“We like looking at the wedding dresses,” Julia said. “We don’t want to go to the butcher.”
“Yes, well, I like looking at the crown jewels,” Mum called out over her shoulder.
Emmy pulled her gaze away from the remains of the window, the yards of organza, and the placard lying on its face.
Julia slipped her hand into Emmy’s as they stepped away from the shop, their shoes crunching on silvery slivers. “I don’t like the butcher. His store smells like dead things. I don’t like it.”
“We can wait outside.”
The girls had taken only a dozen steps when Emmy heard the swish of a broom and the tinkling of glass against the edge of a dustpan. And then a voice cried out, followed by a murmured curse. Emmy turned to see a broom hit the pavement. The owner of the shop held one hand in the other and her face was wrenched more in annoyance than in pain. The broom and dustpan lay at her feet.
“Catch up with Mum.” Emmy turned from Julia and retraced the few steps to where the owner stood. A crimson line crisscrossed her palm where a piece of glass had cut her.
“Are you all right, ma’am?” Emmy asked.
“Yes, yes,” the owner mumbled as she yanked a handkerchief from a dress pocket and shook out the folds. She pressed the cloth to the wound. Emmy bent to retrieve the broom and dustpan.
“Careful there! No sense in both of us slicing our hands to ribbons,” the woman said.
“Would you like some help with this? I can sweep this up while you take care of your hand.”
The woman peered at Emmy, as if unprepared for such spontaneous kindness from a stranger. Then her eyes widened in recognition.
“I know you. I’ve seen you looking in my window, haven’t I? Many times.”
Heat rose to Emmy’s cheeks. “Yes, ma’am. I like . . . I like your gowns. I hope to have a bridal shop of my own someday.”
The woman smiled as she wound the handkerchief around the cut and a scarlet thread of blood began to seep through. “Well, I surely hope for your sake happier times are in your future.” She nodded toward the broken display window. “As you can see, it isn’t always a charmed life, running a business on your own. Especially with a war going on. If you’ll excuse me, I need to find some gauze. I’ll get to that mess later. But thanks.” She started to head back into her shop.
“I see that you’re looking to hire someone,” Emmy blurted.
The woman turned, her head cocked in negligible interest. “I am.”
Emmy swallowed back her nervousness. “May I come back later today and speak with you about the position?”
The woman hesitated. “How old are you?”
“Nearly sixteen.” The little lie flew out of Emmy’s mouth before she could stop it. Her birthday was nearly a year away. But a fifteen-year-old was still a child. A fifteen-year-old could still be evacuated.
“Have you any experience?”
Another swallow. “I’ve some.”
Pressing the handkerchief tighter to her hand, the shop owner nodded once. “Come back at closing time and we’ll talk. Six. I’ll need references.”
“Oh. Um, okay. Six, then. Right,” Emmy stammered, her mind already reeling with the prospect of convincing this woman that her sketches of wedding gowns would have to serve as references.
“My name’s Mrs. Crofton and I don’t like it when people are late. Just leave the broom and dustpan there.”
“I’m Em-Emmeline Downtree. I will be here at six. Thank you, Mrs. Crofton.”
The owner stepped into the shop with a wordless tip of her head. Emmy set the broom and dustpan against the glassless window frame and walked away, amazed at the turn of luck that had come her way. For the better part of a year she’d been peering into Primrose Bridal’s windows on market day, captivated by the gowns that hung fairylike from mannequins and padded hangers. This newfound affinity had eclipsed her fondness for doodling dress designs during math class and making countless paper dolls for Julia. Mum was one to walk right past Primrose Bridal; not so much in a hurry as in indifference. Mum had never married, and if perhaps someday she would marry, Emmy doubted she would wear white. For a half second Emmy wanted to thank the scoundrel who had run into Mrs. Crofton’s window and set in motion the events that had resulted in her being granted an interview.
She rounded the street corner and nearly ran into Julia.
“Why aren’t you with Mum?” Emmy gasped.
Julia frowned at her. “I don’t like the butcher’s. I don’t like the way his store smells.”
Emmy grabbed her sister’s hand and pulled her down the sidewalk. “You should have done what I said.”
“Why were you talking to that lady?”
“Never mind that now.”
“But I saw you talking to her.”
“I was just offering to help her sweep up the glass.”
“She cut her hand.”
“Yes.”
Emmy quickened their pace. Mum would surely give them grief about taking so long. But she likely wouldn’t ask why.
Mum wasn’t interested in why Emmy liked gazing into bridal shop windows.