The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [102]
He looked at her soberly. “I always promised meself that no wife of mine would live behind an alehouse, the way me mother had to. And now I can ask you properly, Missie. I’ve bought this house for you and for Azaylee, for us and our children. Missie, will you please be me wife?”
She shook her head bewilderedly; he was so kind, so gentle, under his rough-and-ready surface, and so naive. She looked at O’Hara waiting anxiously for her reply, and she looked at the house, with its pretty rooms and its garden and the acres of hillside that could be hers, imagining herself living here, filling it with new furniture, with paintings on the walls and flowers in crystal vases, and herself sitting out here on a summer evening, maybe rocking a new baby in a cradle. But no matter how hard she tried, she just could not fit O’Hara into the picture. She thought of Rosa tied to Meyer Perelman for the rest of her life and she shook her head again; tears rolled down her cheeks, and he put up a gentle finger and brushed them away.
“I can tell you’re saying no,” he said with quiet dignity, “but I’ll tell you something, Missie O’Bryan, I’ll never share this house with another colleen. I’ll be waiting on you to say yes one day. And when that day comes, I’ll be the happiest man in New Jersey.”
The journey back was silent. O’Hara had lost all his bounce and Missie thought tiredly that it was all her fault. She hadn’t meant to hurt him, but she had never encouraged him to think she might marry him. As the skyline of Manhattan came into view she told herself there must be more to life than this, there just had to be. And then she remembered the reality, that in a few weeks the alehouse would be closed and she would be out of a job. And there would be no money coming in.
It was a bitter cold February Friday. Zev stared at the people hurrying past his window, necks wrapped in mufflers, hands thrust into their jacket pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind. It was almost four o’clock and his regular customers had already been in and temporarily reclaimed their weekend items of clothing until Monday. Sometimes he thought his shop was just a wardrobe for the Lower East Side, since their clothes spent more time with him than they did on their owners’ backs.
He glanced at his watch yet again; Missie was late. She came every week, sometimes with one dollar, sometimes with two. He hated taking her money when he knew she needed it, but she was determined to pay him back. And if he asked himself the truth, sitting here staring out of the window hoping to see her tall, slender figure hurrying around the corner, he was glad of the excuse to see her. Not that he ever said much beyond “Good afternoon, Missie” and “How are matters by you today?” but at least it gave him a few moments in her company, moments he would treasure later when he was alone in his room remembering exactly how she looked, the way her brown hair shone with golden lights, the curve of her cheek, the softness of her mouth, and the deep, deep violet eyes that could lead a man into her soul.
He sighed, checking that his new tie was straight. He was all spruced up for the Sabbath, but he knew it was really for her.
The bell pinged and he stared sharply at Mrs. Lipkin from Canal Street, coming for her Shabbas tablecloth. “You’re late today, Mrs. Lipkin,” he said, handing her the cloth and taking her money quickly, praying she would leave before Missie came.
“You too, Mr. Abramski,” she said wearily. “I had to wait until my son brought home the money before I could reclaim. Better hurry and close now, it’s almost Shabbas.”
“I know it, I know it,