I took the paper, examining the multiple trolleys she had written down, wondering if it was worth it for lipstick. It wasn’t like I was going to see anyone interesting here. But an adventure was an adventure. And I wasn’t going to turn down a chance to see something that resembled an actual urban center.
She was looking at me, an eyebrow raised. “Thank you,” I said finally.
She nodded, then returned to her ledger, and I slipped out into the hall. When I reached my room, an alarm clock was now resting on the nightstand, a piece of paper sticking out from under it. I pulled out the paper, and, written in the same spidery hand as the directions to the store, were the words “Don’t oversleep.”
I sank onto the bed. “Please don’t leave me here all summer,” I said quietly, willing my mother to hear me. Then, realizing no help was coming if I didn’t make it happen, I pulled out my stationery and began a letter to my father.
Dearest Daddy,
I’m writing today to let you know that I have seen the error of my wicked ways. I understand why you sent me away—you were right to do so. But, Daddy, please let me come home. I promise to behave and never pull a stunt like that again.
But then I stopped writing. What if, in coming home, I would be expected to marry Daniel? A summer of torture was better than a lifetime of mediocre marriage.
I balled up the letter. No. I could do this.
CHAPTER NINE
I awoke to the clanging of the alarm clock. I swatted at it, putting the down pillow over my head, but then I remembered Ada’s note and wrenched myself out of bed. It was still too soft, but there was something comforting in being in it. Like a cocoon had enveloped me. I stretched out my arms, but they weren’t wings. And if my work in rounding up young men was any indication of what I was doing here, I wasn’t improving from caterpillar to butterfly. No, I was definitely going from rebellious daughter to procuress.
I thought about the balled-up letter in my bedroom’s wastebasket. Daddy would certainly bring me back home in a hurry if he knew that Ada was employing me to flirt with potential clients. But he might ship me off to a convent then. Better Catholic than soliciting young men.
Me? I’d take the soliciting. It was fun when Ada wasn’t throwing things at me. Although she did offer to help me trip again.
So I pulled the scarf from my head and began unwinding the rollers I had slept in. I knew better than to be late to breakfast now.
Immaculately dressed and made up, sans lipstick, I descended to find Ada drinking coffee and reading the newspaper, a piece of dry toast untouched beside her.
“Thank you for the alarm clock,” I said.
She looked up, taking in my appearance. “Who are you, and what have you done with Marilyn?”
“If I’m going to be here all summer, I want to make the best of it.”
She closed the newspaper. “You won’t be here all summer.”
“I won’t?”
“No. We leave for the shore next week.”
“Shirley mentioned that.”
“Shirley? Shirley Goldman or Shirley Cohen?”
Everyone did know everyone’s business here. “Um—the one whose shore house is near yours?”
Ada rolled her eyes. “Goldman.”
“What’s wrong with Shirley Goldman?”
“Nothing really. The family are social climbers though. Wealthy, but vulgar. No class.”
“Does that really still matter in this day and age?”
“It does in my line of work. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with roots in trade, only with the people who try to hide who they are for appearances. They only want to meet established families, and if I bring them to any of the established families, I’ll never work in this town again.”
Frannie, the cook, brought a plate of eggs, fruit, and toast and set it in front of me. “Coffee?”
“I will never turn down coffee,” I said gratefully. Especially when I had to be up by seven. She got the pot from the sideboard and poured me a cup, bringing it with a small pitcher of cream and a bowl of sugar. “Thank you, Frannie.”
“You should take it black,” Ada said, watching me dump half the pitcher of cream in, along with a heaping spoonful of sugar. “Better for you.”
I looked at her black coffee and shrugged. “I’ll walk it off later,” I said, taking a sip of the delicious sweetness. In reality, I would sweat it out. The day was already sweltering. I understood why the elite left the city for the shore like in New York. “How many clients are coming today?”
“Seven.”
“Is that every day?”
“There are only three certainties in this world, Marilyn. Death, taxes, and Jewish mothers wanting to marry their children off.”
“Why didn’t you ever get married?”
She reopened the newspaper and held it up in front of her face. “Because there were no matchmakers as good as me when I was young.” She lowered the paper just enough to see me over it. “Any other impertinent questions? Or may I continue reading about the election? I certainly hope people are willing to overlook the fact that Kennedy is Catholic. It would be nice to have someone who doesn’t look like a constipated Howdy Doody running the country. And that wife of his is pure class.”
A little over an hour later, I found myself in the straight-backed chair again, notepad on my lap. Opposite Ada was one of the most unfortunate-looking young women I had ever seen. Gawky and tall, she towered over her normal-sized mother, with a large nose and buck teeth that would make a beaver envious. Her mother sat there wringing her hands, bemoaning her daughter’s appearance to Ada.
“I understand if you can’t do anything with her, I do,” she said. “But she’s twenty-six now, and time is running out.”
The poor girl’s eyes were trained on the floor the whole time, her shoulders hunched as she tried to hide her size.
Ada looked from mother to daughter and back to the mother. Then she turned to me. “Marilyn, darling, perhaps you could take Mrs. Stein with you to fetch a fresh pot of coffee?”
I eyed her with confusion. Sending me for the coffee was one thing, but taking Mrs. Stein to the kitchen? I didn’t understand what she was getting at, but I rose and asked Mrs. Stein to come with me. She followed without a word.
When we reached the kitchen, I dumped out the pitcher of still-hot coffee and began to brew a new pot. It was the extent of my kitchen skills. Mrs. Stein sank to the kitchen table while the coffee brewed, and I added fresh cream to the pitcher.
“If only I had a daughter like you,” she said miserably. “You must have men lining up to marry you.”
“Just one,” I said. “And that’s why I’m here. I said no, and my parents sent me to Ada.”
“You’re so lucky. With that figure and that complexion.”
“Looks aren’t everything,” I said delicately. What I wanted to say was that she was an awful mother. She had sat there telling my great-aunt what a wonderful cook her daughter was, how she could sew and mend anything, how obedient she was. Heck, I would marry her if I were a man. Looks fade for everyone—except maybe Ada—but someone who can cook, darn socks, and listen to every inane word you say was forever. “I wish I had half her domestic skills.”
“You don’t need them. You’ll marry well.”