The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [131]
It was on the fourth floor, the same as Missie’s room on Rivington Street, but that was where the resemblance ended. She flew around the big, gracious apartment, gasping with delight. “Just look at this sitting room,” she exclaimed. “It’s so full of light, and such beautiful furniture, big sofas, glass tables, soft carpets, even oil paintings on the walls! And the dining room has a marble floor … and two bedrooms, built-in closets, a real bathroom … and oh, a proper kitchen….”
“Not too much cooking,” Madame warned, smiling. The poor child had obviously been deprived; even a modest apartment like this was probably the finest she had ever seen.
Missie clasped her hands to her chest excitedly. “I must have it,” she exclaimed, “I must It’s just perfect.” She paused, remembering she must also be practical, and asked anxiously, “But what does it cost?”
“Eighty-five dollars a week,” Madame said, and Missie’s face fell. “But perhaps, for you, we can get a reduction, maybe to seventy-five.”
“Seventy-five?” It was still a great deal of money and she stared around again doubtfully. Poverty had become a habit. Only a few weeks ago she had been penniless; now she was discussing apartments that cost seventy-five dollars a week! But it was lovely and it would make all the difference to their lives, she just knew it would. There was sure to be a good school right around here for Azaylee, and she could get a maid who would look after her nights when she was at the theater. Taking a deep breath, she looked at Madame Elise, who was waiting for her answer, and said firmly, “I’ll take it.”
Madame nodded briskly. “You have made a courageous decision,” she said, “and at last you have affirmed your belief in yourself. If Florenz Ziegfeld says you will be a star, you will be a star. Eh bien, I will have my lawyers take care of this, and now, back to the salon.”
Later that afternoon a large wicker hamper was delivered, addressed to Verity. Inside were mounds of perfect fruits, each resting in its own bed of tissue: pears, apples, oranges, out-of-season figs and strawberries—and there was a roast turkey, lobster, fresh asparagus, and an enormous box of chocolates. Astonished, she tore open the envelope and read the note that came with it. “For Azaylee,” it said, “so she should enjoy. Love, Uncle Flo.” And wrapped carefully in tissue paper was a bottle of champagne. This time the note said, “Verity, for you—from my own private cellar, for your private celebration. Florenz Ziegfeld.”
It was too much, Missie thought, bursting into tears, staring down at the note. Suddenly the world seemed filled with good people: people who took you to their hearts and showered you with kindness and thoughtful gifts. The terrible memories of Russia were pushed further into the background and the constant fear faded just a little as she read his note again. She no longer felt alone. If this was the world of show business, then she already knew she adored it.
Feeling like Cinderella, she changed from her smart cream suit into her old skirt and blouse and then Madame’s chauffeur drove her and the hamper back to Rivington Street. She was too ashamed to allow him to carry it up the malodorous stairs, and, instead, she called to Rosa to come to help her.
“There is to be a party tonight,” she told Rosa and the children as they peered excitedly at the closed hamper, dying for a look at its contents, “and you all are invited. And Meyer too,” she added, glancing at Rosa, “if he wants.”
“Meyer’s at the union tonight.” She shrugged. “It’s better.”
Missie beamed and said, “Be here at seven, Rosa, and bring plates