She never complained about working, but Lillian had sensed the subject was a springboard for the arguments between her parents. She and Peter had no such touchy topics because Lillian always behaved as was expected and kept dissenting opinions to herself.
As a child, her parents had argued and fought. That likely meant Anna had spoken up and her husband didn’t like what she’d said. Gran had said Anna liked to stir the pot. It was more of an accusation than a statement.
Maybe a little pot-stirring was harmless. Wasn’t it? Lillian flinched, not sure she believed it. Look what had happened to her mother. Her mother had gone away.
The Diamond Girls—Lillian quite liked the epithet—fell into line behind her. They trailed through furs, leather goods, and children’s wear, their heels and soles clicking in time with hers, like a trail of tap dancers.
Lillian held open the door to the women’s dressing room, ushering the girls into its soft lighting and sense of privacy. “Take a seat and we’ll get started.” She motioned to the gold, fabric-covered slipper chairs set in a semicircle around the fitting platform flanked by a three-way mirror. Lillian stood next to the platform.
“Since today is our second lesson, I’d like to hear how you incorporated the gracious greetings of lesson one into your lives. Then we’ll move on to why we’re all here.”
Irene raised her hand.
“We took your advice. The girls and I had a picnic.” Irene smiled widely.
The comment surprised Lillian. She didn’t recall advising a picnic, but it showed initiative.
“To get to know one another better,” Ruth said, as if sensing her confusion.
Lillian nodded. “Lovely.”
Ruth took this as her cue to add, “I applied lipstick before Asher came home.”
Harriet rolled her eyes.
“Good for you, Ruth.” A little lipstick never hurt. A girl should always look good, no matter what.
Seemingly pleased by Lillian’s compliment, Ruth demonstrated a skill from lesson one—conversation. “We missed you, Carrie.”
Irene nodded.
“You missed quite the gabfest,” Harriet said.
“You missed quite the spread,” said Ruth.
“Friday is laundry day.”
The girls looked at each other.
“I thought it was pot roast day,” Irene said.
“It’s probably both,” Harriet said.
“I did my laundry while the pot roast was in the oven. Eli likes efficiency.”
“What do you like?” Ruth asked.
An awkward silence filled the space between the girls as they waited. Lillian waited for Carrie’s answer too.
Nothing. Lillian understood the background of that uncomfortable nothing.
Housewives were often “of one mind” with their husbands. She had always been that way with Peter. Housewives like Ruth—who had their own answers even after saying I do—were exceptions, not the rule.
Prickles of envy skittered across Lillian’s heart. She wished she’d had the forethought and chutzpah to tell Peter what she really wanted at the beginning of their marriage.
“I’d like to hear more about the picnic, Irene,” Lillian said, not really caring about the event. She wanted to shift Ruth’s attention from Carrie, who had taken to fidgeting in her seat. This was shopping day.
“We went to Fairmount Park with my little Heidi,” Irene said. “I made egg salad sandwiches. I add olives, you know. Gives it a little zip.”
“It was delicious,” Ruth said.
“Sounds perfect,” Carrie said, calmer now that the attention had been deflected away from her.
Irene beamed a bright smile, a natural hostess. Compliments did wonders.
Before Lillian had to listen to the entire picnic menu, and perhaps the dullness of all the accompanying recipes, God spared them by sending the salesgirl through the door. Lillian immediately recognized Maryanne, with her ginger beehive and button cloisonné earrings. A matching pendant settled at the base of her throat. In a black dress—Lillian thought the color a tad morose for daytime—Maryanne slinked like a cat to her side. At least Maryanne didn’t have to wear a smock like the other salesgirls, so Lillian sucked back any opinions about her color choice.
Maryanne Deering must have been at least six feet tall—taller than Peter—with willowy limbs. What accounted for her gracefulness had probably made her a lanky girl. She was too tall to appeal to most men. Her eyes were small, but bright green and symmetrical, bordering an unremarkable nose. She was neither pretty nor homely. She wore a thin gold band on her left ring finger, which could have been a ruse to ward off unwanted advances, though her being married wouldn’t necessarily dissuade a scoundrel. Lillian didn’t know if Maryanne had to work, if she wanted to work, or where she lived. All Lillian knew was that the salesgirl had assembled some of Lillian’s favorite outfits. The woman had talent.
She suddenly looked at Maryanne anew. Lillian had readily undressed to her girdle and brassiere in front of Maryanne on previous shopping expeditions, but she had never thought to ask the woman about herself. Was she the same type of aloof customer who had upset her mother? Lillian’s chest tightened with guilt.
“Hello, ladies, I’m Maryanne. I’m here to help, acquire additional sizes, zip zippers, coordinate accessories, and assist our seamstress if there are alterations. Then I’ll call you at home when your selections are ready for pickup, or I can arrange delivery. As I get to know each of you this morning, I may pull other selections from the floor. Just to give you options.”
“We have a surprise for you girls.” Lillian clapped her hands to reinforce Maryanne’s words. “Maryanne and I have chosen outfits for you in advance, according to the measurements you provided.” Lillian could let the girls peruse Saks on their own, or perhaps in pairs. But she had Maryanne to consider. This would ensure that Maryanne received her commission, which Lillian assumed she needed the way her mother had.
Indecipherable chatter broke out between Irene and Harriet. Lillian distributed a personalized fashion collage that she had created for each girl. “These give suggestions for styles and the color palette that will suit you. You can use them for reference when choosing outfits for your body shape and complexion.”
It didn’t hurt to look one’s best, did it? Perhaps the point was for the girls to please themselves first, their husbands second. Feeling good had always contributed to looking good, but Lillian had never given her own opinion as much clout as Peter’s.
“I’ve been helping housewives build their wardrobes for fifteen years,” Maryanne said. “I worked at John Wanamaker’s until 1958, and I’ve been here since. I know this inventory like the back of my hand.”
“She does, girls. You can trust Maryanne completely.” Lillian held Maryanne in high esteem, not only for her taste, but for her knowledge and honesty. Lillian hadn’t realized until then that women had likely regarded her mother in the same way.
Even Ruth was pointing at the collages, whispering, and nodding.
“I assume you obtained your husband’s permission to put your choice on his account, or that you have a check already signed,” Lillian said. She had her secret coffee can, but it was filled with Peter’s cash. She’d have to earn money, open a bank account, and write checks to have any real power. But she’d need Peter’s permission to do her own banking—so where was the autonomy?