Don't Forget to Write: A Novel(10)

“You—what?”

She grinned. “Don’t ever think that I don’t know what I’m doing.”





CHAPTER SEVEN


Back in my sterile room after a “really big shew,” I pulled a notebook from my trunk and sat at the dressing table. Daddy always said my writing was a waste of time—he wanted me to learn to cook and keep a house and become a good little wife. But Mama encouraged it. She was the one who pushed for me to go to college too. Every spare moment, she could be found with a book in hand, often even while standing at the kitchen counter stirring a pot. Daddy bought three different ovens over the last decade, never realizing that the burned meals came from her being engrossed in a good story, not the malfunctioning stove that she blamed it on.

Ada was—I didn’t know how to describe her. But she was an excellent character study. Who was she? How did she get such a large house? Did matchmaking pay that well? Yes, it was a duplex, but so were all the houses in this neighborhood. Why was she so secretive about the upstairs rooms? And why hadn’t she ever married?

While I was curious to learn the real answers, I was also just as quick to make up my own backstory. When I finally stopped to flex my hand, my watch showed that an hour had passed.

I closed the notebook and yawned. I had woken up in New York but would be going to sleep in an entirely different world. And if Ada’s rock-throwing skills were any indication of what was to come, the following day would be another unexpected adventure.

Stifling another yawn, I pulled my toiletries bag from the dresser and went to wash my face and brush my teeth.





At home, I always awoke to the smells of coffee and breakfast being made, the sun peeking through my curtains. The never-ending sounds of the city outside my window.

In Philadelphia, I awoke to a fully dressed and girdled Ada throwing my bedroom door open and telling me I couldn’t sleep all day.

“Clients start arriving at nine sharp,” she said. “Get dressed. Breakfast is on the table.”

“What time is it now?” I asked. The bed was too soft, but that didn’t mean I was ready to leave it.

“Seven thirty.”

“I don’t need breakfast,” I murmured, rolling over to clasp the pillow.

But she pulled the covers off me. “I don’t tolerate tardiness. Get up. Now.”

Glaring at her, I sat up and swung my feet off the bed onto the floor. “I’m going.”

She tapped her foot impatiently until I stood.





An hour and a half later, I was seated in a hard-backed chair in the corner of Ada’s “office,” which was really another sitting room, minus the television of her actual sitting room, while Ada sat across from a mother and daughter, who perched on the edge of their seats with such ramrod-straight posture that I worried they would break in two if they tried to sit farther back.

A notepad was on my lap—Ada had told me my job would be to take notes on the girl’s qualities and concerns. Apparently it was also my job to fetch coffee and the platter of pastries that Ada’s cook had prepared. All of which sat untouched on the coffee table, despite her chastising me in front of the guests for not knowing to bring them.

“So, Stella,” Ada began. “Tell me about yourself.”

Stella opened her mouth to speak, but her mother cut her off. “She’s a good girl. She just needs a husband already.”

“And we will take care of that,” Ada said smoothly. “But I want to hear from Stella herself. What are your hobbies?”

“Hobbies?” Stella squeaked.

“Yes, darling, what do you do for fun?”

“We don’t encourage frivolous pursuits for the girls,” the mother said. “She cooks, she cleans, she sews, and she can play bridge.”

Ada pulled out a gold cigarette case and offered one to the mother, who shook her head. Ada selected one for herself and lit it from a matching lighter, taking a long pull before responding. It was my only sign that she was annoyed, and had I not been so carefully observing her, I wouldn’t have noticed.

“What sort of books do you read? Magazines? Television shows?”

Stella again opened her mouth, but her mother began talking. Ada stopped her. “Mrs. Edelman, with all due respect, I’m not looking for a husband for you. Let the girl speak.”

Mrs. Edelman’s mouth snapped shut. But she strangely didn’t look offended.

“We don’t have a television,” Stella said quietly. “I liked the movie Pillow Talk.”

Ada grinned. “Rock Hudson. Now we’re getting somewhere.” Stella smiled back shyly.

After they left, Ada turned to me. “Let’s see those notes.” I handed her my notepad. “You don’t know shorthand, I see.”

“Why would I?”

She ignored me as she read through what I had written. “You’re right that Mrs. Edelman will be a nightmare of a mother-in-law. We’re better off finding either someone with an equally awful mother or someone without a mother at all.” She continued reading. “Now that’s not fair. Stella will make a lovely wife for the right partner. Did you see that smile when she talked about movies? She just needs to get out from under her mother. No domineering men for her. Someone quiet who will let her blossom is who she needs.”