Chapter Nineteen
Mr. Pierce is always sending packages—flowers, candies of spun sugar, delicate lace—but this one catches me by surprise.
Over breakfast one Wednesday I pull back tissue paper to find a cascade of plush red velvet.
I gasp, running my fingers over a scarlet cape, hooded and trimmed with satin.
Tucked into its soft folds is a note with Mr. Pierce’s now-familiar handwriting:
Dear Evelyn,
Cooler weather is coming.
Wear this on Friday evening after your show.
I’ll have my auto waiting for you at the theater.
Yours,
SP
Mamma is at my side in a flash, studying the material. “Oh, Florence, this is well done.” She leans over my shoulder, admiring the fine stitching. “I’ll make you something to wear under it. Red satin. Mr. Pierce will be so pleased.” She seems to be, as well.
On Friday night, as usual, chauffeured cars and carriages line the street outside the theater.
Plenty of the girls in the company have admirers and suitors ready to whisk them away for the evening, many of them offering their fine chauffeured vehicles to ensure that no other man interferes.
Is that what Mr. Pierce is—my admirer? My suitor?
The question stops me in my tracks as I stare at the gleaming phalanx of autos. Is Stanley Pierce courting me, like all these other fellows lined up to pay suit?
Do I wish for him to be?
I enjoy spending time with him, to be sure.
He is kind and thoughtful and he makes me laugh freely and often, in spite of the difference in our ages.
He knows so much of the world and always has some spiffy new idea for a grand adventure.
And I’m endlessly grateful to him for his generosity—a largesse that has saved my family.
Whatever Mr. Pierce is doing, I certainly don’t wish for it to stop.
Though I can’t say in this moment if our friendly relationship is one that I wish were more romantic.
Nor could I venture to guess how he feels on that topic.
What I do know is that his waiting auto is the nicest of the bunch.
And he’s already in the car when the capped chauffeur clicks open the door and hands me in.
I flash him a smile. Mr. Pierce takes in my appearance in the new red cloak, the hood draped around my dark hair, and he returns the smile.
“You look delightful, Evelyn. Just like Little Red Riding Hood.”
His approval fills me with a warm feeling, and I settle onto the leather bench beside him as the car pulls us away from the theater and its crowds, out into the cool Manhattan night.
“Did your new hooded cloak allow you to slip out and escape without too many of your lovestruck admirers nipping at your heels?” Mr. Pierce asks me with a teasing sideways glance.
Is he jealous? I parry his comment with a chuckle and then ask: “Where are we going?” Penny and Annissa were heading out to dance at Rector’s, but I don’t feel as though I’m missing out, as I’m sure that Mr. Pierce has something splendid planned.
“I figured it would be fun to take you up to my tower.”
I lean my head to the side. “Your tower?”
“You know I built Madison Square Garden, right?”
“Everyone in this city knows that, Mr. Pierce.”
“Would you like to see it up close?”
“Yes! Very much.”
He nods, apparently content with this response. Then he narrows his eyes, holding me with his gaze. “Say, would you do me a favor?”
“Sure.” After all he’s done for me, I would do him any favor.
“Would you call me Stanley? Or better yet, Stanny? All this ‘Mr. Pierce’ business feels awfully formal. Like you work for one of my companies. But we’re friends, aren’t we?”
“Of course we’re friends,” I answer, finding it entertaining that Mr. Pierce, in his luxurious motorcar, is bearing me through Midtown toward Madison Square Garden, and yet he’s the one asking me to be his friend, with a bashful manner not all that different from that of some shy boy in the schoolyard.
How is it that this gentleman can be made to feel timid in front of me, a poor chorus girl less than half his age?
It makes me a bit dizzy, this power that he seems to think I wield.
His eyes are smiling as they trace a line from my face down the trim of my cloak, not ceasing their study until the velvet fabric pools in my lap and then spills over my legs.
When he speaks next, his voice is soft, even a touch conspiratorial: “I thought it was time I gave you a tour of the tower. It’s a nifty place.
Really, you could fancy yourself in Spain; I built it to look like you are. ”
I’ve never been to Spain, but this fills me with excitement. He goes on, explaining that the place has a theater, several restaurants, a concert hall, an exhibition hall, a ballroom. “But tonight I thought we could go up to the rooftop garden. How does that sound?”
“It sounds bully,” I answer, without another thought for the girls dancing at Rector’s.
We roll to a stop at the corner of Madison Square Park, where Mr. Pierce’s behemoth of a building rises up in brick and stone, the highest building for miles around.
As Mr. Pierce—no, Stanny—helps me out of the auto, I take in a closer view of the ground floor, which is hemmed by a forest of ornate columns.
It does look like something one could see in Spain—not that I would know from experience.
The broad front entrance is dark and appears to be locked for the evening, given the late hour, but Stanny steers me toward a side entrance, where he knocks only once.
After just a beat, the door swings open from within, and a young male attendant keeps his eyes tilted downward as he mumbles, “Evening, Mr. Pierce.” Stanny ushers me inside.
How many times have I walked past this building, admiring its soaring dimensions and grand facade?
And now I’m walking in with the man who built it!
It is quiet and dark inside; other than the attendant at the door, we may be the only people here. Stanny and I walk through a foyer, my heels clicking clamorously loud against the marble floor, and he escorts me toward an elevator.
“My special elevator, just for me,” Stanny whispers as the machine chimes before us and an operator slides open the grated door.
Stanny tells the attendant: “To the top.” With a quick nod and a “yes, sir,” the young man slides the grated door closed and presses the designated button.
Up we soar. It’s dizzying, really, to think how far that little girl from Wanamaker’s has come with her dreams to one day ride an elevator.
“Finest building in the city,” Stanny interrupts my musing, his voice tinged with pride as the gears of the cab turn and grind, carrying us ever upward.
“Do we have the entire place to ourselves?” I ask, my words humming with the electric excitement I feel.
“Mostly offices up here. Nobody will be here this late,” Stanny explains.
At last we come to the top, and the elevator chimes again.
The grated door is heaved open by the attendant, and I step out onto the top of the world.
With Stanny just behind me I look over the view, and I can’t help but gasp.
I’m in the sky! The streetlamps and illuminated windows of Manhattan appear miles beneath our feet.
Closer at hand, all around me, I see that I’m standing in a lush and colorful garden. A garden in the sky.
“Welcome, my darling girl, to my very own paradise,” Stanny says, hovering just a step behind me, so close that I can smell the hint of cloves in his cologne. I sense that while I’m looking out and all around, he’s looking only at me.
I hear the elevator door creak closed, and a droning bumblebee sound tells me that the cab is now descending; just Stanny and I remain up here. I’m so dazzled by the view that I still can’t speak, but he does. “What do you think?”
“I can’t think…only of how swell this is!”
The city is lit up beneath us on the chilly autumn night.
I pull my new plush cloak a bit closer around my shoulders, thankful for its soft warmth.
“Lady Liberty,” Stanny says, pointing out a distant pearl of light beyond the dark waters of the New York Harbor.
Closer to us, around the perimeter of the rooftop space, glimmering sconces throw blue and green shards of candlelight across the floor and walls.
“Courtesy of my friend, Mr. Tiffany,” Stanny says, noticing my admiration for the nearest blue sconce.
“I believe you’ve also worked with him?”
“Yes,” I answer. The mention of that name causes my head to spin again, memories dancing to the forefront of my mind—modeling in Philadelphia, working with Violet and Leah. Before Mr. Gibson, and Mr. Beckwith, and the Broadway stage, and now Stanny. It feels like another lifetime.
The scene around me is unlike anything I’ve ever seen.
Beside the garden terrace is a grand room with a soaring glass ceiling and walls made of alternating panes of floor-to-ceiling mirrors and windows, their trim etched with gold leaf, which has a most dazzling effect.
I look around the space with a blend of mystification and delight.
Bugs with big eyes made of ruby-red glass hang from the ceiling like whimsical chandeliers.
In the middle of the room is a cluster of massive couches upholstered in Stanny’s beloved red velvet, piled with overstuffed red pillows.
The only other piece of furniture is a grand piano with a burnished bronze statue beside it.
“Bacchus,” Stanny says over my shoulder as I admire the piece. “The god of all things pleasurable.”