The American Lady (The Glassblower Trilogy Book 2) Read online

  Marie was astonished when the taxi stopped among the soaring buildings. “You live here?”

  “We have the top apartment,” Ruth replied proudly, pointing vaguely up to the top of the slim skyscraper before them. “Don’t tell me you never heard about our move a year ago!”

  “Well, quite, but I thought someone as wealthy as Steven would live in his own house . . .”

  “Not at all!” Ruth said triumphantly. “Anyone who can afford it is moving to Fifth Avenue these days. I can hardly imagine ever having lived anywhere else. Steven and I were among the first to recognize the advantages of living right in the middle of town: you need fewer staff to run an apartment, you’re much closer to the shops and the opera, you don’t have all the bother of a garden . . . Let me tell you, it won’t be long before they all leave their old houses! Fifth Avenue is already called Millionaire’s Row, I’ll have you know.” She snapped her fingers and the taxi driver followed her through the elegant front door with Marie’s luggage. Marie followed—and then stopped, thunderstruck.

  “I don’t believe it!” She looked around, astonished.

  Over a hundred square yards of red marble stretched out before her, with gilded benches of black granite lining the edges and vast palms growing in pots by the walls. The whole back wall of the lobby was one vast aquarium in which fish in every color of the rainbow swam among coral and strange-looking plants. Just as Marie was expecting a parrot to fly out and land on her shoulder, a uniformed page boy opened the elevator door. Marie followed her sister hesitantly into the elevator cage, a gleaming chamber of bronze and glass, which began to glide upward.

  “Well, this is living, isn’t it?” Ruth said, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “You won’t see anything like this in London or Paris. This style of apartment house is a New York invention. I can hardly wait to show you my little kingdom.”

  Marie felt vaguely dizzy, but she figured it was from the unaccustomed speed of the elevator.

  Ruth and Steven’s apartment was no less luxurious than the imposing lobby downstairs. Long hallways to the left and right led to a multitude of vast rooms, all lavishly outfitted with mahogany furniture, Chinese carpets, and heavy silk curtains. Marie was shown to the guest suite she would occupy, complete with its own bathroom, which was decorated in pastel green from floor to ceiling. There was a brand-new set of a hairbrush, comb, and mirror laid out for her on the dresser and, alongside that, an arsenal of little pots and jars with creams and lotions that made Marie nervous just to look at. She sat down on the enormous bed to test it and then spotted a selection of ladies’ magazines on her bedside table. They had been fanned out so artfully that she could hardly imagine picking one out to read. Goodness gracious—who did Ruth imagine was coming to visit here? An opera diva?

  Marie washed her hands and face quickly and left it at that—Ruth had already told her that a maid would unpack all her luggage—then set out in search of her sister.

  As she walked soundlessly across the plush carpets that covered the whole length of the hallway, she found herself thinking how Ruth used to polish the stairs in their childhood home, scouring away with the block of beeswax until the wood came to a high shine. After their mother had died so young, the three sisters had divided up the housework and all the jobs in the workshop. Ruth had taken care of the cooking and most of the housework and was rarely to be seen without a cleaning cloth in her hand, or a knife for peeling potatoes. She had never complained about all the hard work, but even as a young girl she had dreamt of meeting a prince someday who would carry her off to his castle. Johanna and Marie had thought this was all empty talk and daydreaming. Marie smiled at the memory. Whoever would have thought that Ruth’s castle would be here on Fifth Avenue in New York?

  Marie peered cautiously through the next door on the right. It appeared to be another parlor, this one decked out in shades of red, but just like the three other rooms she had looked into, this one was dark and deserted. She was relieved to hear the rattle of dishes from somewhere next door, and she thought she could smell coffee too. Ruth’s drawing room at last! But when Marie opened the next door, she found herself in a tiny kitchen where a red-cheeked cook was watching over several pots simmering away on the stove.

  “Hello, my name is Lou-Ann. Can I help you?” she asked, heaving a large pot from the stove as she spoke and setting it down to cool on the marble kitchen counter. Without missing a beat, she went over to a window and opened it to let the smell of soup out of the room. Then she opened the oven and took out the tray of cookies that Marie had smelled from next door. Soup and broth, coffee and cookies—the smells seemed so comforting to Marie that she suddenly wanted nothing more than to sit down right there with Lou-Ann with a cookie in one hand and a glass of milk in the other.

  But Ruth was waiting impatiently for her at the end of the corridor with tea and cakes.

  “There you are! I thought you must be so bone-tired you’d fallen asleep. Don’t worry, you can go to bed soon enough. Steven promised to come home from work early today so that we can take an early supper. He can hardly wait to see you!”

  “I’m looking forward to seeing him—your Steven is such a fine fellow,” Marie replied. “The last time I saw him was when we inaugurated the new warehouse in Sonneberg.”

  Unlike Ruth, Steven had come to Thuringia every year in the early days, back when he was still working for Frank Woolworth. Once he began working for his father’s firm again, however, he didn’t come as often. Whenever he did, he made sure to look in on Ruth’s sisters, even if their business relationship didn’t strictly call for it. Steinmann-Maienbaum still made Christmas decorations for Woolworth’s stores as well as for Miles Enterprises, the Miles family’s wholesale business.

  “But most of all I’m looking forward to seeing Wanda! I can hardly believe that little scrap of a girl has grown into a young woman by now. Where’s she hiding?”

  Ruth sighed. “Heaven only knows where the girl is. She’s not at work; that much is certain. Her boss . . . oh, forget about it. Why don’t you tell me what you think of the apartment?” She swept her arm all around.

  “It’s wonderful, of course! Everything I’ve seen so far has been . . . beautiful. I can hardly wait for you to give me the grand tour! You could fit a whole street of Lauscha houses in here,” Marie replied. It was odd, she thought as she spoke, that Ruth didn’t want to talk more about her daughter. When she had first become a mother, she had talked about little else. Marie hadn’t quite understood how anyone could talk for hours about a babe in arms, and had found the whole thing rather tiresome back then.

  “Your drawing room is especially elegant. It’s so different!” Marie swept her hand around at the sleek black furniture, decorated only with modest inlay work. Dotted about the room were a bust of a pensive girl, a nude marble figure with long hair cascading down her back, and a bronze sylph.

  “You were probably expecting me to make myself a doll’s house of a room, full of flounces and lace curtains,” Ruth replied, feigning indignation. “Come here, I’ll show you something I’m really proud of.” She walked over to a glass-topped table. Under the pane was a recessed tray, lined with black velvet, holding a whole swarm of butterflies and dragonflies, an array of brooches showing ladies’ profiles, and peacock feathers.

  “These are my treasures. Of course Steven would buy me jewels with precious stones anytime I asked, but I prefer this kind of costume jewelry. I think they’re so much more original than the same old string of pearls or diamond necklace.” She laughed. “You really ought to see my friends craning their necks and peering to see whether these are real insects or just jewelry.” She picked out a gleaming, dark-gray hornet and held it up. “Doesn’t it look like it is real? It’s by René Lalique. And this snake here, I find there’s something very erotic about it. It’s from a workshop that . . .”

  Marie felt ever more uncomfortable as Ruth picked up one jewel aft
er another and told her about each piece, prattling on about artists whose names Marie only knew from Sawatzky’s books. She had never realized until that moment that there were actual people who could afford such artworks—and that her own sister was one of them. Ruth suddenly seemed a stranger to her. And the apartment she was so proud of looked more like a museum than a family home—though of course she would never say as much to Ruth.

  What would Georgie make of all this? Marie wondered, and knew the answer right away: Georgie would most likely have gobbled down a whole tray of cookies by now, rather than nibbling daintily at one as Ruth was doing.

  “Hallo, is there anybody there? Mother, Aunt Marie . . . Are you home?” The voice came from the hallway.

  The door to Ruth’s drawing room opened wide and a tall, slim young woman stood in the doorway, whose hair . . . a grin flitted across Marie’s face.

  “Wanda!” Ruth cried, putting her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide with shock. “For heaven’s sake, what have you done?”

  All her poise and refinement were gone. She spoke—no, shrieked—in a hoarse voice.

  Wanda raised her eyebrows and smiled at her mother.

  “Do you mean my new hairstyle?” She pointed at her silver-blonde hair, which fell to just below her ears. “Didn’t it turn out well? So chic, and just in time for summer! You’ll all be hot and bothered while I’ll be able to enjoy the summer breezes!”

  Only then did she seem to notice the guest. She turned to Marie.

  “Aunt Marie, I’m so pleased to meet you,” she said with exaggerated good manners. She held out her hand awkwardly.

  Marie put out her own hand in reply, calloused and tough from hours at the workbench, and grasped hold of Wanda’s. The girl’s skin was smooth and soft.

  Their eyes met. Wanda’s eyes were blue and clear as water and they sparkled with amusement, as though she were laughing over some secret joke.

  The little minx! Marie shook hands much harder than she usually did.

  “Don’t worry; I only rarely bite.”

  5

  Why hadn’t he managed to get to the Casa Verde an hour earlier! Franco looked over irritably at the bar, where customers were already crowded three deep. As usual at this hour, the restaurant was packed to the rafters—the shifts had just changed at the nearby garment factories. Though all the tables were full, the stream of customers coming in the door never stopped. Italian tailors and factory hands, just off from their ten-hour shifts, the last three hours dreamt away in visions of a plate of steaming pasta and a glass of wine. And maybe a smile from Giuseppa, the owner’s daughter. Well, at least he had been given a table right away.

  Franco leaned back, resigned. Given the crowd, it didn’t look as though Paolo would have any time for him in the next half hour.

  There was loud talk and laughter from the next table, where a fresh batch of customers had taken their seats amid much shuffling of chairs. As Franco looked across, he realized that the diners were all restaurant owners from the neighborhood. And they were all customers of the de Lucca family company too. So this must be some sort of regular get-together. Meaning it wouldn’t be long before someone came to him with the next complaint—as if he hadn’t had enough of those already today. And he had at least another three restaurants to visit after this one!

  Franco put a surly look on his face. Then, all of a sudden, a gust of garlic wafted up to his nose and a moment later, Giuseppa set a plate of pasta down in front of him. He wasn’t in the least bit hungry but dug his fork in all the same so that nobody would disturb him.

  Giuseppa took several jugs of wine over to the next table, where they were greeted with whoops of glee.

  Fine, then. As long as they were busy getting drunk, they would leave him in peace.

  Franco put his fork down. He was tired. None of his previous visits to New York had been such hard work. But this time, wherever he went there was nothing but trouble, day in and day out. And everybody expected him to conjure up the answer to whatever problem they had.

  It had started with the very first restaurant he had visited that morning; the owner, Silvester Forza, had refused to take on two of the five kitchen hands he’d been sent, claiming that they were too old. Franco had demanded that he call the men and see for himself that they were barely into their thirties. So what did Silvester want? Children? Franco had said sharply that his father would hardly be pleased to hear that Silvester was acting as coy as a virgin on her wedding night. Was there anyone else, Franco asked, who could get hold of cheaper labor for him? Of course not, Silvester was forced to reply.

  The next piece of bad news had come not long afterward. Michele Garello, who owned five of the best restaurants around, reported angrily that three of the kitchen hands he’d taken on had run out on him after just a week. He gave an ultimatum; either he got another three men from the next shipment, he said, or he wanted his money back, adding, “You tell your father that if I have to, I’ll find my own workers over here. I may have to pay them a few more dollars in wages but it won’t bankrupt me.”

  Damn it! He would never have said such a thing to the old count in person.

  Franco’s next customers hadn’t been all smiles either. One of them had complained that he didn’t need to buy as much wine at one time since his clientele mostly drank beer anyway. Of course he was just angling for a discount, because as soon as Franco mentioned the possibility, the beer drinkers were no longer an issue. The next restaurateur was having trouble with his liquor license. Perhaps Franco could put in a good word for him . . . Franco waved the idea away. “Pay your taxes, and they’ll restore your license. Besides, what makes you think that I have any pull with City Hall in these matters? I’m a foreigner!” Just because he was a nobleman, these people believed that his word was law.

  Franco was clutching the fork so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. Tomorrow he would have his weekly telephone call with his father. He already knew what he would hear: Don’t let these people get away with anything! Show them that they mustn’t mess with the de Luccas . . . Disgusted, Franco pushed the plate away. As though playing the tough guy would fix every problem!

  “What’s wrong? Don’t you like Mama’s spaghetti?” Giuseppa asked, sitting down in the chair across from him and frowning.

  “Your mother is one of the best cooks in the whole city,” Franco said, eating a hearty forkful of pasta to show her he meant it. Giuseppa and her mother were not to blame for his troubles after all.

  “I could bring you something else . . .”

  Why was she looking at him so fearfully? Had he ever done anything to her? Franco frowned and shook his head. “Please don’t bother.”

  He had already visited half a dozen customers before Paolo. Everywhere he went, they had given him something to eat—the padrones probably thought they’d have an easier time making their case if they softened him up with a plate of tuna, a slice of pizza, or a dish of zabaglione.

  Giuseppa stood up. “I’ll get going then. Papa wanted me to tell you that he’ll be with you in a few minutes. I could bring you a glass of wine in the meantime.”

  “Thank you, no, I still have some.” He pointed to his half-full glass.

  “Maybe he’s just fed up with drinking his own wine! You should offer the count a glass of Chianti! I bet he wouldn’t say no to that!” one of the men at the next table called over to Giuseppa. Another man elbowed him in the ribs to keep quiet.

  There was laughter around the table, but it had a nervous undertone.

  Franco glared at the group and saw that the man who had spoken was Solverino Mauro. He was a customer too, but not a good one. Only two days earlier, Franco had needed to pay a call on Solverino with four of his bruisers to collect some money he still owed from the last wine shipment.

  The other diners were all looking over at Franco now like animals that had caught wind of something inte
resting. Some looked nervous, others awestruck, a few of them skeptical—there was hardly anybody in the neighborhood who didn’t know him. Everybody wanted to know how the powerful Count de Lucca’s son would react to such a provocation.

  Franco looked coolly at Solverino. “I wouldn’t talk so loud if I were you. Or have you forgotten our little conversation a couple of days ago?” Solverino had only agreed to pay once one of Franco’s men had started to get a little rough.

  The man lifted his hands in apology and gave an embarrassed grin.

  “Solverino doesn’t know the first thing about wine!” another man called over to Franco. “Or he’d know that the de Lucca Rossese di Dolceacqua really lives up to its name . . .” He looked around to make sure that everyone was listening before unleashing his punch line. “It has no more flavor than the water it’s named after!”

  The table erupted with raucous laughter.

  “What’s going on? Haven’t you got anything better to do than bother my guests with your idle chatter?” Paolo interrupted. “Maybe I should come eat at your place and do the same.”

  He heaved a sigh as he sat down in the chair his daughter had occupied a few moments earlier. “What a rabble! As soon as they’ve had a few drinks they start to behave like silly schoolboys. Is there anything worse than having your competitors in as customers?”

  Silly schoolboys! Not at all. Franco gritted his teeth. “Let’s talk about your next order. I have other calls to make today.”

  When Franco got back to his apartment that night, he felt as though he’d spent a week working in a Sicilian quarry. His back ached and the muscles in his cheeks were so tense he could not relax his face at all.