Chapter 12 #3
“I would like to,” Celia said, meaning it. “Unfortunately, I have to be back at the shop before one.”
“Then I mustn’t keep you. You haven’t been raided, have you?” Camille asked.
Celia shook her head. “Not yet. But the whole Row lives in constant fear of Comstock, when they’re not making fun of him.
You?”
“Not recently. We now have some influential supporters. Besides, the old rascal is more interested in the ladies of the brothels
than a bunch of immigrant housewives learning how to cook.”
“I really must go,” Celia said. She would have liked to see more of what went on at the settlement, but she was already going to be late. Her cross to bear, it seemed.
“I’ll find a new printer,” she said as they walked back toward the front door. “It may take some time.”
“I’ll ask around, too.” Camille walked her out to the stoop. “I hope you come back just to visit and get to know us. In fact,
wait just a second.” She ran back the way they’d come and returned a moment later holding a thick book. “It’s just been published.
Lillian’s memoir, The House on Henry Street. I think you’ll find it interesting.”
“Thank you. I’m sure I will. ” Celia slipped the book into her bag and started down the steps.
“And Celia . . .”
“Yes?”
“Stay safe.”
Daphne was early at the tea shop to meet Ronnie, so she stood with a perfect view of ladies’ dresses. And voilà! In the very
front a mannequin, posed on a small platform, looking as elegant as any live model. She was dressed in the most luscious cream
and blue party dress, with a wide collar and belted waist. She looked so real, Daphne thought she might just step down from
the platform and walk down the runway.
Daphne stood mesmerized, imagining herself walking into a room where every head turned and everyone gasped at her elegance
and beauty . . .
“May I help you, miss?”
Daphne started, coming down to earth with a thud.
“Isn’t it beautiful? And it would look exceptional on your figure. It comes in any size.” The saleswoman indicated the row of dresses that stretched out behind the mannequin.
Daphne’s bubble burst. So many dresses all the same no matter what the size. Not so special after all.
“Just looking, thank you.” She hurried toward the tea shop and found herself face-to-face with the book department. And though
books were the last thing on Daphne’s mind, she had to admit that the display of bestsellers on a table right in front did
catch her eye. All the books were arranged so that the titles were at least partially visible. Pleasant to the eye and easily
reachable, it caught one’s attention, just like the mannequin in the blue dress had.
Daphne found herself tempted to pick up one or two of the new titles. The way they were displayed was certainly conducive
to buying. If one was interested in buying a book, which she wasn’t.
Still. It was bright and uplifting, with nary a musty mildewed volume in sight or smell. Of course, Wanamaker’s had the space
and budget to do whatever they wanted. The Arcadia seemed like a cave of gloom in comparison. It was a good thing Wanamaker’s
sold only bestsellers and coffee table books, or all of Book Row would all be out of business.
Daphne tried to imagine what it would be like to work in the book department of Wanamaker’s. She wouldn’t mind working here.
She’d still have to stand all day and sell books about subjects she didn’t know anything about. But she could learn. And she
might even meet some interesting . . . people.
A copy of The Lost Prince, the newest book by Francis Hodgson Burnett, was placed front and center, the top copy facing forward, displaying a coat
of arms and sword distinctive against its light background. And standing out from the other books in the store. Just like
the blue dress.
“Am I late?” Ronnie asked, hurrying up to her. “I swear some women just can’t make up their minds. I should have so much time to decide on which piece of green ribbon I wanted. Lord. I barely have time to grab a pair of stockings and put them on in the washroom when I’ve run my last pair.”
“I was just looking at the books.”
“A busman’s holiday? C’mon, no more book talk, what did you buy?”
She linked her arm in Daphne’s and steered her into the café.
They sat on cushioned cane-back chairs at one of the several round tables, and ordered lemonade and little triangle-cut sandwiches.
“Oh, it’s so good to be off my feet,” said Ronnie. “Didn’t have a minute all morning to touch my derriere to a stool.”
“A lot of people buy ribbons and bows?”
“Scads.” Ronnie chose two triangles and placed them on her plate.
“I wish our customers were half as interested as yours,” Daphne said, trying to decide between egg and what looked like liver
paste.
“You’re lucky that you own your own shop,” said Ronnie. “I bet you can sit down whenever you want to.”
“Hmm. Pretty much.”
“And your customers are probably nice to you, and don’t act rude or pushy or treat you like you’re an inconvenience rather
than their way to a new headpiece or a bonnet ornament.”
“Most of them are friendly, though we do have a lot of older gentlemen,” Daphne said. “They’re nice but kind of cranky. But
who can really blame them. It can’t be much fun being old.”
“I suppose not.”
“I think I would like working here, in the book department. It’s so inviting, not like ours, where you can’t find something from one day to the next. It’s depressing.”
Ronnie nodded. “It’s all about the presentation.”
Presentation was the last thing that Daphne thought about when she thought about the shop. “What do you mean exactly?”
“You’ve been here for a couple of hours. What did you notice most?”
“That I can’t afford most of the things in the store.”
“Tell me about it. But it made you feel like you could, right? You looked at something and wanted to turn over the tag to
see how much it was, right?”
“Yes, I did. There was this one blue dress.”
“The one on the mannequin?”
“Yes,” said Daphne, “but it was way too expensive. But how did you know?”
“That’s presentation,” Ronnie said, looking very wise for a department store clerk. “They give you a big lecture about it when you first come
to work. How to make your product stand out from the rest. They’re always checking up on you to see how you’re doing. But
it works. Think about it. People come in planning to buy one thing—say, a corset. Then as they’re walking to the stairs or
the elevator, a bright-colored ribbon catches their eye. They wander over just to see and end up buying all sorts of stuff
they didn’t plan to buy. We all try to outdo each other to see who gets a bonus for outselling everyone else.”
“You mean how your ribbons make a kind of rainbow circle.”
“Presentation.” Ronnie nodded and reached for another sandwich.
They chatted for a few minutes more, mostly about the boyfriends they didn’t have, and their friends who were married, then Ronnie had to get back to work.
“I think I’ll take another look around,” said Daphne. “Let’s do this again soon.”
Ronnie waved over her head and hurried away.
Daphne turned to look over the book section. Just now a woman came in, picked up a copy of The Lost Prince, and a clerk was already showing her where to find something else. Another volume easy to find, not only in full view, but
accompanied by a sign that read “Makes a Wonderful Present.”
Presentation.
She wandered through a few more departments and bought a scarf from the sale table—something she hadn’t even thought of buying
before she left home. It had just caught her eye.
On her way back to the Arcadia, she took time to look in the windows of the bookstores that lined the avenue. Hardly any of
them did anything special to lure in customers.
Most were small shops, with a selection of mostly secondhand or specific collections: music, technical, occult. A few rare-books
dealers who didn’t rely on foot traffic at all. A few like the Arcadia sold rare, used, and new books, but mainly to keep
income when the sales of rare books were few and far between. Secondhand books were slow but steady. And the new? A few sold
when they first came out, then languished on the shelves, neither rare nor secondhand, just absorbed in with the others and
slowly forgotten.
She came to the Arcadia. It looked exactly the same as it had always looked, only older.
Their father had only been interested in rare books, and Olivia had assumed his interest. Celia .
. . well, Daphne just didn’t get her sister.
She never complained about having to work, but she did slip off every chance she got.
So help her, if Celia was courting some young man and got married, leaving Daphne to carry on alone, she’d just .
. . just . . . She didn’t know what she’d do.
She could use a little presentation, herself.
But so far she hadn’t met anyone she wanted to attract the attention of.
Well, if she was going to be stuck working here forever, she needed a plan.
When she got back, Olivia was in the first-floor office, where she could keep an eye on the shop while sitting down and doing
something else. It looked like she was reading a newspaper.
Daphne stuck her head in the door. “Is Celia back?”
“Not yet,” Olivia said, without taking her eyes from the paper.
“Good.” Daphne stepped inside and closed the office door. “I have an idea.”
By the time Celia was back on Fourth Avenue, she was almost an hour late. She’d catch it for sure. She was irresponsible,
she didn’t keep her word, and they may as well add that it was her fault that the printshop got raided. At least she’d get
that from Daphne; Olivia would just look patient, as if she expected nothing less—and never anything more. If she was even
still downstairs. But the settlement house had been so fascinating. If the world knew about the work they did, so much more
could be done.
But when she’d tried to do her bit to help, her friend’s business had been raided, he practically threw her out of his shop,
and she had no idea where to turn. And the icing on the bitter cake was that Comstock had sent his thugs to mess up everything.
He hadn’t even had the interest to come himself.
As she neared the end of the block, she saw a customer coming out of the printshop. So they had reopened, no thanks to her.
That was good . . . for them, at least.
She wasn’t ready to face Yannis, endure the awkwardness, the resentment. She would apologize, but later, when she wasn’t already in trouble with her sisters.
She ducked her head and practically ran past the Tellers’ door. . . .
She was almost to the Arcadia when Yannis stepped out from the store. “Celia!”
Her foot stuttered. “I can’t stop, I’m late. I’m sorry. I hope your father is all right.”
“He’s fine.” He strode after her and caught her elbow as she reached for the Arcadia’s door, pulled her back.
She turned, head lowered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring trouble on your family. I don’t know how it happened. I’m sorry.”
Her heart broke a little bit more. Yannis was not just a colleague, but a kindred spirit, she’d thought. “I won’t bother you
again.”
“I’m afraid you have no choice.”
“I know. I understand.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I do. I’m not unfeeling. I care about your family, too. I don’t want to cause them harm.”
“No, you really don’t understand. You have to continue.”
“No. It’s too dangerous. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to any of you.”
“Well, if you want to save my bacon, then you’ll have to come back.” He took her chin between his fingers, pushed it up so
that she had to look at him. He was grinning.
“What are you saying?”
He shook his head. “You have to come back. My father insists upon it.”