Harriet fluttered her lashes. “My fiancé works for his father. They’re lawyers. Scotty will take over one day.”
“Stephen owns Pincus Appliance Palace,” Irene said. “With three locations.”
Lillian and the girls looked at Ruth.
“Oh. My turn; Asher is a CPA. He works for his father.” She turned to Harriet. “What kind of law does your fiancé practice?”
“The legal kind? I don’t know. Should I? Do you know what kind of accounting they do?”
“Tax accounting.”
“It’s not wrong to know specifics,” Lillian said. “But you don’t want to get caught up in business chatter yourself.”
Harriet smirked.
“You’ll want to know enough to keep your husbands up to speed,” Lillian added. Keeping Peter primed on his clients and acquaintances was her specialty. Her husband relied on her to provide details he’d use to woo and impress. She’d once considered his business coups her own, but after fifteen years of marriage, the excitement of Peter’s achievements had stopped feeling like hers.
That’s what made the etiquette lessons special; they belonged to Lillian. Not that Peter needed them. Even Lillian wished the lessons were more important—not that etiquette was insignificant, not at all. But sometimes, when she allowed herself to dream beyond her life—or even within her life—she recalled short periods of time when she’d pictured herself a teacher, librarian, nurse. Or a meter maid. The woolgathering had never lasted long enough to be anything more. Perhaps if her mother had been around . . .
“Won’t anyone want to know what we think?” Ruth asked. “About anything?”
Lillian focused on Ruth, snapping back to the living room. “Once you’re friendly with the wives? Sure. Hair. Clothes. Decorating. Children. There will be plenty to talk about.”
Ruth shook her head but said nothing. Lillian wanted to tell Ruth she’d adapt, that she’d ignore and eventually forget her recalcitrant self, flourish in happy housewifery and motherhood. But that might be a lie. Lillian might be a lot of things, but she wasn’t a liar.
Lillian stubbed out her cigarette. “Just to reiterate, the way I introduced you is appropriate for married women.” She looked right at Ruth. “Memorize the first names of the men in your husband’s circles, but always address them as Mr. in a business or social setting—and while you may not like it, you’ll use your husband’s name when introducing yourself.” Perhaps acknowledging Ruth’s dissent would ease the transition. “You can offer your first name, but it would be rude of anyone to use it unless it was a casual setting. Inviting someone to use your first name sends a message of frivolity in business. I promise you girls, it’s not easy.”
Ruth reached into her pocketbook and removed a small notepad and pencil and started scribbling away.
“You were already practicing this lesson by meeting me, and one another.” Lillian motioned around the room, pleased with her trickery. “Why do you think the way you greet your husband and his colleagues and their wives is important?”
Harriet’s hand shot up and she smiled. “Being polite shows you had a good upbringing.”
“That isn’t a factor here,” Lillian said. Harriet was a pretty girl, but there was more to learn. “What do you think, Ruth?”
“Do you want me to be honest?” Ruth asked.
“Not really,” Harriet said.
Lillian shook a finger at her before turning to Ruth. “Of course you should be honest. Just remember your manners.” That was silly to say—it was clear Ruth was smart and polite, if opinionated. Lillian knew the difference.
“I think when we’re nice to other people—no matter who they are—we’re showing respect for them, and that reflects on us. People shouldn’t have to be a certain way to receive our kindness and respect. Or to have rights.”
“We’re not talking about rights, Ruth,” Harriet said.
“Maybe we should be,” Ruth said. “I mean, if we have the influence you say we do”—Ruth looked at Lillian—“we could do some real good.”
“Our job is to boost our husbands and keep a home that makes them happy, so they can do their jobs,” Harriet scolded, sneering as if Ruth were daft.
“Back to the matter at hand.” Lillian turned a few pages in her notebook and spoke without glancing at the page. “Ruth isn’t wrong. When you feel good about yourself, you are inherently nice to others, and when you are polite to others, you feel good about yourself. It all makes for a lovely first impression.” Lillian consolidated the contents of two ashtrays. “Another thing to remember,” she said, “is that your appearance is also a greeting. Don’t forget to freshen up before your husband comes home from work. Change your clothes; pick a pretty lipstick. It will make you feel better, and he will see that you are at your best when he walks in the door, not frazzled from a day of shopping or dealing with the children.”
“I don’t leave the house without lipstick,” Harriet said.
Ruth swiped her fingers across shiny lips, which likely had Vaseline on them.
“Look, girls, the High Holidays are only weeks away.” Ruth switched the topic in a jolly, if unconvincing, voice. What had changed her tune? “So how about we be the Manners Musketeers until then?”
“What a lovely thing to say, Ruth,” Lillian said. Ruth shrugged, as if pushing the effort away as unimportant. Lillian understood Ruth was there at Shirley’s behest and was shrugging off nothing.
“I’ve heard the wives who take these lessons from you sometimes call themselves the Diamond Girls,” Harriet said.
“I like the sound of that,” Irene said. “Like a club.”
They were trying. Even Ruth. No harm in offering the girls a hint to make things easier.
“Do you know what’s more important than your name—just as important as being the perfect wife—and will get you out of jams more often than anything else? Something even the husbands don’t know?” Lillian asked.
That got their attention. The girls, including Ruth, leaned forward. “What’s that?” they asked in unison.
Lillian closed her notebook, then lit another cigarette. She inhaled and blew out a stream of smoke. “Knowing who your friends are.”
Chapter 3
RUTH
Ruth stared at Lillian the way some people looked at car wrecks or babies—unable to look away. One moment she was entranced, the next she was appalled. Lillian’s almost-black, wavy hair didn’t budge—likely set and sprayed to hold for an entire week. Her skin was pale enough to make Ruth wonder if Lillian had taken ill, but with her winged eyeliner, precision brows, and carmine-painted lips, you knew she wasn’t simply well, but divine. Ruth couldn’t deny it: Lillian personified striking.
She’d always considered her own looks ordinary—medium-brown hair and eyes, a medium-sized nose and bust. None of which bothered her like they might have if her appearance impacted her intellect. Even with a best friend like Dotsie back home, Ruth retained a grip on her self-worth. Dotsie’s long, auburn hair and “legs for days” never intimidated her. With Dots, she’d never been subjected to that not-quite-up-to-snuff attitude she felt at Lillian’s.