

  “It sounds more like revenge,” said Mason.

  Drooms chuckled lightly at this notion. “Revenge? You’re too sentimental, Mason. I told you – it’s business.” He snapped the menu shut, and called the waiter.

  Chapter 2

  All day Drooms felt distracted, irritable. As he rode the subway home, he tried to trace the source of his distraction – did it start with Mason’s disapproval of the takeover? Or was it the morning’s Christmas nonsense in the office? Or did it start even earlier, with his intrusive new neighbor calling out to him? No matter. The day was nearly over now.

  Some murky inner prompting caused Drooms to suddenly decide to get off one station early, bumping the passengers in his rush to get out before the train doors closed. He hurried out of the station, thinking that he would stop by The Red String Curio Store. That would calm his mind. The Red String was one of the few stores he looked at now and then. Though Drooms took great pleasure in his work and allowed it to take over most of his waking hours, he did have one interest outside of work, a sort of hobby, thou
gh he kept it to himself.

  He opened the door to The Red String Curio Store, its little bell ringing as he entered. That silvery sound was the first signal that he was leaving behind him the outer workaday world; the musty old attic smell was the second, a scent only slightly masked by the baskets of orange peel and cloves set among the shelves. The owner, a bald little man wearing a red bowtie and high-waisted trousers held up with red suspenders, his style since the turn of the century, stood at the counter helping an elderly lady to choose between two old birdcages. He held up a pointed finger as a greeting to Drooms.

  The front of the store was crowded with displays of new toys and gifts for the holiday. But for the most part, the store was a dusty jumble of shelves and aisles stuffed with old furniture, used books and magazines, cracked and mismatched dishes alongside nearly complete sets, lamps and lanterns, boxes of odds and ends. The walls themselves could barely be seen, covered as they were by mirrors of all shapes and sizes, still-lifes and landscapes of various quality, and empty frames. A few sagging tapestries depicted once vibrant stag hunts and pastoral courtships; their subjects had long since been lulled by time and now appeared too tired for action of any kind. On the back wall hung worn posters advertising everything from travel to exotic Egypt and the Levant, to performances of The Pirates of Penzance and Carmen, to soap – a Palmolive scented mother poised above her sleeping child, an elegant 1920’s couple dancing on their toes, almost floating above the words “Erasmic Soaps & Perfumes.” Scattered throughout the store were wall clocks and grandfather clocks set to different times, so that ticking and deep resonant chimes filled the air at all hours, punctuated now and then by an occasional cuckoo.

  Drooms wandered through the aisles, his eyes leisurely scanning the shelves and counters and cases, the worn wooden floor creaking under his step. He almost tripped over a young man sitting in one of the faded overstuffed chairs, sorting through a box of old daguerreotypes and postcards. Along the wall he passed glass cabinets filled with buttons and shoe hooks, pocket watches and Victorian jewelry, musical instruments and sheet music, and items of unrecognizable use. An old man in a long, thread-bare coat leaned against a glass case and plucked the out-of-tune strings of a dusty violin, humming along as he did so. At the end of the glass cabinets, Drooms turned down the maze-like aisles with shelves that reached past his shoulders. His mind always moved more freely in the timeless hodgepodge of the store, the worries and distractions of the day diminished as he searched out an item, or stumbled upon an unexpected find. He sometimes found that several hours had passed while he wandered among the aisles.