She laughed too. “Frankly, no. I think Daniel Sullivan has met his match in you.” With that she happened to glance up at the ladder again as drops of water splashed down on her. “Watch what you’re doing, Mario. Attenzione!”
I left them to it and walked to the Sixth Street El station, where I took the train all the way to Seventy-third. This neighborhood on the Upper West Side gave the feel of being part of a small town, not a giant city. Gardeners were tending early blooms in the strip of land between Broadway and Columbus Avenue. The small shops along Broadway had that Main Street feel. This wouldn’t last, however, as some impressive new apartment buildings were going up, complete with marble fa?ades and turrets. The Dakota, which towered over everything like a great fortress on the park, had started a trend, and this would soon be a fashionable place to live.
At the moment it was one of the few neighborhoods I had been in that hadn’t obviously been settled by a single ethnic group. I saw Irish faces, and fair-haired northern Europeans and dark-haired Italians and Jews. I also, to my interest, saw a Negro woman, holding a delightful little girl with neatly braided hair by the hand as she emerged from the baker’s shop. Having grown up on the remote west coast of Ireland, Negroes and Chinese were still a novelty to me. Not here, however. Nobody gave her a second glance as she disappeared down Broadway.
I made my way up Columbus looking for the drugstore. Drugstores were a new experience for me. I had come to associate the word with that delightful invention, the soda fountain, where I had had my first taste of milkshakes and sundaes. But McPherson’s Dispensatory was not like this: it was clearly an old-fashioned apothecary, what we in Ireland would call a chemist’s shop. In the window hung several large glass globes filled with colored liquid. Below them were displays of various patent remedies: Draper’s Toothache Remedy, Lydia Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound, and Wampole’s Preparation Tonic and Stimulant. In one corner was a small display of ladies’ face preparations, as used in Paris. A bell jangled as I pushed open the door. Inside was a high counter and behind it shelves containing an assortment of jars and bottles. In the middle of this wall was an opening through which I could see into a back room. Its walls were lined with cupboards, some glass-fronted, others tiny wooden squares. I caught sight of two men in white coats at work at a table, their backs to me.
At the sound of the bell, the older one looked up, saw me, and barked, “Counter, Ned.”
“Where’s Emily?” Ned asked.
“Off delivering a package for me. She should have been back by now. Dawdling to look in shop windows, I shouldn’t wonder,” the older one snapped. The owner, Mr. McPherson, obviously.
Ned pushed open a swing door and came through to the shop front, wiping his hands on his coat as he came toward me. “Can I help you, miss?” he asked.
For once I was speechless. This was Emily’s young man and he was a veritable Adonis. She hadn’t mentioned his good looks and yet he would have been any girl’s dream. He was slim, with wavy black hair, dark flashing eyes, and a pencil mustache. I immediately thought of Mr. Darcy or Heathcliff, one of those brooding heroes in the romantic novels I had so loved as a young girl.
“Uh—I came to meet Emily,” I stammered. “She told me she has her lunch break at one. I hope I haven’t missed her.”
“No, she should be back any second now. She was sent out on a delivery.”
“You must be Ned,” I said, although I knew quite well who he was. “Emily’s told me about you.”
“You’re a friend of hers then?” he asked, eyeing me with interest. “From Vassar?”
“No such luck. I met her through mutual friends. She’s a grand girl, isn’t she?”
“Oh yes,” he said. “A grand girl. Very smart.”
“She’s very proud of you. She tells me you’ve a promising career ahead of you.”
He made a face and I couldn’t tell whether it was one of embarrassment or annoyance. “Someday, maybe. Right now I’m only an apprentice.” He glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “And the old man doesn’t let me do much more than make up liniments for old men’s rheumatics. But I’m studying in my spare time and I hope to make something of myself someday.”
“Ned—I don’t pay you to gossip,” came the sharp voice from the back room. “If the young lady hasn’t come to purchase something then I suggest she wait outside.”
“You see what it’s like,” Ned muttered to me. “Never a moment to myself. Ah, here’s Emily now.”
Emily burst in through the front door, her cheeks glowing from having hurried. “Sorry I’m late,” she gasped, “But I decided to stop in on Mrs. Hartmann, since she lives just across the street from the delivery.”
“I don’t pay you to dillydally and gossip,” Mr. McPherson snapped. “Next time you want to go visiting, do it during your lunch break.”
“Oh, but Mr. McPherson, she’s your own valued employee. I’d have thought you’d want an update on her condition,” Emily said.
Mr. McPherson merely grunted.