Free Astor Place Vintage: A Novel by Stephanie Lehmann

pins.
    My worries receded as I leaned over my reliable old Singer, cupped the metal wheel to position the needle, and pressed down on the foot pedal. It was my grandmother who taught me to sew. First a pillowcase, then an apron, then a dress using a Simplicity pattern we bought at my local Woolworth’s on Twenty-third Street—God rest its soul. I remembered the joy of shopping there for supplies. Choosing a pattern from one of the big catalogs; picking out a fabric; finding the exact color of thread and zipper to match. Then we’d go home, spread our supplies out in the living room, and get to work. I loved to whiz down seams like a race car driver gunning for the finish line. Transforming a flat piece of fabric into a three-dimensional finished outfit seemed like magic.
    After finishing the second dart, I tried on the dress in front of my closet door mirror. Now it fit perfectly. It needed pressing, but ironing taffeta was not a good idea. I’d steam it out later while taking a shower. I was about to pull it off when inspiration hit: A diamond necklace Jeff bought me might be just the thing to go with it.
    I took out a shoe box from behind my cleaning supplies on the top shelf of the cabinet over the sink. That was the safest hiding place I’d come up with for my half dozen or so pieces of upscale jewelry, all presents from Jeff over the past few years. I rarely had the opportunity to wear them, and a while back I’d asked him to stop giving me more. For one thing, I liked picking out my own jewelry. For another, it made me feel like a prototypically “bought and paid for” woman. But he said it made him happy, and he went right on doing it.
    I selected the necklace I had in mind—a yellow-gold choker with clusters of diamonds set between each link—and checked myself out in the mirror. It looked brazenly expensive, but it didgo beautifully with the neckline of my dress. Just as I was undoing the clasp, I caught a glimpse of something in motion behind me: a dark blur. I spun around.
    Nothing. Obviously, my brain was short-circuiting from lack of sleep. I put the necklace on my bureau and returned the shoe box to its hiding place above the sink.

OLIVE
    AS THE HORSE clip-clopped past Madison Square, I gawked like a tourist. The city seemed even more dazzling at night, with brilliant arc lights lining the avenue and crowds hunting for entertainment. Diners packed the Café Martin, Anna Held performed to sold-out crowds, and audiences lined up at Proctor’s to see moving pictures and vaudeville.
    “I remember when this was a lovely, quiet residential neighborhood,” my father said.
    “And dull as doornails, no doubt.”
    “What’s exciting about stone towers replacing quaint old houses?”
    “You’re the limit, Father. People come from all over to see the sights.”
    “I heard they’re closing down the Fifth Avenue Hotel. It used to be one of the most fashionable addresses in the city. Now they can’t fill their rooms—too old-fashioned for you thrillseekers.”
    “Well, I like having lots of people around me. Cold Spring istoo quiet. Everyone shuts themselves away in their houses.” Sometimes I used to imagine that everyone else on earth had died and left me alone.
    “People can be lonely in the city, too,” Father said. “I’m glad we’re getting out tonight.”
    “So am I.” The manager of the Woolworth’s on Fourteenth Street had invited us to meet for coffee and dessert at what he claimed was the best Italian café in the city. “It was terribly sweet of this man to think of us.”
    “I think Mr. Pierce is in need of company, too. He lost his wife last year.”
    I nodded, thinking that he and Father had something in common. I wished Mr. Pierce had a daughter for me. After a month in the city, I still didn’t have anyone I could call a friend. As for my employment search, I didn’t dare go to another interview without a reference, and I couldn’t bring myself to raise the unpleasant