The Lost Girl of Astor Street
Stephanie Morrill
CHAPTER
ONE
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
MAY 12, 1924
If he doesn’t know it already, Jeremiah Crane is about to learn that I’m not the type of girl to be pushed around. Standing behind him, I watch as he stretches his long arms across the back of the wooden bench, feigning ignorance of my presence. I glare down at the top of Jeremiah’s new hat, which he probably bought because it looks just like the trilby Rudolph Valentino wore in last month’s issue of Photoplay.
Lydia touches my elbow and pitches her voice low. “Don’t make trouble with him, Piper. Just let it go.”
Probably wise advice. Lydia’s most always is.
Our fellow Presley’s School for Girls classmates stream around us on the sidewalk, monotonous in black-and-white uniforms as they head to the L station or the automobiles idling in the pickup line.
I turn away from the bench, but the outright rudeness of Jeremiah’s action—plopping himself right in the middle when he knew Lydia and I were about to sit there—and the possibility that he thinks I’ll just lay down and take it makes me pivot around again. This is 1924, after all. A girl has the right to be heard.
I plant my hands on my hips. “Excuse me, Mr. Crane, but my friend and I were about to sit there.”
Behind me, Lydia groans.
Jeremiah turns and assumes a face of surprise. “Why, Miss Sail. I had no idea the two of you had intentions on this bench.” He makes a show of scooting over. “Plenty of room for both you and Miss LeVine.”
Jeremiah’s trilby sits askew, and his right eye squints in the mid-afternoon sun. His gaze holds a dare. Other girls at school describe him as “dashing.” I daresay Jeremiah believes his own press.
I take the seat, careful to leave space between me and Jeremiah, as well as room for Lydia to sit. But when I glance to my left, I see Lydia has abandoned my cause in favor of socializing with Mae Husboldt and her insipid friends. Beyond them, the sun glares off Lake Michigan, making my eyes water.
“It seems Miss LeVine’s heart was not so set on this bench after all.”
I turn and push a smile onto my face. “Do you intend to console yourself with that notion, Mr. Crane?” I arrange the folds of my straight black uniform skirt, shielding my legs from the Chicago wind, chilly even in May. “They must not keep you busy enough at the newspaper if you have time to think up schemes like taking seats from nice girls like Lydia LeVine.”
Jeremiah’s smile stays steady. “I’m just here for my sister.”
At his core, Jeremiah is a newspaper man—imperturbable. I have no problems imagining him digging for interviews and pounding away at his typewriter. Or someday taking over his father’s role as owner.
Not that I spend a lot of time thinking about Jeremiah Crane.
“Of course you are.” I look with hope to the cluster of Fords and Buicks, but the LeVine family’s Duesenberg is nowhere to be seen. And Lydia is still making conversation with Mae, who’s hardly preferable to Jeremiah.
The wind again gusts off the lake and threatens to carry away my brimless cloche. I trap it on my head with my hand.
“I see you haven’t changed.”
Jeremiah’s gaze is fastened to the hand I’ve pressed to my head. The hand that bears this week’s punishments from Ms. Underhill. Embarrassment sours my stomach. I don’t know his sister well, but my guess is that proper Emma Crane doesn’t come home from her day at Presley’s with bruised knuckles.
I tuck my hand into my coat pocket. “I trust the newspaper business is as strong as ever.”
Jeremiah opens his mouth to respond, and then stops himself.
Lydia has rejoined us. “Pardon my interruption, but Matthew is here.”
“Miss LeVine.” Jeremiah sweeps his trilby off his head and holds it over his heart. “Please forgive me for taking your seat. Miss Sail objected most vehemently on your behalf.”
Lydia beams a smile at him as if he has offered an actual apology instead of one that mocks. “It’s forgotten. Have a good day, Mr. Crane.”
“Thank you for being so gracious.” Jeremiah winks at me as he settles his hat back on his head. “Stay out of trouble, Miss Sail.”
Laughter spills from Lydia. “If you knew Piper”—she links her arm through mine, pulling me toward the idling car—“you would know that’s quite impossible.”
Jeremiah chuckles behind us.
“Excuse me.” I keep my voice low and my chin high. “I was trying to stand up for you. He took your seat.”
“It was hardly my seat. Those are public benches. And he only did it to goad you.” Her eyes spark with mischief as she grins at me. “Did you and Mr. Crane have an enjoyable conversation?”
“Did you leave me alone with him on purpose?”
Lydia giggles and shrugs. “Maybe.”